by Jay Allan
“You’ll need to leave a fresh force on the coast. Something to cover the withdrawal.” Anton realized there was no point arguing against an attack. Marek was right – they had no choice. So he might as well help plan it.
“I agree.” Marek sighed and looked up at Anton. “And I have another idea too. A way to hurt the Feds.”
“An idea? Another operation?”
“That’s where you come in.” Marek had an odd look on his face, anger and frustration about the camp mixed with a small grin. “I have a mission for you. You’re not coming along when we attack the camp.”
Anton looked startled. If they were going to march into a trap, he’d be damned if he was staying behind. He almost started to argue, but he hesitated, waiting to see what his friend was going to say.
Marek saw the reaction; he’d been expecting it. “Relax, my friend. I’m not talking about leaving you behind.” His fingers moved across the large ‘pad on the table, pulling up a map of Weston and the surrounding area. “The Feds expect us to attack the camp. They’ve got heavy emplacements all around the facility – I can’t find any area of approach that isn’t covered and double-covered.” He looked up from the map. “They’re hoping we’ll attack, of course. They figure we’ll wreck ourselves assaulting those bunkers. And you can be sure they’ll hit us while we’re still disordered and licking our wounds…unless they’re in disarray too.”
Anton was still confused. “So what are you planning?”
“We have to attack. It will be difficult, and I’m not convinced we can get through to the camp, but if we don’t try, we know it will destroy morale. There’s just no way to explain to an army that you aren’t even going to try to rescue their families because it is futile.” He slid his finger across the ‘pad, moving the focus of the map. “But I think we have an opportunity to benefit regardless. Even if we are unable to liberate the camp.” He centered the display on a section of the District in Weston. “Here is the main federal supply dump.” He slid his finger a few centimeters. “And here is Cooper’s HQ.” He looked up, fixing his eyes on Anton’s. “I want you to go into Weston with a hand-picked team of veterans under cover of our attack…and I want you to take out both targets.”
Anton looked at the map in silence for a few seconds, daunted a bit by the audacity of the plan, but intrigued as well. “If we can pull it off it could be a game-changer. They’ve pulled almost everything inside Weston trying to protect it from our raiding parties. If we can take it all out, they’ll be in bad shape.” He paused. “At least they won’t be attacking Carlisle any time soon, no matter what shape we’re in.”
“And Arlen Cooper will be dead in the rubble of his headquarters.” Marek was a soldier; plotting what was effectively an assassination wouldn’t normally sit well with him. But Arlen Cooper was a monster, and Marek would do almost anything to get him. He wondered; would I do anything at all? Would I become like him in order to kill him? He couldn’t answer himself, not honestly. He just wasn’t sure. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“When do we go in?” Anton’s mind was already working on a plan, thinking about who he wanted on the team.
“Tomorrow night.” Marek’s answer was matter-of-fact.
“Tomorrow?” Anton knew Marek was aggressive, but he was still stunned. “We need some time to prepare. I don’t even have a team organized yet.”
“You’ve got the rest of the day and tomorrow.” Marek saw the look Anton flashed him. “Look, Lucius. We’ve got to take a run at that camp soon. Those defenses are just going to get tougher.” He paused, allowing the reality of the situation to sink in. “Tomorrow night, both moons are almost new – it’ll be six months before we get another night that dark.” He looked up at his friend and second-in-command. “It has to be tomorrow.”
Anton returned the gaze. He saw a million things that could go wrong because they rushed the operation, but he couldn’t come up with a single argument against what Marek had just said. “I’ll be ready.”
Marek heard another twig snap, this time behind and to the left. I might as well have brought a marching band, he thought, his frustration building. His ragtag force had gelled into a respectable army, but they were still mostly amateurs. They’d fought hit and run battles, raids and other operations that made the most of their familiarity with the terrain, and they’d done well with that strategy. Now they were going to assault a strongly fortified position held by a large and well-equipped force. It was a mission Marek would have been hesitant to undertake with his Carson’s World veterans – with this band of citizen-soldiers it could turn into a disaster.
He’d spread out the formation into long, supporting lines deployed in extended order. Without adequately trained troops and low on heavy weapons, he wasn’t about to launch a concentrated attack against a series of enemy strongpoints. Instead, he was going to go in with skirmish lines at intervals of 200 meters. The first would move up and start a firefight, probing the enemy position for any weak spots. He was hoping that going in with a loose formation and attacking from cover would minimize casualties. If they found a hole in the enemy defense, maybe – just maybe – they’d have a chance to get into the camp. If not, they were well positioned to pull back before suffering catastrophic losses. At least that was the plan.
Marek himself was in the front line. He knew he shouldn’t be there, especially with Anton detached. But he felt he needed to scout the enemy defenses himself. They were advancing through the scrubby forest north of Stillwater – or at least the place where Stillwater used to stand. It was annoying terrain to march through, but at least if offered some cover.
The plan was simple, at least in theory. The first line would engage the enemy and try to take out two strongpoints, opening a gap in the defense and allowing a select force to advance and blow a section of wall. It was a blunt plan, lacking finesse, but it was the best Marek could devise. At least it kept a significant portion of his force out of close engagement range. They would conduct a long-ranged firefight, serving as decoys and discouraging the enemy from moving reserves to the threatened point. The troops in this diversionary force would be able to withdraw more easily if the attack ran into a wall.
