by Kent, Steven
“We’ve got company, boys. Get to your stations. Dig in. Get comfortable,” I called over the interLink.
“Think they’ll attack soon?” Hollingsworth asked.
“Not a chance. Not with only thirty transports in place. They’ll want more than three thousand troops before they attack,” I said. I assumed that, like our transports, their transports carried one hundred men.
I told Hollingsworth about the fleet, but we were not about to educate the rank and file until this conflict was over. He knew the Earth Fleet now controlled the skies, and he knew about the last message we’d heard from Warshaw. I did not tell him about the size of the enemy fleet. He did not need to know that the Unified Authority had defeated our 450-ship armada with a mere eighty ships.
“They’ll probably land on the other side of town and build up their forces,” I said. I knew how these operations worked. They would set up a camp and make us wait while their transports ferried in soldiers and equipment.
But I was wrong.
The transports did not stop at the southern edge of town. They flew over the suburbs. By the time they reached the ruins of downtown, the glow from their shields filled the sky. They were not the same antiquated design as the birds we flew in on, they had graceful wings and tapered shields. At about a half mile from our lines, the transports slowed and landed, lighting down like flies.
“Looks like they know we’re here,” Thomer said. He’d been so silent, I’d forgotten he was there.
Of course they know we’re here, they use the same specking interLink frequencies we do. They’re listening in on us, I thought to myself.
And they might not have even needed their damn technological advantage to find us because Sarah Doctorow and her pals would not think twice about ratting us out. And then there were the leaks—Perry Fahey and his friends in Outer Bliss would happily tell them everything they knew.
“Switch off your safeties, boys, we’re going live,” I said over an open frequency. The invaders probably heard me, as well. From here on out, I would keep my conversations short and switch frequencies between calls. I could not stop them from listening, but I didn’t want to make things too easy for them.
I remained on the roof with the snipers, Hollingsworth joined the grenadiers in the wings, and Thomer went down to the underground garage. Between the troops we had manning the buildings and the Marines we positioned in the garage, we had nearly five thousand men. Based on the number of their transports, I estimated their strength at three thousand.
Time ticked away slowly, seconds seemed to stretch themselves into minutes. I wondered what they were doing. Were they off-loading equipment? Were they playing with us, making us wait, to consider our situation? I kept expecting more transports to arrive, but the skies remained clear.
“How’s it hanging, Harris?” The message came over the commandLink, on a frequency reserved for officers. The equipment in my visor identified the caller: General Theodore Mooreland.
“You’re in charge of this one, Ted? They must think I’m real dangerous to send in a veteran like you.” I called him Ted. Why not? We were both generals.
“Nice of you to drill my men,” he said.
“War games are one of my specialties,” I said.
“So, is she here?” Mooreland asked. That meant he was keeping the locals out of the fight. He would not have needed to ask me about Ava if he had talked to Doctorow.
“Please, tell me you did not come all this way just to impress Ava.”
Mooreland laughed. “No, Harris, I came for you.”
“I’m flattered, Ted, really I am. But, um, I’m spoken for.”
“Speck you, clone.”
“Ted, I just told you, I’m not interested.”
“We were going to give you twelve months to prepare, did you know that? We were going to give you a year to get your men ready, but you blew it. You shouldn’t have attacked our battleships. Did you really think we’d look the other way?”
I did not say anything.
The sun started to rise in the east. Pockets of yellow, gold, and white appeared over a horizon of rolling desolation. The ruins of the city looked like a desert in the first light of the morning. If Mooreland was in command, the intruders had to be Marines. They would be wearing combat armor. They would use tactics like ours.
“You’re an interesting man, Harris. I’d love to continue this chat, but my men came to fight,” Mooreland said. “Are you ready?”
“Sporting of you to ask,” I said. “We’re as ready as we’re going to get.” I tried to sound confident, but I knew Mooreland meant business. He was showing me the cat-bird courtesy of a commander who knows he owns the field. But how could he be so confident with only three thousand men? I wondered what I did not know.
