The tenth man in every light infantry squad was a heavy weapons specialist, carrying the Slayer, a multifunctional, all-purpose instrument of death. The weapon system consisted of a large backpack holding an array of munitions options connected to a large barrel via nano tubing.
With this weapon, a soldier could select to destroy his target by one of a number of methods, depending on the situation. He could select a large-caliber kinetic-kill round, similar to the basic MRG BB except that it was the size of a grape. The destructive power of such a tool was quite impressive.
The weapon also functioned as a large-caliber grenade launcher. Again, similar to the MRG, only bigger and better for when a small explosion just wouldn’t do.
Finally, the Slayer could also serve as a laser cannon. The miniature fusion reactor in the backpack provided enough power for a rapid-fire, low-yield beam capable of turning just about any piece of enemy equipment to slag.
In the hands of a properly-trained soldier, the Slayer ensured that even the light infantry units carried enough firepower to take on almost any foe.
Heavy infantry made up the next group, of one thousand soldiers.
Since the beginning of the war, the Legion standard-issue battle suit had served its occupants well in many regards. Unfortunately, however, it did nothing against the raw power of the Bearcat rifle’s projectile. Any hit to the head or body resulted in death.
Decades of research resulted in the Iron Guard Battle Armor System. The armor encapsulated the soldier in a blanket of form-fitting protection capable of withstanding multiple hits. In addition to protection, the wearer enjoyed unparalleled strength and stamina.
The armor moved by mimicking the occupant’s movements and responded to thought-commands. MRG rifles and grenade launchers embedded in each arm gave the soldier lethal offensive abilities.
Admittedly, these benefits came at the cost of reduced stealth and agility. The super alloy was not compatible with the tech that gave the older suits their quasi-invisibility, and the sheer weight of the gear meant it moved more rigidly than an unhindered enhanced legionnaire. Despite these drawbacks, the brass would’ve preferred to outfit every soldier in such armor. Unfortunately, the economics of war dictate strategy and tactics almost as much as enemy action, and armor for all just wasn’t possible. It simply cost too much.
Lastly, the Super Heavies made up the final five hundred troopers. These behemoths were the modern equivalent of tanks.
As with the heavy infantry armor, these units took on human form, though far larger and more advanced. While the occupant of a standard heavy unit filled the entirety of the form except for a few centimeters of alloy plating, the driver of a Super Heavy only took up the back of the torso.
From there, the driver guided the arms and legs of the walking weapons platform through a hardwire link into their mind via an implanted access port in the brain stem. Once locked into the system, the driver and machine became one.
The driver saw and heard through the Super Heavy’s sensors as easily as if they were their own eyes and ears. Outside stimuli such as the texture of the ground underfoot or the impact of a round against the thick hull were all translated into natural neurological impulses, where the driver felt them as stimuli to his own body.
Each arm of the Super Heavy contained a Slayer unit, allowing a driver to throw a massive wall of destruction at the enemy.
Trent looked down upon the new Legion conducting sim training with the giddy eyes of a birthday boy overcome with presents. The three classes of Legionnaires promised to give him an unparalleled range of options and flexibility on the battlefield.
He almost pitied the Kitright. Almost.
***
Learning how to properly use the new Legion consumed much of Trent’s higher brain functions. He read and reread the specs of the new equipment and experimented with their utilization in the sim chamber.
This was not his only means of preparation.
All of his pervious military experience, dating back to the South Africa campaign that earned him the last Medal of Honor ever awarded, had involved the swift, fluid movements of light infantry. In that arena, stealth, speed, and surprise were his most valuable tools. The coming fight, however, promised to be a much different affair of pitched battles involving armor, air support, and urban terrain.
As in all instances when the situation presented Trent with a military challenge, he reached back in time to find the answer.
“Normandy?” Major Simms asked with confusion during a strategy session. “What’s Normandy?”
Trent stared at his officer and friend in disbelief before rubbing his tired eyes. “Who here can tell me about the Battle of Normandy?” He asked the other twenty officers in attendance, ten colonels and ten majors. They were the 1st Legion’s cohort commanders and deputy commanders.
Several hands shot up. Colonel Nina Jones, commander of the 1st Cohort, was one of them.
“Yes, Colonel Jones, please, go ahead. I figured that you, of all people, would know this one. After all, it was one of Britain’s finest hours.”
Jones nodded. “In short, sir, the battle started with the Allied invasion of occupied France on the beaches of Normandy in June of 1944 and ended about two months later with the defeat of the German forces in the area following Operation Cobra.”
“Excellent example of brevity, Colonel. Nice summation on a battle that has filled thousands of pages of history books.”
“Sir,” Simms said, waiting to be acknowledged. With Trent’s nod, he continued, “Forgive me, sir, I’m a techie. I focus on the most modern aspects of our forces. Very little of what happened three hundred years ago affects my job, which is why I have to ask. What relevance does this battle have today?”
“Fair question, Major.”
Trent stood straight, clasping his hands behind him as he slowly walked around the table. “You see, history, particularly military history, repeats itself. The names of the players, location of the battles and the design of the weapons change over time, but the important elements of every war our species has fought echo through time. The lessons learned in those engagements can aid us in the here and now.
