A Little Rebellion (Crimson Worlds)

by Jay Allan

  She got up and leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek. “I’m going to try to get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.” She looked back from the doorway. “You should too. I have a feeling we’re both going to have our hands full with the landing.” She gave him a little wave and ducked through the hatch into the corridor.

  Jax sat alone for a while, enjoying the quiet and the warmth of the mug in his hands. The Martians have an interesting idea of room temperature, he thought with a shiver. Mars was cold, certainly, but the Martian cities were all in domes or underground. The early colonists had not had energy to spare to heat their shelters more than necessary, and they grew accustomed to lower temperatures, something they’d apparently handed down to their children and grand-children. It was really only a few degrees below Earth-normal, but Jax had always been sensitive to cold, an anomaly in such a large man.

  He drained the last sip from his mug. The Martians had great coffee, he would give them that. He briefly considered having another cup, but decided he should try to get some sleep himself. He got up and walked over to the door, pausing as the hatch slid to the side – he needed it all the way open to squeeze through. The lights in the room went out before he’d even stepped into the hall and headed toward his quarters. More Martian thriftiness inherited from the early colonists, he supposed.

  The landing craft rocked wildly in Columbia’s upper atmosphere. Jax had always been annoyed by the Marine regimen of pre-launch intravenous nutrition and anti-emetic drug cocktails, but now he understood. He didn’t vomit, but that was purely a testament to his will, to the stubbornness of the hardcore Marine colonel. About a third of his troops, however, veterans all, succumbed, and the landing ship was quickly becoming a very unpleasant place to be.

  The ride was rougher than it had to be, but that’s because the Richter had a very limited window to launch. Admiral Compton had managed to arrange fleet deployments to allow a small corridor for the Martians to change course and disgorge their cargo undetected, but it didn’t leave time for plotting easier entry trajectories. They had to take what they could get, and if that meant a bunch of grizzled Marine veterans threw up all over themselves, such were the fortunes of war.

  At least they weren’t coming into a hostile landing zone. In fact, they weren’t landing anywhere near an inhabited area. Keeping the drop undetected was the primary consideration, and that meant landing in the desolate equatorial zone, far from population centers. It would be a long trip for the expeditionary force once they were on the ground, but it couldn’t be helped.

  The landing craft were heavy shuttles, not the sleek, maneuverable Gordon landers the Marines used, so it was just as well they were nowhere anyone could take a shot at them. Not one of these pigs, Jax thought, would make it to the ground in an opposed landing.

  The craft were descending much faster than they were designed for, which was making the turbulence worse. But caution demanded they hit ground as quickly as possible. The longer they were airborne, the likelier one of Compton’s ships would detect them…and that would just make things even more difficult for the admiral, who already had his hands full.

  The landing zone was a huge plain, almost a desert - over 100,000 square kilometers of dry, flat ground. It would give them plenty of room to land and deploy, but it was totally open and difficult to defend. Jax was going to kick some butt as soon as they were down – he didn’t like that position, and they were going to get off it right away.

  The ships banked left and came in for their final approach, firing their engines to brake hard. Positioning thrusters ignited, and the flotilla floated to the ground - surprisingly gently considering how rough ride down had been.

  They were completely unopposed, but that wasn’t a good enough reason to be lazy, at least not to Jax. As soon as the shuttles landed, the rear ramps lowered and squads poured out, moving into a defensive perimeter. Jax looked out over the plain, impressed with the regularity of the formation of the landing craft. These Martian pilots are good, he thought. I’m glad we’re on the same side…more or less.

  All through the mass of men, women, and supplies, designated officers and non-coms were shouting out orders and organizing the unloading. The ships were taking off in one hour – if they stayed any longer the Richter would be too far away for them to reach. And while the Martians had provided transport and supplies, they weren’t yet willing to deploy Confederation personnel in any capacity that would expose their role. If there were still weapons and supplies onboard, they would go back to the Richter. And Jax’s troops and the rebels needed that equipment.

  “Let’s get moving.” Jax was yelling, but mostly for effect. He’d already organized the unloading plan, and it was being executed to the letter. Every one of his 500 troops was a veteran, most of them with five years’ service or more, and the officers and non-coms were among the best in the Corps. They were poorly-equipped by Marine standards, powered armor an impossible dream. But they were one of the most veteran forces ever deployed, and Jax knew they could do a lot…even without nuclear reactors strapped onto their backs. Whether they could do enough to make a real difference…that he would have to wait and see.

  The larger transport shuttles had landed off to the left. Half of them were loaded with weapons and other supplies; the rest carried armored ATVs, 80 of them. It was enough transport for the entire force and all of the supplies. They were a generic design – the Confederation wasn’t looking to broadcast its involvement – but they were military grade…nuclear powered and armed with heavy auto-cannons.

  His troops were unloading the supply ships and stacking the crates on the ground. They only had an hour to get everything off the ships; they would load it all onto the ATVs later. Jax ran everywhere, from ship to ship, but he realized he just wasn’t needed. His troops knew what they had to do, and they had the shuttles unloaded in 45 minutes. By the time an hour had passed there wasn’t a ship left on the ground.