“Well, good luck, Harris,” Mooreland said. He signed off.
I stood there on the roof of that enormous government complex, as insecure as an ancient ruler waiting for the Huns to pillage his city.
“Why haven’t they attacked yet?” Thomer’s question brought me out of my thoughts.
“Courtesy,” I said. “They were giving us a moment to say our prayers.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Somebody else noticed the lights before me. Watching the world through my night-for-day lenses, I stared right at and through the scene without noticing the subtle change in luminescence. One of Thomer’s snipers noticed, however.
The sniper alerted Thomer, and Thomer told me.
“There’s light coming from the enemy camp, sir.”
“Light?” I asked.
I switched to tactical view. At first, I thought they had fired up the shields on their transports. Patches of golden glow lit up the air. “What is that?” I asked, in a whisper directed at myself, but Thomer picked it up over the interLink and answered.
“It looks like they have the shields up on their transports,” he said.
“The light isn’t coming from the transports.” I could see that much. Using my telescopic lenses, I zoomed in on the glow. I could not see what the light was coming from, but it wasn’t the transports. I had a clear view of the tops of several U.A. transports, and their shields were down.
“Oh, shit,” I said.
“Sir?” Thomer asked.
Thank God for the commandLink, it enabled me to bring Hollingsworth in on the conversation. He was in the garage, blind to the world above him. Using my Link, I showed Hollingsworth and Thomer what I saw.
“What is that?” Hollingsworth asked.
“Shields,” I said.
Thomer started to say something, but I interrupted him.
“The shields aren’t on the transports,” I said. I shifted my focus to show the sleeping birds.
“Then what are they shielding?” Hollingsworth asked.
“Shielded armor,” I said.
The patch of glowing light moved as the first of Mooreland’s Marines began their march into battle.
“Hang on,” I said. I ripped off my helmet and picked up a sniper rifle. The other snipers had had enough time to program their scopes to their armor so that they could look through their visors and aim their rifles. Since the visor in this suit was not yet calibrated, I had to aim the old-fashioned way. I pressed the scope against my eye and homed in on the front echelon.
We had built our strategy around waiting for Mooreland to meander into our trap, but tactics be damned. If we were about to fight men in shielded armor, the rules had just changed.
Looking through the scope, I picked out a man and studied him. His armor looked a lot like mine—the same helmet, the same chest plates and shoulder pads. It appeared to be a rich, dark brown in color, but that might have been an optical effect. Viewed through the golden glow of the shields that shone from the plating, the dark green of my armor would probably appear brown.
I steadied my rifle against my shoulder, aimed at the Marine’s head, and pulled the trigger. The crack of my rifle was no louder than the sound of a man gi
ving a single, hard clap of his hands, but it echoed. My armor absorbed the recoil of the rifle so that I felt only the slightest nudge against my shoulder. Eight hundred yards away, my bullet had about as much impact on the new Marine as a sparrow might have flying into a skyscraper.
The Marine saw or felt the bullet, or perhaps his equipment reported the shot. The man pointed to the spot where the bullet hit. I imagined him laughing as he reported the wasted attack to his platoon sergeant.
I put down my rifle and slung my helmet over my head. “Rifles are no good,” I told Thomer and Hollingsworth.
Hollingsworth answered first. “Speck!” Thomer gave a similar response.
“Let me try one more shot,” I said.
Aiming with the telescopic lenses in my visor, I chose another target, aimed at his helmet, and fired. My first shot went wide. The next three shots hit. The bullets showed only as momentary white flashes against the golden glow of the man’s shields. I fired four more shots, hitting the son of a bitch in the chest, the stomach, the crotch, and the knee.
I had a sinking feeling of defeat as I replaced my helmet. We had signed up for a fight we would not win. Even as I thought this, my combat reflex started, filling me with confidence, clearing self-doubt from my thoughts, and turning fear into comfort. I smiled a ghoulish smile as I realized just how little the terms “impregnable” and “invincible” had in common.