“I’m assigning you all a bit of homework.” Trent tapped on his tablet and files began downloading into the assembled group’s heads. “Study up on this battle from D-Day through Operation Cobra to the Falaise pocket. I think its application to the situation we are heading into will speak for themselves. The enemy will know we are coming. Depending on the distance from the gate, they will have anywhere from days to years to prepare for our invasion. As with the Allies before, we will be storming well-prepared enemy positions. Those who don’t learn the mistakes of the past are doomed to repeat them. I have no intention of repeating them.”
***
Lt. Commander Greene set aside another disappointing hard drive with an audible sigh.
“Another dead end?” a fellow tech specialist asked.
“What do you think?” Greene snidely replied.
“Sorry, man. Just trying to make small talk. You know, you’re not the only one frustrated.”
“It’s different for me. I shouldn’t be here.”
Greene picked up another hard drive, setting it on his desk where he connected cables to it for data extraction.
The other tech focused on his own work as he asked, “And just where do you belong?”
Greene sneered at the injustice of life. “Do you know how many advanced degrees I have? I should be in a research lab right now, pushing the limits of humanity’s knowledge of the universe. Uncovering cosmic secrets as I touch the face of God.”
Laughter from the other tech filled the room.
“What are you laughing at?” Greene inquired, turning away from his screen, missing a stream of data that formed a star chart.
“You. Maybe if you weren’t such an unpleasant, arrogant bastard, someone besides me could stand to work with you.”
Greene scoffed. “Just keep laug
hing. I’ll get out of here in a couple of years and we’ll see who’s laughing when I win a Nobel Prize.” He whirled back around.
“I just hope you mention me in your acceptance speech,” The other tech responded, unruffled.
Confused by Greene’s lack of witty response, the tech turned around. Seeing Greene transfixed by his screen, he moved closer to investigate. Standing over Greene’s shoulder, he leaned forward. “Holy mother of God. Do you know what you just found?”
“Yeah,” Greene said, “my early release from this prison.”
Chapter Twenty
Total War
Chairman Robert Dalton confidently strolled down the halls of the UES building in Manhattan with his entourage of aides and various ‘yes-men’ in tow. A group of agitated reporters walked backwards as they threw questions at him.
“Mr. Chairman, Mr. Chairman,” a young and eager woman reporter said, forcing her way in, “do you have a comment on the Council’s vote of no confidence in your leadership following the budget irregularities exposed by the Inspector General’s Independent Investigator?”
“Kate,” Dalton said smugly, as if the question weren’t serious, “my administration takes the Independent Investigator’s findings very seriously. I would remind you that I made getting to the bottom of corruption and waste a priority long before the Council’s vote today. I understand and share their frustration at the situation.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Chairman,” a male reporter said, “shouldn’t your frustration be with yourself? These accounting … phenomena, I’ll call them, seem to begin with the start of your administration. The timing of these revelations couldn’t be worse, as they’ve shaken the public’s confidence in the government. Including in its ability to protect Earth following the Bearcat attack at Alpha Gate.”
Dalton absorbed the insolent reporter’s comments with a carefully maintained smile that projected a positive attitude without appearing cocky. This took a great deal of self-control, because he desperately wanted to punch the bastard.
“Bill,” he said, slightly picking up the pace as he worked on making his escape from the vultures. “I take no duty more seriously than that of protecting the public. All the citizens of the UES can rest assured that everything possible that can be done to keep them safe, is being done.”
Dalton’s grin grew a bit more sinister, like he had something up his sleeve. This, too, was strategic. “Certain plans are underway which I’m not at liberty to speak of right now, and shortly my administration expects to announce a new phase in this war that will bring it to a swift and righteous end. Now, I’m sorry, but I must be going.”
The press corps buzzed with new energy. The sly politician smiled to himself once the reporters were firmly behind him.
Let those pigeons peck away at those crumbs. They’ll focus on this new war story, bumping the budget scandal to page two. Once I announce the shift in the war they won’t be able to talk about anything else.
He almost felt guilty for taking pleasure in manipulating the press. It was just that it was so easy, there wasn’t any real sport in it. Dalton viewed the media like monkeys fixated on a shiny rock. If you didn’t want them to keep looking at said rock, simply toss them a shinier one.
He’d built much of his political career on this principle of nature. It had required him to sacrifice an ally from time to time, but that was acceptable collateral damage. From time to time it had also proved an effective way to rid himself of rivals.
Dalton was a man on a mission, and nothing would get in the way of that. Nothing would be allowed to get in the way.
As he walked to his office, he remembered just how far he’d come from the small Vancouver suburb he’d grown up in. He’d been a young, ambitious, idealistic kid back then with a vision, a grand vision of the future he dared to believe might come true if he just wanted it bad enough, was willing to sacrifice enough in its name.
Sitting behind his large desk, he pressed a button to put the office in lockdown. Another button activated an encrypted holo program.
