RECCE (The Union Series Book 4)

by Phillip Richards

  A light flashed behind me, illuminating the tunnel: it was the sergeant major, flashing his rifle torch as he counted down to detonation.

  ‘Prepare to move,’ I warned, knowing that Griffiths would remotely fire the charge on the third flash.

  The light flashed again, and then once more … I held my breath.

  ‘Fuck my life,’ someone uttered, just before Griffiths detonated the charge.

  The whole world shook around me. The noise was barely cut out by my headphones as a wave of pressure rattled my bones and punched against my stomach so hard I thought I would be sick. A warm cloud of dust and smoke blasted over me in an instant with such force that it threatened to push me to the ground.

  I steadied myself, and then I launched forward, pushing Myers to his feet. ‘Move!’

  ‘Go, go, go!’ the sergeant major hollered.

  Boots pounded as we charged through the ink-black smoke, barely able to see in front of ourselves as we ran toward the hole blasted out by the charge. The newly-cut tunnel glowed red like a tube of magma, angled steeply upward toward the enemy tunnel.

  We turned up the slope, bathed in red light. Our legs had to work twice as hard as we scrambled up the loose gravel, rifles raised to confront our foe.

  I knew that we didn’t have long until the Militia recovered from the shock of the blast - in fact there was a possibility that they were far away enough to be totally unaffected, waiting for us to emerge so that they could cut us down.

  We stormed into the Militia’s tunnel, emerging from a yawning crater scattered with glowing red rock. Myers and I opened fire as soon as we cleared the crater.

  I couldn’t see anything through the smoke, but it didn’t matter, we fired blindly in both directions in an effort to maintain the shock created by the plasma charge. The smoke flickered with light as stray darts ricocheted off the tunnel walls.

  Stepping over the bodies of fallen Militiamen, Myers and I hurried toward the first bend in the tunnel, and headed toward the surface.

  There was a commotion somewhere ahead of us as somebody shouted orders to rally the survivors of the blast.

  We didn’t bother with throwing hand grenades. Instead, Myers simply held his rifle out around the bend and fired his grenade launcher, sending one of the tiny missiles screaming toward its target.

  The grenade exploded in a flash of light and we burst around the corner, the pair of us moving as though we were joined at the hip. Our rifles fired simultaneously, spraying the new stretch of tunnel indiscriminately.

  Steadily advancing through the swirling smoke, we kept side by side, weapons in the aim. We couldn’t see further than a metre, and the heat of the tunnel had left our thermal imaging virtually blind. Instead, we took care not to make any noise as we marched forward, listening for the slightest sound from the enemy. Behind us, the remainder of the section were following in pairs, ready to take over the battle on my order.

  There were several more Militiamen scattered across the tunnel, and we both stepped over them, knowing that our comrades would confirm they were dead with their bayonets.

  One Militiaman was leaning against the tunnel wall, having somehow survived the grenade. Rather than waste ammunition and give ourselves away, I stepped up to him and drove my bayonet into his side, piercing his chest and parting his ribs with a sickly crack of bone. Rather than scream, the man simply fell to the ground, tugging my rifle down with him. I used my boot to push him off the blade, and then continued with the advance along the tunnel.

  I heard a scraping sound ahead of me - like a boot scuffing against the ground. Myers must have heard the same thing, and rather than take any chances, he fired into the smoke.

  I joined in with him, firing a burst of darts at the noise.

  ‘Next pair!’ I shouted, still firing.

  Griffiths and Weatherall bounded past us, using the shock of our gunfire to rush the potential enemy.

  You couldn’t hold back and fight from a distance in the tunnels. If you did, all you ended up with was a grenade throwing contest with no guaranteed winner. The best way to clear a warren quickly was to use maximum aggression and short attacking bounds, getting as close to the enemy as possible so that he couldn’t use his own explosives against us.

  Several darts were fired as the two troopers closed in on their prey. There was then a shout and a cry of pain as they came close enough to use their own bayonets.