  They spent the rest of the day organizing and loading the vehicles and prepping and inspecting weapons. By nightfall of Columbia’s 27 hour day, they were 100% ready. They would camp here for the night and move out in the morning. The insertion was complete and flawlessly executed. Jax was at war again.

  Chapter 17

  Battle of Sander’s Dale

  Concordia District

  Arcadia – Wolf 359 III

  Kyle Warren was crouched down behind a small berm, his assault rifle gripped tightly in his hand. The fire from the advancing federals was heavy, but his own troops were giving it back to them…and then some. The rebels weren’t heavily fortified, but they had dug crude foxholes and built some hasty works. The scrubby woods gave the advancing forces some cover, but not much, and they were starting to take heavy losses.

  His comlink buzzed…Will Thompson calling. “Warren here, sir.” He took a few shots at a Fed he saw aiming in his general direction as he answered Thompson’s call. The first two missed, but the third hit the trooper just under her right eye. She snapped back and fell to the ground, the side of her face ripped open. “Things are hot here, sir. We’re about three klicks south of your position.” He took a breath and ducked deeper behind some cover. “This is more than a scouting force, Will.” Kyle was a veteran, and he knew he shouldn’t be calling his commander in chief by his first name. But the Arcadian army was new, and there was an odd combination of military discipline and familiar informality in play.

  “God damn Merrick.” Thompson’s voice betrayed his frustration…and grudging respect for his adversary. “Your position is a must hold, Kyle. If you need support let me know, but retreating is not an option. Understood?”

  “Understood, general.” Warren’s voice was calm, despite the heavy fire. He was a combat veteran, and the months of fighting on Arcadia had honed his command skills. “I estimate we are facing a reinforced battalion.” He paused, considering. “I believe we can hold unless the enemy commits additional strength.” Another pause, then: “But it’s going to be hot
work.”

  “I’m counting on you, Kyle. Give me status reports every fifteen minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.” He saw a clump of federals advancing off to the right, and he yelled for one of the auto-gun teams to direct fire there. “Report every one-five minutes. Understood.”

  “Good luck, Kyle. Thompson out.”

  There was a brief lull in the fire, and Warren took advantage to crawl back from the front line. He needed to find someplace he could get his bearings and take stock of the overall position. His troops were deployed in an extended line stretching about a kilometer and centered on the peak of the ridge.

  They had been making the federals pay, but they were starting to take losses too. The attackers bogged down, unable to continue advancing into the heavy fire, and a line formed. The combat was turning into a bloody, close-range firefight, and the federals were also going prone, using whatever cover they could find.

  Kyle was fine with exchanging fire. His job was just to hold the line – if the Feds wanted to have a firefight all day that suited him just fine. But he was still worried. Thompson had reminded him not to underestimate the federal forces. Their commander was a strong tactician – he wasn’t going to make stupid mistakes.

  “Lieutenant Fritz, Warren here.” Kyle shouted into the comlink – the shooting was loud around him.

  “Yes Colonel. Fritz here.” The lieutenant was young, but he was one of the most promising junior officers Warren had ever seen. Not a Marine veteran, Fritz had won his lieutenant’s commission during the battle at Arcadia. He’d kept his cool when all the officers in his company panicked, and he took charge, getting over half the troops out alive.

  When Will Thompson found out, he immediately cancelled a pending promotion to sergeant, making the kid an officer instead. “We don’t have time for things to take their natural course,” he declared. “Revolution is like fertilizer, and talent must grow at an unnatural pace if we are to prevail.”

  “They’re bogged down on the line, lieutenant. I want you to move out and keep an eye on our flank. If they look like they’re even thinking about trying to come around, I want to know immediately. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Fritz was calm, impressively so for such a young officer. “Understood.”

  Warren was about to sign off, but then he added, “And Doug…be careful. I need information, not a casualty.” Fritz was brave, almost recklessly so. But this was not the time or place for heroics. Dead scouts don’t provide any information.

  “Yes, sir. Understood.”

  “General Sanders, I need a report. Any activity in the center?” Will hadn’t been happy when Gregory Sanders insisted on taking an active role in the new army, but the old man was simply too influential to refuse. It wasn’t cronyism like in the Alliance on Earth; it was respect. Greg Sanders was one of half a dozen people who had virtually built Arcadia from the ground up. If he thought his place was in this fight, no one – not Will, not Kara, not any of the other officers – felt they had a right to refuse him.

  In spite of Thompson’s reservations, Sanders had proven to be a gifted commander, and now Will was glad to have him in the field. In fact, he’d made him second in command and put him in charge of the center.

  “They’re shelling us, Will, but that’s about it.” Sanders sounded solid as a rock. “We’ve had some long range sniping, but even that’s calmed down.”

  Fuck, Will thought, they’re not taking the bait. “Greg, they’re being cautious, not falling into the trap.” Thompson was thinking as he spoke, trying to decide what he wanted Sanders to do. “They are hitting us hard on the flanks, but we’re holding for the moment.” He took a deep breath, still thinking. “They are going to try to clear the ridges before they hit you…unless we force the issue.”