For public consumption, Marek’s primary concern was taking the camp and freeing the prisoners held there. Privately he had a more calculated plan, to make a show of trying to liberate the camp but pulling back if necessary to maintain his army as a combat-ready force. It was a little more deceptive than he liked to be with his troops, but many of them were emotionally invested in this attack and, unchecked, that could lead to disaster. Marek was enough of a professional to take a cold blooded look at the situation; it helped no one if the rebel army – and by extension, the rebellion – collapsed in a hopeless and bloody all-out assault against those defenses.
He had already given the orders – they were going in. There was no point in delaying and no telling how many detection devices were out here in these woods. The enemy could be on to them at any time, and Marek didn’t want to give the defenders time to react.
“Group C, commence firing.” The range was long, and they weren’t going to do much damage, but Marek wanted the initiative - he wanted to let the enemy know they were here before they were discovered. Group C was on the extreme right, a diversion, farthest from the point of the actual assault. Marek hoped the enemy would divert attention to that sector, maybe – just maybe – giving his assault force an opening.
“Group C, acknowledged.” Marek had put Aaron Davis in command of the main diversion. Davis was a Marine with at least a moderate amount of combat experience. All the really seasoned vets he had kept with the main attack force or detached to Anton’s team. Davis was a good man, but emotional. He’d become steadily angrier and more bloodthirsty as the war went on and got nastier. Marek was more comfortable with him in the diversionary force rather than in close quarters to the enemy…as long as he didn’t get too aggressive on the diversion. Marek had been emphatic, even promisi
ng he’d shoot Davis himself if he pushed the decoy force too far forward.
A few seconds later Marek heard the shooting as Group C began firing and, an instant later, the enemy emplacements opening up in response. Marek cringed; he hoped Davis was keeping his people back and in cover. They just had to make some noise, not get sucked into a fight they couldn’t win.
Marek’s team wasn’t even going to fire; they were going to rush the bunkers, getting as far as they could before the enemy started shooting. He had a couple rocket launchers, but they weren’t strong enough to take out the reinforced plasti-crete bunkers. If he’d had his Marine platoon for the assault he would have taken out the strongpoints with a couple tactical nukes and dashed right through the confusion to the camp. But his unarmored troops – and the prisoners in the camp – would suffer catastrophically from nuclear explosions at this proximity. Not that he had any nukes anyway.
“Ok people, let’s go!” Marek shouted into the comlink and dashed forward. It was about 500 meters to the bunkers, and they managed to get halfway there before the enemy opened fire.
Automatic weapons swept the entire area, and Marek’s troops started to go down. The fire was heavy and effective, but not as devastating as he’d feared. The diversion had done its job – the enemy’s attention was clearly focused on the right.
Marek ran as fast as he could, directly toward one of the bunkers. Without any ordnance capable of taking them out, his force had to conduct a close assault on the emplacements. He missed his powered armor. The nuclear-powered servo-mechanical legs would have allowed him cover the half klick or so in less than a minute. Using his own unassisted flesh and blood legs, it was taking an eternity…or at least it seemed like one.
“Keep moving…all of you!” It was hard to motivate troops, especially inexperienced ones, to run directly into this kind of fire. They would hesitate, try to shoot back – and that would get them killed. “Let’s go, follow me to the bunkers!”
Marek had his assault rifle out, and now that he was close he could see shadowy shapes moving around behind the bunkers. He held his fire until the last minute – no sense drawing attention to himself by taking take potshots. Along the line, though, many of his troops were firing, and despite his encouragement, some had stopped and were shooting from stationary positions in the open.
“God-fucking-dammit, MOVE! All of you! Forward!” He looked over for a second, as if his stare could will his soldiers forward. In that instant, two Feds saw him and were bringing up their rifles to shoot. Marek turned back just in time, firing by instinct. The Feds both snapped backwards, one clearly dead from two shots to the head, the other at least badly wounded, blood pouring from his chest.
He could see in his peripheral vision that the troops on his right were catching hell. A number of them were bunching together, hesitating, firing. They were getting chopped up by the enemy fire. Marek wanted to run over and do something…anything. But there was nothing. The officers and non-coms were already trying to rally the wavering troops, and Marek had to worry about the ones still going in.
He reached the bunker, struggling to climb up the sleek plasti-crete walls. Again, he thought of his armor…the slightest leap would have vaulted him to the top of the emplacement. Instead, he scrambled up, barely reaching the top in time to shoot the two of the three defenders coming up through the top access point. For an instant he thought the last one had him, but a shot rang out from behind and the Fed crumpled and fell.
“Thanks for the assist.” Marek chanced a quick glance behind him to see Jack Winton halfway up on the bunker, his rifle still leveled from the perfect shot he’d just taken.
“Good thing I told you to get screwed when you said I was too old for this attack.” Winton smiled and held out a hand. “Now help an old man up before we both get shot.” He grabbed Marek’s outstretched hand. “Thank you,” he muttered as Marek hauled him up. “Thank you, sir, I mean. My military discipline is a little rusty.”