  In the clearing haze, I caught glimpses of the pair as they took on several Militiamen at once. They must have been survivors of the blast, trying to resume the fight. Our burst of darts had caused them to take cover, and now the two troopers were upon them, beating at them with their weapons.

  Griffiths parried a rifle away with a sweep of his mammoth, and Weatherall stabbed with his bayonet, letting out a furious scream of rage that echoed through the tunnel like the war cry of a ferocious monster.

  ‘Close up!’ I ordered Myers, and the pair of us moved forward as the battle turned to hand-to-hand combat.

  The Militia’s strength in numbers had been removed. They physically couldn’t get any more than two men side by side in the narrow tunnel, and so they were forced to take us on with equal numbers. Only sheer courage, discipline and controlled aggression would enable victory now.

  Griffiths knocked one of the Militiamen to the ground with the butt of his mammoth. With an animalistic roar, he beat the man repeatedly, blood spraying as he crushed his skull into a pulp.

  I spotted another Militiaman stood less than two metres further up the tunnel, raising his rifle to fire at the two troopers. I thrust my own rifle over Griffith’s shoulder and shot the man square in the face, causing his visor to shatter. He crumpled to the ground.

  ‘Next pair!’ I called again, signalling for Puppy to send two more troopers.

  It was Puppy’s job to keep re-enforcements coming, forming an orderly queue of fighting pairs as we quickly re-organised into a tunnel-clearing machine. Though I had initiated the battle with Myers, I couldn’t stay on the frontline - otherwise I risked getting too sucked into the battle to think with a cool head.

  This time it was Thapa and Wildgoose who charged past me, pushing past the other pair just as they finished dispatching their final victim.

  We were unstoppable. All of our hatred for the Loyalist Militia was directed toward a single point in the tunnel, as pair after pair was launched forward into battle, shooting, stabbing and hacking at our enemy. The forward pair often fought hand-to-hand, whilst Myers and I, following just behind, fired at anyone unfortunate enough to present us with a clean shot. It wasn’t graceful, or pleasant, to watch - it was a bloodbath.

  Once we reached the next bend in the tunnel, we had fought for no further than thirty metres, but we were all exhausted from the effort.

  It was Thapa who reached the corner first, and the trooper fired another grenade around the corner, just as Wildgoose shot a Militiaman with his sniper rifle from less than a metre away, snatching the man backward like a ragdoll.

  ‘Tunnel clear!’ I announced over the platoon net. ‘Bend to the right!’

  ‘Roger,’ the sergeant major answered. ‘Go firm. Maintain the shock with a smart missile!’

  I instantly turned to Myers. ‘Launcher!’

  The young trooper automatically slipped his smart launcher from his daysack, preparing it to fire as we closed up to Thapa.

  ‘Fire a burst around the corner on my call!’ I ordered Thapa, and he nodded.

  Myers tapped my shoulder. ‘Launcher’s ready.’

  ‘Roger! Do it, Thapa!’

  Thapa responded instantly, holding his rifle around the corner and firing a burst of darts. He didn’t need to hit anything, we merely wanted a distraction. Simultaneously Myers bolted out from behind him, throwing the launcher onto his shoulder.

  ‘Firing!’ he warned, and all of us ducked out of the way, lowering our heads to protect our visors from the back blast.

  The missile exploded out of the laun
cher with a mighty bang, before screaming up the tunnel in a flash of blinding white light. The whole tunnel shook as it exploded, the resulting pressure wave causing Myers to fall backwards.

  Three Section launched moments later, sprinting past us as they took over the fight.

  The sergeant major followed behind them, along with his team. He stopped beside me, and then leaned forward to watch Three Section clear the next length of tunnel.

  ‘The FEA platoon is bringing up the rear, under the command of that Guard NCO,’ he said. ‘I’ve told him to watch our backs until Captain Ferrugia’s company close the gap.’

  I nodded. By having the FEA at our rear, we significantly reduced the risk of being hit by Captain Ferrugia and his men by mistake. If they did accidentally shoot their own men, then that was their problem.