“Hard on the outside, soft on the inside,” I said to myself. Then, I opened a channel to Thomer, and said, “General, withdraw your snipers and reposition them in the top two floors of the garage.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Thomer said.
“And Thomer, tell them to leave their sniper rifles here. We’re sticking with particle beams and rocket launchers from here on out.”
“But . . . Sir, the garage could cave in on us,” Thomer said.
“I certainly hope so,” I said, knowing that what I had in mind was the military equivalent of threading a needle.
Thomer figured out what I had in mind immediately. He said, “You evil son of a bitch,” sounding more like the old Thomer than he had since New Copenhagen.
“But we’ll be buried,” Hollingsworth said.
“Not if we slip out the back door,” I said.
“The train station,” Hollingsworth said. He should have remembered it; he was the one who helped Doctorow’s men drag explosives through the tunnel. “If you can’t beat them, bury them. I specking love it.”
“You just make sure your men do a good job rigging the garage,” I said. “I don’t want Mooreland digging himself out.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Hollingsworth said. “It’s going to take a few minutes.”
“We’ll buy you whatever time we can,” I said. “You got that, Thomer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thomer, have your men rig the buildings to blow on their way down. That goes double for any stairs and elevators that lead into the garage.”
“Yes, sir,” said Thomer.
“And remember, keep your Link chatter short. You never know who might be listening,” I said.
I doubted there were any demolitions experts stationed at Fort Sebastian. Trained demolitions men could make buildings blow so precisely that they imploded in on themselves, folding in on themselves like origami figures. Our guys did not have that kind of skill, but that would not stop us from achieving our objectives. We were Marines—when we lacked the skill, we compensated for with sheer will and a large supply of explosives. The garage wouldn’t exactly implode, but it would sure as hell come down. We just needed to make sure that it caved in from the top down and that we made it to the train tunnels before the world came down around us. This was war—nobody would give us extra points for neatness.
Thomer ordered his snipers to abandon their rifles and report to the first floor of the garage. By the time Mooreland’s men entered sniper range, Thomer no longer had anyone on the roof to shoot them. I remained on the roof a moment longer to observe the enemy.
The shine of their shields gave Mooreland’s men a god-like appearance in the frail dawn light. Had their aura shone brighter, the light from the various suits would have meshed; instead, each man had his own, personal, tea-colored glow.
As they approached, they broke into smaller formations. A couple of companies tried to fan out and flank the brigade, but that failed. Hollingsworth’s FOCPIG preparations funneled them back. If they meant to chase us down into the armory, they would need to pass through two bottlenecks—the first created by our transports and the second by the entrance to the underground garage.
The last man on the roof, I took a final look at the high-velocity sniper rifles we’d abandoned in our wake. They lay spread across the concrete like sticks dropped from a bundle. In a fair fight, we might have been able to eliminate Mooreland’s entire regiment with those rifles. Letting the door close behind me as I started down the stairs, I tried to remember the last time I saw a fair fight and came up dry.
“Thomer, make sure your men know this is the foreplay, not the sex,” I said over a new frequency, as I left the stairwell and joined my grenadiers.
The third floor of the building looked like a breezeway. In preparation for the fight, we had knocked out the windows. The wind howled as it blew through broken casings. Hundreds of men in combat armor knelt along the wall, rocket tubes in hand. We had the high-ground advantage, nearly bulletproof cover, numerical superiority, and possibly even the element of surprise; and still, we could not afford to wage the war from this spot, not against an enemy dressed in shielded armor. Unless we found a way through their shields, Mooreland’s men would make our cover cave in around us.