“Let’s go.” Marek ran over to the hatch the Feds had used to climb out of the bunker, pulling a shaped charge out of his satchel as he did. “We need to take this thing out.” He dumped the explosive down the hatch and waved for Winton to follow. “Move!”
Marek ran to the edge of the bunker. It was too far to just jump – once again, he felt the pangs of loss for his armor. He kneeled down and lowered himself off the edge, dropping the last meter and a half. “Jack, come on!” He called up to Winton, who was following him, but doing it at a considerably slower pace.
Winton dropped, but landed badly, twisting an ankle. Marek grabbed him and they ran toward the cover of a rock a few meters away, Winton screaming in pain. They almost made it to the cover of the large stone before the charge blew.
They were thrown to the ground and pelted with shards of shattered plasti-crete. Marek took a chunk in the thigh, an ugly wound that bled profusely but looked worse than it was. Winton fell face forward, dropping his rifle. Marek turned back toward the bunker, which now had a huge gash torn in the back. He could see shapes moving around inside, and he fired through the opening on full auto, taking down all the defenders he could target.
“John!” Winton was pushing himself up, trying to get to his feet. He was pointing toward the camp, to a squad of federal troops running toward them. The Feds began firing just as Marek and Winton ducked below the large rock. They were pinned by the enemy fire, incoming rounds slamming into the other side of the outcropping.
They crouched behind the rock for what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was only a few seconds. Marek was waiting for the enemy to rush the position and overwhelm the two of them, but then he heard the fire from behind. His head snapped back to see his troops, dozens of them, climbing up over the crippled bunker, pouring fire into the advancing federals.
He felt a rush of elation - the thrill of escaping imminent death, of course – but also pride…pride in these troops he’d trained so well. He looked at Winton for an instant, a tiny smile on his face. Then he leapt up, ignoring the thundering pain from the wound in his leg, and waved for the troops to follow. “Let’s go, boys and girls! To the camp!”
The advancing mass let out a cheer and surged forward, rushing across the 100 meters to the towering walls, the stunned federal troops turning and fleeing. They had covered about half the distance when they heard it. First, a large explosion, coming from the south. Then, a series of smaller blasts followed a second large one, and later by a gargantuan thunderclap. “Way to go, Lucius. Good job, my friend.” Marek was talking to himself, under his breath. Then to the troops. “Our troops in Weston just did their jobs. Now let’s do ours! Forward!”
For an instant, the cheer was louder than the distant explosions as hundreds of rebel troops ran toward the looming walls.
The streets of Weston were deserted. Anton and his team jogged down a backstreet, trying to stay undetected as long as possible. He knew the infrared cameras would pick them up sooner or later, and he wanted to get as close to the targets as possible before they encountered active resistance.
They had come upon two guards on patrol, but they managed to take them both out before they could send a warning. Anton had handled one and Mike Vargus the other. It was knife work, with no room for error, and Vargus was as hardcore a veteran as Anton, having served in the special action teams on Carson’s World.
There were ten of them, clad head to toe in black. They had light body armor, but had chosen mobility over greater protection. The Federal supply dump was in Founder’s Square, right in the center of the District. Cooper had ordered the Star of Hope monument razed and the park cleared to make room to consolidate all of the Weston-area depots after Marek’s forces had raided three, seizing weapons and destroying what they couldn’t take.
There were guard posts all around the square, with three-man teams behind modular barricades set up every hundred meters, and the whole area was covered by large floodlights. Anton’s team stopped halfway down one of the side street
s, just out of view of the nearest sentry post.
“Tony, Mack, you are you guys in position?” He was speaking softly into his comlink. Tony Graves and Mack Jahns were two of his best men, and he’d detached the pair to plant the explosive in the Federal HQ. Cooper had set up his headquarters in the Columbia Hotel, just a block from the square. They had half a dozen Octanitrocubane-5 shaped charges, enough to take down the entire building ten times over. The explosives had been appropriated from one of the mining operations, and the stuff was just a step below military grade.
“We’re set, sir.” Marek and Anton had managed to instill some military discipline in their fledgling rebel army. The veterans got back into form quickly; it took a little longer with the civilians, but the whole force was starting to look and sound a lot more military. “We’re setting the last charge now, sir.”
“Finish up and find some good shelter.” He glanced at his chronometer. “You blow the building in exactly 10 minutes unless I specifically order otherwise. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. Detonation in exactly ten zero minutes.” Tony Graves was a solid professional, another Carson’s World veteran.
“Retreat to the rally point after mission completion.” Anton paused. “Good luck, guys. Anton out.” He flipped off the comlink connection. They were veterans who would get the job done; they didn’t need him harassing them.
“Alright, boys and girls.” They only had one woman on the team, but Anton was used to gender-integrated units. The Alliance military did not differentiate between men and women in combat units like the CAC and Caliphate did. Terms like “men” and “guys” were sometimes used to refer to soldiers in a unit, whether male, female, or both, but officers frequently utilized terms addressing both genders as well. “We commence in six minutes. Let’s review the plan one more time.”