The Final Battle hw-5

by Graham Sharp Paul

  That got Shinoda’s attention. “You’re not?” she said. “Have you been … you know?”

  “What, sacked?” Michael laughed and shook his head. “No. The general’s approved my request to go take care of some private business.”

  “Private business? I think you’d better tell me what you’re talking about, sir.”

  “Let me tell you about a man called Hartspring, a DocSec colonel.”

  Shinoda looked at Michael wide-eyed when he’d finished. “That’s one hell of a story, sir,” she said. “I never knew.”

  “No reason why you should.”

  “I suppose.” Shinoda paused. “But I can see why you’re going after him,” she went on. “I’d do the same in your shoes. But what about us?”

  “That’s a good question. If you want to come along, then I’d be very happy about that. If not, then that’s fine also. It’s entirely up to you; I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t, and I’m not just saying that. It really is up to you.”

  Shinoda thought for a moment before responding. “I need to know a bit more. This Hartspring; where is he?”

  “Last report put him in McNair. General Vaas has organized me a ride in with Major Moore’s 385th Independent Company. Tell you what; why don’t I comm you the order for Operation Tanglevine. That’ll explain everything. Wake me up when you’ve finished.”

  Twenty minutes later, Shinoda had finished. She shook Michael awake.

  “You done?” Michael said, rubbing eyes gritty and red with fatigue. “What do you reckon?”

  “I’d like to think that whoever wrote that op order did it as a joke, but something tells me I’d be wrong.”

  “It’s for real, I’m afraid.”

  “The unit assigned to Tanglevine, this 385th Independent Company; what do we know about them?”

  “It’s been handpicked. All men, of course, since the Hammers don’t have women in combat roles. All ex-marines, most with special forces training. Two rifle platoons, one support and heavy weapons, a headquarters platoon, and a platoon to provide specialized communications, linguistic, and psyops support. About 120 pairs of boots all told.”

  “Not a hell of a lot considering what they have to do.”

  “General Vaas thinks the keys to success are speed and finesse, not force. He was worried that making the unit larger would just make things too unwieldy.”

  “How well do you know the 385th?”

  “Very well. I was one of the team who picked them, and I sat in on as many of their exercises as I could. Thanks to a full-size mock-up of the High Temple complex, their training was very realistic. All in all, they’re good, very good.”

  “Ah, now I get it,” Shinoda said. “That was why we went there so often.”

  “It was. Sorry I was so secretive. Remember when we went over to the Resistance Council? That was where Tanglevine started, and Vaas never let me step away from it.”

  “And they’re happy for you go along?”

  “I spoke to Major Moore before we left, and yes, he’s happy.”

  “And he’d be okay with us too?”

  “Yes, but like I said, it’s up to you.”

  “Tell you what, sir. It’s a long run to Zulu-36, so let me think about it. We can talk again when we get there. If I’m in, I’ll brief the guys and let you know what they decide.”

  “Makes sense. Now, if you don’t mind, I want to catch up on my sleep.”

  Tuesday, September 28, 2404, UD

  Portal Zulu-36, Branxton base

  The approaches to Portal Zulu-36, one of the hundreds that accessed the maze of tunnels, caves, and caverns making up the NRA’s Branxton base, were seething with activity. The air was heavy with tension and filled with the nervous murmur of troopers waiting to jump off, the crush made worse by the landers and missile batteries lined up nose to tail.

  Michael pushed his way through to where the 385th Independent Company waited for him. “All set?” he asked the 385th’s commander, Major Moore. Michael liked the man. Behind the stern, unforgiving face of the hard-bitten NRA veteran-which he was-lay a warm heart and generous spirit, a remarkable thing given the inhuman cruelty DocSec had inflicted on his family.

  Moore nodded. “We are,” he said, running his eye across the 385th. “ENCOMM’s made a couple of minor tweaks to Tortoise, but they don’t affect us.”

  “Pleased to hear it,” Michael said, trying to ignore a sudden attack of nerves that filled his stomach with slowly churning acid, “I just want to get going.”

  “Me too,” Moore said. “Now, I’m happy for your guys to give us a hand when we get to McNair, but you don’t have to, you know.”

  “Here to help, Major,” Michael said. “It’s the least we can do.”

  “Thanks.” Moore looked at Michael’s security detail, whose members were dressed like everyone else, Michael included, in the combat fatigues of Hammer marines. “Even with their visors up you’d never know that two of them were women,” he said with a grin.

  “Don’t tell them that.” Michael chuckled. “But I still worry about them compromising the operation, you know, if we’re stopped. Their IDs might say they’re men, but it won’t take long to disprove that.”

  “Shit!” Moore said. “I knew there was something I had to tell you. I got word an hour ago. DocSec has just made changes to the way their ID knowledge base works. None of our civilian IDs are any good anymore.”