  ‘Be prepared to assault again shortly,’ the sergeant major warned. ‘There are a few more sections of tunnel to clear. We’ve got the Militia on their arses, but they may still put up a fight.’

  ‘Roger,’ I replied.

  ‘Well done, Corporal Moralee.’

  I blinked at the rare words of praise from the sergeant major. Despite him having handed Yulia to the Guard, I still had masses of respect for him as a trooper, and as a leader. When he handed out praise, it meant something.

  I was just about to respond when the sergeant major rounded the corner, disappearing into the smoke as he stalked after Corporal Stanton’s section.

  We continued our advance toward the surface, each section clearing up to the next bend in the tunnel before going firm and handing over to their counterpart. Fighting underground was as tiring as it was terrifying, so it was essential that we rotated constantly, never allowing a section to overextend, or clear so far that they became fatigued or became disorganised. Chaos ruled during close-quarter combat, but it was the unit that maintained some form of order that inevitably prevailed.

  No longer sparing with our ammunition, we used everything we had - from rifle-launched grenades to smart missiles - in order to maintain the shock of our sudden appearance. Hot air whooshed through the tunnel every time we launched another missile, the shrill scream of their rockets swiftly followed by deafening explosions as they struck home. Every time a missile or grenade detonated, we charged against the enemy, attacking him whilst he reeled from the onslaught.

  The Militia had expected a rout, but instead they had found more than their match in the dark confines of the warren. Unlike the FEA, we were well-equipped, well-trained … and brimming with hatred.

  I watched a trooper batter a man so brutally that his face collapsed inwards, and another man stabbing repeatedly at a Militiaman - even though he was clearly already dead; our fury was absolute - though somehow I and the other NCO’s managed to keep control. I often likened commanding troopers in close combat to holding back dogs on a leash, letting them go when the time was right. Never before had the comparison been so true, for I had no doubt that without NCO’s being present the platoon would have burst out of the warren, coated in blood, surging down toward Cellini in an unstoppable hunt for revenge.

  After several minutes of hard fighting I began to hear frantic shouts from further along the tunnel, and then the pounding of boots. It took me a second to realise that the footsteps were receding, not approaching, and a second longer to realise what it meant.

  ‘They’re running away!’ Myers said jubilantly.

  My spirits began to rise as I began to believe that I could get my men out alive. Had the Militia taken more of a beating from us than they could manage?

  ‘It’s not over yet,’ I said with caution. ‘We’ll carry on clearing forward.’

  ‘Keep moving lads!’ the sergeant major shouted from over my shoulder, spurring my section on. ‘Keep the pressure on them!’

  We increased our pace, taking advantage of the sudden lack of resistance. We couldn’t afford to allow the Militia to form a gap between us - we needed to keep them stumbling backward all the way to the surface. For all we knew, they might be preparing to blow the tunnel with explosives stolen from the FEA, burying us under tonnes of rock.

  We had almost reached the surface when a message came through to my headset, a net transmission from outside the warren: ‘Any Blackjack call sign within the warren, this is Hammersmith-Three-Zero, comms check!’

  I gaped for a moment, my mind spinning as I tried to work out who Hammersmith-Three- Zero was.

  It was B Company … it had to be. They had come for us, just as the sergeant major had promised. We were saved!

  ‘Blackjack-One-One-Charlie,’ I replied, barely able to conceal my relief, ‘you’re OK to me!’

  ‘Good to hear from you!’ the voice chirped. ‘I am presently dismounting onto the hill above you. There is a large number of Loyalist Militia fleeing from a warren tunnel entrance. I believe this is where you are?’

  ‘That’s correct!’ I looked back down the tunnel. ‘Sir! Are you getting this?’

  ‘The message is a bit distorted by the tunnel,’ he answered. ‘Confirm B Company have arrived?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Good! Get to the surface quickly, but be aware of stragglers amongst the Militia!’

  We rushed up the sloping tunnel, almost forgetting the threat from the Militia as we hurried to reach the surface, and our salvation. B Company had arrived, just as the Sergeant Major had promised, and the sight of their dropships had driven the Militia away.

