A Little Rebellion (Crimson Worlds)

by Jay Allan

  Thurn worked on his headset for a few seconds, making sure all the necessary officers were on the line. “You are on with all forward commanders, sir.”

  “To all commanders now engaged on the front line of the army…your orders are to attack immediately. Engage and destroy all exposed enemy forces and pursue as long as advantageous.” Merrick knew he was getting aggressive, but if he could hurt the rebels badly enough, he might just win this thing today. Then he could get off this forsaken rock and go home.

  Merrick half-listened as the commanders on the line acknowledged his order then he flipped off the line and turned toward Thurn.

  “Lieutenant, contact Colonel Jarrod.” Merrick had a self-satisfied smile on his face. “Order him to detach two battalions from his brigade to reinforce the attack on the enemy’s left flank.” He paused then added an afterthought. “Instruct him to lead them himself and to personally take command of the entire attack.”

  “Yes, sir.” Thurn immediately began relaying Merrick’s orders to Jarrod.

  Yes, General Thompson, Merrick thought with considerable self-satisfaction, you think I will abandon the flank attack and throw everything into the center. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid I cannot accommodate you.” He turned again toward Thurn and barked one more command. “Instruct Colonel Jarrod to commit a third battalion to the flank attack.” He smiled again and muttered under his breath. “No, General Thompson. I will not play your game.”

  The troops attacking the center were catching hell. The valley was mostly broad and open, with little good cover. They had the element of surprise at first; no one had expected them to come out of their defenses and attack. But that didn’t last.

  At first the federals deployed defensively, forming up to repel the assault. The infantry streamed out of the APCs, forming firing lines just in front of the vehicles. The troops took whatever cover was available but, for the most part, they were as much in the open as the attackers. But there were more of them, and they had heavy weapon support from the APCs. They were taking a significant toll on the advancing rebels, even at long range.

  Then the orders came up: attack across the line. The troops grumbled – they had the prospect of a turkey shoot if they just stood fast. Now they were ordered to move out and counter-attack. The non-coms waved their arms and surged forward – officers in the Alliance army tended to lead from behind – and the great mass charged into the plain.

  The two sides ran toward each other, firing wildly. The APCs advanced behind the federal infantry, but the formation became confused, disordered. The Feds were trained career soldiers, but there was no living memory of full-scale warfare in the terrestrial army. The infantry blocked the line of fire from the APCs, and the vehicles were stuck behind disorganized clumps of soldiers.

  The rebels kept better order. They were a smaller force, more compact and easier for the officers to keep in formation. Though many of them had been farmers and shopkeepers, they were leavened with true veterans, retired Marines who’d seen real combat on worlds throughout occupied space.

  It was a brutal, chaotic fight, the two lines advancing to close range and exchanging murderous fire. Wherever there was any type of cover – a rock outcropping or a small depression in the ground – troops would cluster behind it, firing at the enemy from a position of relative advantage.

  The lines became intermixed, as the rebels would make headway along on section of the front and lose ground on another. Gregory Sanders was in the thick of the fight, though he knew both Will and Kara would be upset with him if they could see. But Will wouldn’t have ordered this attack if the situation wasn’t desperate…and Sanders was going to make sure Thompson got what he needed. And the only way he knew how to do something important was to grab onto it and dive in.

  He was surrounded by his troops, and despite being heavily outnumbered, they were holding their own. He was beyond proud of these men and women…the Alliance forces were getting more than they bargained for from a group they likely considered ignorant colonials. Sanders enjoyed that thought immensely.

  But now it was time to get his people out. It didn’t matter how hard they fought; in the open plain they would be overwhelmed eventually. “All units, this is General Sanders.” He spoke into the comlink, practically screaming to rise above the din of battle. “Execute retirement to prepared positions. Plan Alpha.” Sanders had a few surprises ready for the federals if they decided to pursue his forces.