For this mission, my grenadiers had orders to fire a few shots and retreat to the garage. If everything went according to plan, these men would lead the way into the train station. That was, if everything went according to plan. In the heat of battle, entropy dissolves plans into chaos, and Marines sometimes forget their orders. Some become heroes, lingering to fire one final round, when they have been told to pull back. Others lose their nerve and abandon their posts.
Looking over my troops, it occurred to me that I might be going to the well one time too many. By the time we finished this battle, I would have pushed the same damn tactic three times: fighting the Avatari; destroying the battleships that followed us into the Mogat Fleet; and now, I was using it against the Unified Authority Marines. Coaxing a dangerous enemy into an ambush is a fine tactic, and there was no way these guys could know that we had used it on the Avatari and the battleships, but overused tactics have a way of coming apart on their own.
If I made it out of this, I told myself, I would ditch Nietzsche and start brushing up on military strategy. If I made it out of this alive, I would be smarter in the future.
“That which did not destroy me would make me stronger,” I said to myself, citing the battlefield wisdom of Friedrich Nietzsche.
Mooreland’s scouts stepped into the kill zone between the wings of the government buildings. The first of the four men entered the zone slowly, showing no more confidence than a mouse leaving its hole. The rest of his fire team followed.
These were the men on point, the sacrifices. They stepped onto a walkway, stopped, and examined the buildings. One of them pointed to the broken window casings. They knew what we had planned.
“Hold your fire,” I said over the interLink.
“Hold your fire. Hold your fire,” Thomer told his men. He crouched below a broken window, his first grenade launcher out and ready to fire. “Those are just the scouts. Save it for the ranks.”
Waiting for Mooreland, peering over a casing, I got a close look at the new armor. The shielding glowed no brighter than a candle, but it covered the entire suit in a single continuous sheen.
“Once the shooting starts, fire one shot, and leave,” I whispered over an open frequency. “One shot, no heroics.” Mooreland might well have been listening. I didn’t care. The information would do him no good.<
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Down in the kill zone, Mooreland’s scouts timidly made their way toward the two outstretched wings of the building. They came within a hundred feet of the entrance and stopped to wait for the rest of the brigade to catch up.
The point men moved forward until they were right below me. I peered over the windowsill and watched them. To me, they looked like a team of confused spirits haunting the bat tleground before the war even began.
Something caught my eye—their weapons were inside their shields, built into their armor. Inch-wide barrels ran along the outsides of their arms, ending just shy of the fingers on their gloves. The barrels did not look wide enough for bullets. The bastards were probably packing fléchettes, the same deadly needles we used in our S9 stealth weapons.
Dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of men appeared at the head of the buildings. They did not walk right into our gauntlet. They waited, surveying the area, filling our view with glow and bodies. One minute passed, then another. They had to know where we were hiding, but they did not fire blindly to flush us out. Watching them mass, I considered beginning our evacuation. Just as I started to issue the command, Mooreland ordered his men in.
The space between the buildings was twice the length of a football field and just as wide. Mooreland could have fit three thousand men in that space, but it might have been tight. His first wave broke into a wedge formation, facing out, arms up so they could return fire when we emerged from our painfully obvious hiding place.
“Fire!” Thomer yelled. “Shoot and run. Shoot and run. Shoot and run!”
Along the long hall, men jumped to their feet, fired a single rocket into the courtyard, tossed their empty launcher tubes aside, and ran for the stairs. The rockets hissed and flashed out of their tubes, leaving a thin smoke trail behind them.
On the ground below, the glow of the shields faded in a storm of smoke and explosions. The blasts created a strobe-light effect. In the start-and-stop motion of an ancient movie, Marines fired weapons, ran along the hall, and vanished down stairwells. Flash, five men ran crouched along the inner wall of the corridor. Flash, the first reached the door to a stairwell and wrenched it open. Flash, the third man in the line threw his hands over his head as the first two disappeared through the door. Flash, tiny holes and fine drops of blood appeared on the wall as the man crumpled to the floor. Flash, the fourth and fifth men in the line jumped over the body and disappeared down the stairs.