  “They’re not? But what about checkpoints? How will you get through?”

  “The old-fashioned way,” Moore said. He lifted his assault rifle with an evil grin. “And it’s not such a problem. Our orders look genuine. Hell, they are genuine, authorized by the 273rd Transport Regiment’s commanding officer himself, not that he knows that. So the marines won’t be checking IDs, and those DocSec pigs aren’t too keen to pull marine convoys over these days, so they won’t be either. They know what happens when they try. Don’t worry; we’ll have no problems getting to McNair.”

  “I hope so,” Michael said, looking around for a comm box, “but I need to check if ours are okay.”

  “I already have. Your IDs are screwed too. Once you’re in McNair and on your own, they won’t help you if DocSec pulls you over.”

  “Damn!” Michael grumbled.

  “You’ll be fine. Keep those visors down, look aggressive, and maybe DocSec will leave you alone.”

  Then it was time. “Move out,” Moore ordered, and the 385th headed out into a rain-swept night. Michael, Shinoda, and the four members of his security detail fell in behind, the darkness flaring as NRA air-defense batteries engaged the flood of incoming Hammer kinetics.

  Friday, October 1, 2404, UD

  War room, offices of the Supreme Council, McNair

  Admiral Kerouac cleared his throat before proceeding. “And so to sum up: Although it is still very early days, the heretics’ strategy is clear: a two-pronged operation mounted from their Branxton and Velmar bases. It’s an operation that relies on two things: speed and the Feds’ air and missile defense assets. Its objective is McNair. Our response …”

  The man looked nervous, Polk thought, as well he should. The NRA’s assault was the greatest threat the Hammer of Kraa had ever faced.

  “… depends on our ability to mobilize overwhelming forces to defend McNair. In the end, it is weight of numbers that will determine the outcome of this battle, and we have the numbers; the heretics do not. They have no reinforcements, no new supplies; they cannot draw on the resources of three systems as we can. They have to finish the job with the assets they started with. That’s their weakness, and it will prove to be fatal. Are there any questions?”

  “What makes you think we can mobilize outstanding force, admiral?” Councillor Kando asked.

  “I don’t understand your point,” Kerouac replied. “The orders transferring … Let me see …” Kerouac said as he consulted his notes. “Yes, the orders transferring MARFORs 35, 66, 87, 66, and 46 to the McNair theater of operations went out last n
ight as soon as the scale of the threat became apparent.”

  “Well, then. Let’s start with MARFOR 87. It’s currently tasked in support of DocSec counterinsurgency operations across South Barassia, so what in Kraa’s name makes you think you can just pull them out? Did you even talk to the planetary councillor before the orders were issued?”

  “No, Councillor, I did not.”

  “You damn well should have,” Kando barked, his forefinger stabbing out at Kerouac. “The marines of MARFOR 87 are staying until the heretics are under control. And that’s why I’m questioning your assumption that you can mobilize overwhelming forces.”

  Polk sat back as voices fueled by fear and anger engulfed the war room. Even if the marines being used to maintain order across the three Hammer worlds stayed put, he still thought the NRA could be beaten, but all of a sudden the chances were not looking as good.

  It is time, Polk decided, to bring my plans for a long and comfortable retirement forward.

  Monday, October 3, 2404, UD

  Cordus-Perdan Highway, Commitment

  “Shiiiiiit!” Michael hissed, burying his head as a Hammer ground-attack lander flashed overhead, trailing fire and smoke. Seconds later, it slammed into the ground barely 500 meters ahead of where the 385th waited, its enormous mass blasting debris in all directions. “That was a bit close.”

  “Very,” Shinoda said. “Looks like our missile batter-”

  Without any warning, the lander’s fusion plants blew, unleashing a ball of blue-white light that seared all the darkness out of the night sky. An instant later, the shock wave hit, hammering Michael’s body down into the dirt, the air filled with the awful screeching of torn metal howling past the lander.

  “I don’t think we have to worry about survivors,” Shinoda said, looking at the pillar of smoke and flame climbing away from the shattered wreck.

  “Reckon not, though-hold on, sergeant,” he said as his earpiece crackled into life, “ENCOMM’s on the line.”

  Major Moore’s voice was instantly recognizable. “Corndog, this is Gridlock-One, over,” he said.

  “Route Alfa to your RV point is now clear. Confirm ready to move out.”

  “Confirmed. Gridlock-One is ready to move.”

  “Roger, stand by, Gridlock-One. We are still waiting for Starburst to confirm your right flank is secure.”

  “Request you expedite Starburst. We are behind schedule.”

  “Understood, Gridlock-One. Corndog, out.”