  All around him the rebel troops were pulling back, as the battalion commanders and then the junior officers and non-coms relayed his orders. They’d planned the retreat – as well as anything could be planned in the brief time they’d had to get organized – and now they were executing it flawlessly.

  To the Feds, unused to the trickery and stratagems of war, it looked like a rout, and all along the line, the Alliance commanders ordered their troops to pursue. In the center, the tanks, which had previously been screened by the infantry, began advancing along tight corridors through the confused federal line. The infantry cheered as the massive war machines rumbled noisily forward.

  Perfect, Sanders thought. If we can pull this off we will give them quite a bloody nose. He turned to take one last look at the enemy forces before he joined the last of the rebel formations in the retreat. That’s when it hit him.

  He heard the sound first, and felt the blood in his throat…only then did the pain come. It was a round fired from an assault rifle, and it went clean through his neck. He felt the strength draining from his body and his legs starting to give out. He fell, first to his knees then, a few seconds later, forward onto the ground. His head was fuzzy, his thoughts hazy, random. Memories, some recent some a lifetime old, mixed with thoughts about the battle. And the darkness, the growing darkness…more and more until there was nothing else.

  Kyle Warren had been hit twice. Neither wound was serious, but he looked like hell, with filthy, blood-soaked rags tied around his leg and his forehead. The fighting on the flank had been brutal, with the Feds pouring more and more troops into the bitter battle for the ridgeline.

  Twice Warren’s troops had been forced back from their hastily-prepared defenses, and both times they’d received reserves just in time to counter-attack and regain their lines. He’d stopped even trying to keep track of casualties, but the dead and wounded were everywhere. In the very center of the position, a place the troops were already calling the Meatgrinder, the dead were stacked on top of each other. Here it had been hand to hand combat several times, and many of the dead had faces smashed by rifle butts and chests ripped open by knives.

  Warren was operating on adrenalin, trying not to think too deeply about the slaughter around him. He couldn’t help but remember the battle on the space station in the Gliese 250 system, when he’d served as a corporal under then-Captain Erik Cain. The battle had been a success by any standard, and casualties relatively low. But Cain was somber after the battle, uncomfortable with the cheering and applause the unit gave him. Warren had been confused then, but now he understood.

  He needed all his wits right now. The federal attacks had been disorganized at first, but now they were focused and well-executed. Kyle figured they had a new officer in command over there…someone who knew what he was doing.

  “All right everyone.” Warren switched the comlink to the general line; he was speaking to every soldier under his command. “You’ve done well and fought with courage I couldn’t have imagined. I’m proud of all of you…General Thompson is proud of all of you.”

  He took a breath and let his words hang there for an instant. “But the enemy is coming back. They think they can overwhelm us and drive us from this position.” His voice was getting louder. “But our people in the valley are catching hell too, and the troops behind us are going into that fight to win the battle. If we falter…if we let the federals get through us, they will sweep around and crush our comrades. They will destroy this army.”

  He was yelling now, but still his volume rose.
“We will not move from this spot. If the enemy gets past this position it will be because every one of us is dead. As long as one of us is standing, we will hold this line. If anyone retreats, I will shoot him myself!” His fists were clenched as he spoke, and he hardly felt the pain from his wounds. “This battle is for our families, for our friends, for our comrades…it is for our home!”

  All along the rebel line a great cheer rose, growing steadily in intensity even as the advancing federals came into view. Kyle stared straight ahead and shouted into the comlink, projecting one word loud enough to cut through the cheering, tumultuous din. “Fire.”

  “We have to withdraw, sir.” General Wyatt Corning was a pompous ass and an insufferable windbag. But this time he was right, and Merrick knew it. The battle had been a bloodbath for both sides, but in the end it was the Marines who made the difference for the rebels. It was the retired corporal, deployed among 20 farmers and factory workers, keeping them in the fight, rallying them to meet whatever came. The privates and sergeants and officers who had mustered out and made Arcadia home…and now they made the rebel force an army, a real army.