  “You want us to attack?” Even Sander’s voice had been stone cold, but now he sounded surprised. There were 7,000 troops in the center, deployed in four supporting trench lines and protected by a mine belt. The entire formation was designed to hold out against superior enemy forces, inflicting enormous losses…as long as those forces were attacking. Once the enemy was heavily engaged and softened up, the flanking forces would sweep down and rout the exhausted federals, or at least that was the plan. But an attack by the rebels in the center would be suicide.

  “Of course not.” Will was tentative, trying to put his thoughts into words. “But I do want you to make them think you’re attacking. Do you think you can mount a spoiling attack without committing too deeply?” Thompson paused. “They’re sitting on their asses, and we need to do something to get them moving.”

  Sanders was silent…a bad sign. Usually the old man was quick with a response to any question. Finally, he said, “I don’t know, Will. We can attack, but I don’t know how easy it will be to pull back. We might get caught up in something we can’t get out of too easily.” He paused again, and Will could hear his heavy breathing. “And if those tanks catch us out in the open…”

  “I know.” Will was frustrated. Damn Merrick, he thought…we have to get the one good general in the whole fucking Alliance army. His comlink buzzed with an incoming message flashing urgent. “Ok, stand by, Greg. I’ve got Kyle Warren calling in.”

  He flipped the switch on his headpiece. “Thompson here.”

  “General, we’ve got a firestorm here.” Warren was out of breath, clearly under considerable stress. “They’ve got us pinned down in a firefight to the front, and now they’re coming around the end of my line.” He paused, and Will could hear him shouting orders to someone before he continued. “I lost Doug Fritz. I sent him to scout past the end of our line, and he ran right into an enemy attack. He and two of his troops held the enemy off for at least ten minutes before they got hit. Gave me just enough time to get my reserves down there. If we ever come up with any Arcadian medals, that kid should be first on the list.” He coughed and took another breath. “I’ve got nothing left, Will. If they hit us anywhere with anything else, we’re done. They’ll roll up the entire line.”

  “Fuck.” Will hadn’t meant to say it audibly but it came out louder than he thought. “Alright, Kyle. I’ll send you whatever I can spare, but you’ve got to hold out…no matter what.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Will.” He sounded a little shaky, but just a little. “You can count on us.”

  “I know I can.” Will was thinking about what reinforcements he could send to Warren. If he pulled off too much, his flank attack would be too weak to succeed. If he sent too little, there would never be an attack; the Feds would sweep down the ridge and rout his entire left. “Keep me posted. Thompson out.”

  He switched channels again. “Greg? Will again.”

  “Go ahead, Will.” Sanders could tell what Thompson was going to say from his tone. “What’s the word?”

  “I need you to raise hell down there.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that.” Sanders’ voice was stronger than before. He was no happier about having to attack, but he was resigned to it now. “Give me ten minutes, and we’ll hit them hard right in the center.” Then, a few seconds later: “Make good use of this, Will. It’s going to cost.”

  Sanders hadn’t meant anything by the remark, but it Will felt it cut through him. His Marine service had been as a sergeant. He’d ordered troops into tough spots, no question, but this was something completely different. As a non-com he was always with the troops he commanded. Now he was sending thousands of men and women into a hopeless attack, one he knew couldn’t succeed…and he wasn’t going with them. They would die executing his orders while he sat in the command post.

  “Good luck, Greg.” His voice was strong and clear, though it was a major effort to keep it that way. Thompson felt sick to his stomach, but the last thing Sanders and his troops needed was for the army commander to go weak at the knees. “And Greg…be careful.”

  “You know me, Will. Sanders out.”

  Yes, I know you, Greg, Thompson thought nervously. That’s what I�
��m worried about.

  Merrick’s command post was humming with activity. The army had been at a dead stop for three hours while he threw one battalion after another into the bloody stalemate on the right flank. No matter how much force he pushed onto that ridge, the damned rebels managed to hang on. Just as his forces finally started to push the defenders off the crest, they got reinforcements and counter-attacked. The federals had 2,000 casualties and nothing to show for it. The rebels had suffered too, but not as heavily.

  Merrick’s commanders wanted to push through and assault the rebel center. That was after all, they insisted, where the battle would be decided. But Merrick was cautious, wary of this rebel general who had kept him at bay all year. He was sitting with four of his generals having the same argument when his aide came rushing in.

  “General Merrick, sir. The rebels are attacking!” The aide was a young lieutenant named Thurn, and his raw nerves were showing.

  “Calm down, lieutenant.” Merrick stood up and turned to face his aide. “They are attacking where?”

  “In the center, sir.” Thurn took a breath and slowed down, but his voice was still high-pitched with tension. “They are assaulting our center.”

  Merrick was stunned. Why, he wondered, would they come out of their trenches and throw themselves at us in the open?

  “Lieutenant, get me the front line commanders on my comlink.” It had to be a diversion, he thought, to take his attention away from the flank. But he wasn’t going to let them pull their little hit and run…he was going to turn it against them. This was a chance to hit the rebels hard, but he had to move now.