  We emerged into daylight, just in time to see a fresh platoon of drop troopers coming in to land, their dropships belching smoke, flares and missiles as they swept over the hill.

  I crept out of the warren entrance and into the trench beyond, keeping my head as low as possible. I was more than aware of the danger posed by being mistaken for Militia. Several Militiamen lay strewn across the trenches, gore glistening from where the dropship’s Vulcan had torn them to pieces.

  I switched my section net to “live”, allowing myself to be seen by B Company. ‘Hammersmith-Three-Zero-Alpha, this is Blackjack-One-One-Charlie, my section net is now live, and I am emerging from the warren! Do not engage!’

  ‘I’ve got eyes on you, corporal!’ somebody shouted.

  I looked up, and realised that another platoon of troopers had already landed on the hill, and were surrounding the warren entrance. One of the troopers gave me a friendly thumbs-up, and my visor recognised him as the platoon commander for Three Platoon, B Company - the same man I had been speaking to on the net.

  ‘Do you have casualties?’

  ‘We may have,’ I answered, but there was no way of knowing - I could have been wounded for all I knew, such was the adrenalin-fuelled chaos of our fight through the warren.

  ‘Bring your platoon to the surface. We’ll provide you security so you can account for your men!’

  I remembered that our platoon was split across the battlefield, and we had no knowledge of the fate of the two sections stationed on the top of Hill Kilo, or Mr Barkley.

  ‘Have you seen the other two sections?’ I asked, anxiously.

  ‘They’re off to the west. We’ll bring them to you shortly.’

  ‘What about our platoon commander?’

  The officer shook his head. ‘I haven’t managed to get through to him. I’m told he’s still underground.’

  The platoon was gathered together, swarmed by medics, whilst B Company swiftly took control of the hilltop and beat the Militia back into Cellini. Our newly-arrived comrades had nowhere near the manpower to take control of the village itself, but their firepower meant they could easily keep Hill Kilo secure for as long as they wanted.

  The FEA platoon had also emerged from the warren, and Rusakov was kept busy trying to persuade the other companies to come to the surface to set up their own defences. He knew that we wouldn’t stay forever, and that the Militia would return. Unlike us, they had been abandoned by their hierarchy, with very little hope for withdrawal.

  Our casualties were quickly formed into separat
e lines in order of priority, before being treated and loaded onto waiting dropships to be taken back to Paraiso. I watched as the medics went about their work, horrified by the toll that our operation had taken on us.

  Several of our men had been wounded during our battle to escape the warren, including Holland from my section. He had been stabbed in the thigh by a Militiaman’s bayonet, but somehow he had managed to continue the fight, barely noticing that he was injured. The two sections that had remained on the hill had taken several more casualties, though, some of which were serious. They had fought a desperate battle alongside a small group of Guard defectors, slowly pushed back to the western edge of Hill Kilo by the relentless Militia horde flooding up from Cellini. Corporal Abdi, taking overall command in our absence, had continuously sent messages calling for help, and it was he who had chosen not to withdraw into the warrens; his decision had probably saved our lives.

  B Company’s CSM exchanged casualty information with the sergeant major, who nodded grimly as he was told how many more troopers he had lost. Corporal Abdi and Corporal Kamara could easily amalgamate their sections into one, both of them having lost half their men. Mr Barkley and his three troopers were missing, presumably still somewhere underground - whether they were in the clutches of the Guard or simply trying to avoid the Militia by hiding within the bowels of the warren, we couldn’t be sure.

  We kept together as a platoon, sitting mournfully whilst we watched the company at work. There was nothing to celebrate. Four more of our men were missing, and one of them was the platoon commander.

  After a few minutes of silence, a man emerged from a nearby trench, followed by a small entourage of troopers who spread out around him for protection. I recognised him instantly by his familiar apish gait: it was the OC of B Company - a man I hadn’t seen since the invasion of New Earth.

  The OC regarded us all as he walked amongst us. Soaked and caked in mud from running through the trenches, he was totally different to most of the Guard officers I had met: he wasn’t afraid to get dirty.