  The federal forces were broken, and Merrick knew it. They weren’t in headlong flight yet, at least not all of them. But there was no way he could mount another attack. If he didn’t retreat, the rebels would slip behind him and cut off his supplies. He’d be trapped in enemy territory, his army demoralized and in danger of annihilation. At least retreat would allow them to fight another day. They still outnumbered the rebels, and given time to rest and refit, they’d be back in the field.

  He’d thought for a while that Jarrod had broken through on the flank, but the thrice-cursed rebels managed to hold on somehow…that devil Thompson feeding in just enough reserves, just in time.

  Now Jarrod was dead. There were stories among the troops, accounts from those who claimed to be there…or secondhand from those who “knew someone who was there.” They said Jarrod was killed by the commander of the rebel position in a hand to hand battle on the last charge. It sounded like bullshit to Merrick, but he’d never know for sure. Jarrod’s body was behind enemy lines now, lying among the thousands who’d died this day.

  While Jarrod was leading those last futile assaults, the center turned into a nightmare. The rebels there retreated back to their defenses, and his forces pursued…right into a nightmare of minefields and hidden tank traps. The federal forces, already disordered from the confused melee in the plain, were thrown into utter chaos - just as the rebels from the ridgelines attacked their flanks.

  “Lieutenant Thurn…” Merrick’s voice was strained. So this is what defeat tastes like, he thought. It is bitter. He felt his stomach clench, and he wanted to drop to his knees and wretch. It took all his strength to stand there impassively and issue the orders. “The army will retreat.”

  He turned to walk away when a small clump of soldiers approached him, carrying something in a tarp. They were led by an officer, a captain Merrick didn’t recognize. “General Merrick, we’ve captured a wounded rebel general.” The captain tried to salute, but he was holding on to a corner of the tarp, so it was roughly done at best. “I think he is their second in command.”

  Merrick looked at the blood-soaked figure lying motionless in the tarp. “Is he still alive?”

  “Yes, sir.” The captain was trying to stand as much at attention as he could while still holding the edge of the makeshift stretcher. “Barely.”

  “Take him to my doctor.” Merrick nodded to the captain, dismissing him to carry out the order. Then he walked slowly toward the rear, grateful at least that the rebels were too battered to pursue. He looked over in the direction of the rebel lines, wondering where Will Thompson was right now. “There will be another day, General Thompson.” His voice was soft, barely audible. “Yes…there will be another day.”

  Chapter 18

  Directorate Conference Room

  Western Alliance Intelligence Directorate HQ

  Wash-Balt Metroplex, Earth

  “I am not at all happy, ladies and gentlemen.” Gavin Stark stood at the head of the table staring down at the assembled Directorate. They didn’t need him to tell them he was upset – any time he didn’t take his seat, they knew there was trouble.

  There were empty chairs, four of them. Position six was vacant; he’d never filled it after moving Alex Linden up to Number Three. The others were off-planet - Alliance Intelligence had committed everything to crushing the wave of rebellion sweeping across the frontier. If we don’t start getting better results, Stark thought, there are going to be more vacancies.

  “Clearly, our efforts in several areas have not had the success we hoped for.” Stark’s tone was ominous, his stare as cold as death. “We are going to review each and every problem area and implement whatever strategies are necessary to end these costly and dangerous rebellions.”

  Everyone in the room was staring at Stark, watching his every move, waiting for him to direct the meeting. All except Number Two. Jack Dutton was sitting at Stark’s side as always, but he was looking down at the table. His skin was pale and his eyes gray and filmy. Dutton’s career stretched back to the Unification Wars, over a century earlier, but finally time was overcoming even his herculean constitution. The rejuvenation treatments had become less and less effective in recent years, until finally they did nothing at all. No one thought Dutton had more than a couple months left, if that much, and the scramble for the Second Seat had begun. But right now everyone in the room was more worried about hanging on to their current position…and not ending up in some furnace somewhere.