“Good afternoon, Director,” an IS Deputy Director said to the holo image of him that appeared in the conference room. “We have excellent news, sir. We’ve located our lost com unit. How shall we recover it?”
“By any means necessary,” Dalton replied. “Nothing will get in the way of our plans.”
***
General McBride sat at the bar in the Officers’ Club, enjoying a solitary dinner of spaghetti and meatballs. He preferred to eat alone, since his duties as Chief of Legion Operations drained his social appetite. He focused on the meal and a frosty mug of beer, unaware that a stalker was approaching from the rear.
“Fancy running into you here, General,” Trent said, leaning against the bar. The barkeep had already placed his usual in front of him. “Thanks, Bill.”
“They say it’s bad when you start calling the bartenders by their first name.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about that. I’m more worried I might be drinking too much.”
McBride chuckled. “What can I do for you, General?”
“Who said I wanted anything?”
“I’ve learned that the higher one climbs in rank, the less people want to talk to him without having some sort of agenda concealed in their words.”
“I see you’ve gotten wise in your old age.”
McBride took a long draw from his mug. “Probably more cynical than wise. So?”
Trent stared straight ahead as he opened a private link and thought-spoke, “I hear that one of the hard drives we brought back from the trading post contained a star map. A very special star map.”
“Where did you hear that? If such a map did exist, it would be highly classified.”
“Just a rumor. It’s hard to keep secrets aboard a station.”
“What’s it to you if we did? You’ll find out sooner or later.”
Trent sipped his drink. “Sure, sure, I’ll find out my target. But in the normal course of events, it’ll come to me aboard a battlecarrier when I’m on my way there. I’d like to ensure which target I get before it’s too late.”
“Ah, I see. And if – just for the sake of argument, you understand – such a map did exist, and if – again, just for the sake of argument – we were assigning Legions their targets for this presumed offensive, where would you like to see the 1st go? Speaking hypothetically, of course.”
Trent kicked back the last half of his scotch. “Straight at their fucking heart. Not hypothetically, either. I want to hit them where it will hurt the most. I want their home world.”
McBride looked into the bar mirror and saw the fire in Trent’s eyes. “Why?” He knew why, but was curious to hear the answer anyway.
“Because they hurt me and I want to hurt them.”
“It’s that simple?”
Trent nodded. “Yeah, it is that simple.”
McBride turned to face Trent and spoke aloud. “Whoever invades the … the enemies’ home world will be dropping into a shit storm of epic portions. I would need level-headed commanders for such a mission, not hotheads bent on revenge.”
The bartender slid another drink to Trent, who picked it up. The ice rattled softly. “I’m not a hothead bent on revenge. I’m just focused and motivated more than most. Send the 1st into the middle of the storm and I promise you it is the enemy who’ll be covered in it. We’ll unleash a new level of total war upon them.”
McBride sat silent for several seconds, studying Trent. Turning away he asked, “If you had a choice, which battlecarrier would you want? Still hypothetically, you understand.”
“Earth’s Fist,” he answered without hesitation. “But only if DeWalt is still its skipper. That man is hard to kill.”
McBride smirked. “You should know the type.”
***
A massive collection of intermixed Fleet and Armada vessels floated in the empty space around a gate of no importance due to its lack of stars or planets anywhere near it.
/> This was neutral territory, on the fringe of the galaxy, which made it a perfect rallying point for human and Bearcat forces to gather for the joint strike against the Kitright home world.
Other targets in the coordinated assault were divided between the unlikely partners for solo attacks. For symbolic reasons, this attack would be made by both.
Aboard the Earth’s Fist, Trent stood before the senior officers of the 1st Legion, who were ringed around a black carbon-fiber table. He held their full attention, although excited expressions, guarded but evident, told of their emotion for the coming fight.
The energy on the ship was unmistakable. They knew they stood at the dawn of history.
“In ten hours.” Trent shifted eye contact from officer to officer. “Earth’s Fist will jump as part of a combined human/Bearcat strike force into the Kitright home system.”
A collective gasp from the twenty officers filled the room.
“In addition to ours, the 7th, 10th, 18th, and 29th Legions will be joining us, along with a like number of Bearcat ground forces.”
He paused to let the information sink in. “After we jump, the battlecarriers will deploy their drones and fighters before holding back while the Fleet and Armada move to engage whatever enemy forces may try to stop us.”
Tentatively, a hand rose.
“Yes, Major Thomas?”
“How long after the jump until we drop on their world?” The slight quaver in her voice hinted why she, a longtime friend of Trent’s, an original Red Baron, alone had the nerve to ask the question on everyone’s mind.
“From gate to planet, one month will pass.” He paused again. “That means, no matter what, the enemy will have a whole month to prepare for our invasion.”
He scanned the worried faces before continuing. “This will be the fight of our lives. It will be hard and it will be bloody, but we will win.” He slammed a fist onto the table. “We will win because there is no other option. Only through victory can both of our species survive, and the human race isn’t dying out on my watch. Neither are the Bearcats. No matter the cost, victory will be ours.”
The Last Revenge (The Last Hero Trilogy Book 2) Page 17