  “Let’s begin with a review of our military programs, and then we will proceed to status reports of individual worlds.” His gaze moved down the table. “Number Seven, please provide an update on our naval programs.”

  Rodger Burke felt the weight of every eye in the room upon him. He slid his chair back slowly, rising to his feet and glancing around the table before focusing on Stark. “Thank you, Number One.” He cleared his throat nervously. “As you are all aware, we utilized the post-war demobilization as a cover to assign a significant number of navy ships to a new, Directorate-controlled force. The vessels that were ostensibly transferred into reserve status have been re-crewed with Directorate-chosen personnel.”

  He absent-mindedly played with the buttons on his neatly-tailored suit as he spoke, an affectation most of those present found mildly distracting. Burke was a prickly, annoying sort of person, though he was undeniably effective in his work. “We now have 43% of immediate post-war hulls sequestered, and approximately two-thirds of this force had been fully crewed and currently operational.” He paused and glanced down at his ‘pad on the table. “If you refer to section 7.3 on your meeting brief you will see a table of organization for the task force sent to Arcadia. Currently, this is the only deployment of our new naval force. The balance of operational ships, are located in Epsilon Eridani. As that system is quarantined, it seemed like the best place to hide the ships until we deploy them elsewhere.”

  Burke paused, but no one else asked any questions; they were all waiting meekly to see what Stark would say. Disgusted by the cowardice on display in his own Directorate, Number One finally asked what no one else had. “How would you characterize the combat readiness of these ships?”

  Burke hesitated, and Stark added, “Speak freely, Number Seven. We need facts, not optimistic prattle.”

  “Well, Number One, it has obviously been difficult to find alternate crews for so many vessels. Most of the appropriately trained personnel are in the navy itself, so we have had to use a variety of alternative methods to recruit crews, largely from civilian sources.” He panned quickly around the room then focused back on Stark. “The crews are substantially less proficient than their naval counterparts. They are adequate for blockading planets and bombing surface targets, but they will need substantial numerical superiority if it becomes necessary to engage active naval vessels.”

  “Engage naval vessels?
Are we really considering attacking our own navy?” Number Ten’s outburst was unexpected, and every head in the room snapped toward her.

  At least one of them is brave enough to speak her mind, Stark thought, though I suspect it was more lack of discipline than true courage. “Number Ten, we must keep all of our options open. There are considerable sympathies for the rebellion among our naval officer corps. What would you have us do if, for example, a squadron commander openly supported a planet in revolt?”

  It was a highly rhetorical question, one that neither Number Ten nor anyone else present chose to answer. She simply nodded her understanding and remained silent.

  “Please continue, Number Seven.” Stark had turned around and was looking out the window as he spoke.

  “Thank you, Number One. If it does become necessary to engage our own vessels, it would be highly desirable to do so in conjunction with loyal naval forces. We have successfully infiltrated many active duty ships, and our ongoing recruitment program had been quite successful of late. It is difficult to project with any reliability which ships would be likely to side with us in a schism, however it is reasonable to expect that a meaningful percentage would remain under Alliance Gov control.” He paused briefly. “Of course, I would expect considerable resistance to an order to open fire on other naval vessels, even from loyal units.”

  “Before Number Seven continues, I would like to offer an update on related matters myself.” Stark didn’t move; he was staring out over the Washbalt skyline, his back to the table as he spoke. “For approximately the last nine months, we have enjoyed an enhanced level of control over the actions of Admiral Garret.”

  A murmur of surprise ran around the table, though no one present would dare interrupt Stark. “The exact means employed to secure this improved level of influence are unimportant…” In other words, you don’t need to know, he thought as he spoke. “…however, it is reasonable to suggest that with the…ah…assistance of Admiral Garret, we will have much greater success in asserting control over naval units…regardless of what we must order them to do.”