  Michael swore under his breath not for his own sake but for Moore’s. The 385th had been held up for two hours waiting for NRA ground-attack landers to clear the way through to McNair and for Starburst-10 Brigade-to secure the high ground to the right of their line of advance. And time was the one thing Moore had very little of. For Tanglevine to succeed, he had to have Calverson and Malfroy in custody before Polk realized that the breakout from the Branxtons could not be stopped until it reached McNair.

  The moment Polk did, he would pull every lever he could to stave off defeat, and that would include mobilizing Calverson and the Brethren.

  It was twenty long minutes later before the 385th moved off again. The company moved fast down the long wooded foothills of the Branxtons, the path ahead cleared for them all the way down to the Oxus River by units from 10 Brigade. The sky to Michael’s left was filled with a flickering light show that marked the NRA’s relentless push toward McNair. The air shook with the thunder of landers wheeling overhead, the slashing screech of missiles streaking to intercept incoming Hammer attacks, and the popping bangs as laser batteries intercepted the never-ending rain of kinetics the Hammers were dropping on the advancing NRA.

  Moore stopped the 385th just short of the Oxus River. A trooper ran back to where Michael and his team waited. “The major says the transport’s waiting across the bridge, but we’re behind schedule,” the man said. “You’ll need to get a move on as soon as we’ve cleared the road. Those truckbots are leaving in ten whether we’re there or not, so don’t let your people lag.”

  “They won’t,” Michael said.

  The order came. The 385th stampeded for the bridge. Any pretense at concealment was abandoned in the frantic rush. Pounding along with his team, Michael prayed that the hard-pressed Hammers would be too busy to wonder why a company-size unit dressed in regulation Hammer marine combat gear and sporting the Hammers’ IFF codes of the day was running away from the front line toward a line of truckbots.

  Michael looked around the rain-slicked square fronting the High Temple complex. It was deserted and looked like it would stay that way. Moore’s men had not wasted any time, attacking the small access door beside the massive bronze gates, the only access to the complex that opened into the Plaza of Redemption.

  The door gave way, and the 385th poured through, leaving Michael at the gate. He and his troopers got busy: unboxing and launching a cluster of microdrones, then fast-fixing claymores to the complex’s towering outer wall, their chromaflage shapes invisible against the lichen-splashed blocks of stone. More claymores went in an arc to protect the main gate inside and out before heavy weapons and shoulder-launched missiles were positioned ready for use.

  Finally, they had done all they could.

  It was not enough, of course. The temple complex was indefensible, but only if the Hammers broke the absolute taboos that prohibited vehicles from entering; even the airspace was sacred, which ruled out an air assault. Only one unit was allowed into the complex-DocSec’s 1155th Special Company-and it had to be invited in by the Teacher of Worlds. Everyone else was deemed profane and denied entry, which ruled out an old-fashioned ground assault.

  If the taboos held, it was a stalemate: Hammers outside, Moore and his hostages inside. But Michael had to wonder how long all that superstitious claptrap would restrain the Polk. The man needed Calverson and the Brethren; surely he’d send in DocSec, boots, guns, and all. But until he did, Calverson would only say-appear to say, to be more accurate-what the NRA wanted him to say, which he would thanks to a Fed-supplied avatar AI, one of the best in all humanspace.

  Shinoda dropped down beside him. “That’s everything,” she said.

  Michael nodded, cycling his neuronics through the holovid feeds coming back from the microdrones. “Still quiet out there,” he said. “I’ve checked the entire perimeter. There’s nothing moving.”

  “I’ve checked the net, sir,” Shinoda said. “DocSec has locked the city down. Anyone breaching the curfew will be shot.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  Michael patched his neuronics into the holovid feed coming from Moore’s helmet-mounted holocam. The 385th had moved fast along the colonnades that flanked the plaza, men peeling off to secure the flanks and cut the fiber-optic cables connecting the temple complex’s comm hub to the outside world and others seeding the area with short-range jammers.

  Inside the complex, there was no sign of life. Martin Ruark had told him that the place housed around 500 Brethren along with the same number of support staff. The latter were at home. They were forbidden to be in the complex between six at night and six in the morning.

  But where was the Brethren?

  Moore’s men pushed through the second wall. Ahead lay the temple sanctuary. Protected by yet another wall, it hosted the massive bulk of the High Temple and the modest buildings that were home to Calverson, Malfroy, and the rest of the senior Brethren.

  Something was wrong: The door beside the gate into the sanctuary was open. It should have been shut. “Cover,” Moore’s voice snapped in Michael’s earpiece.

  Michael had to stifle a laugh. A pair of Brethren, their plain brown cowls marking them out as junior acolytes, emerged from the door. Formless shapes broke away from the shadows and bundled them away.

  “One, Bravo,” a voice said. Lieutenant Horta, 2 Platoon, Michael said to himself. “I have two acolytes. They confirm Tango-One and Tango-Two are in the High Temple with the Brethren.”

  Michael felt for Moore. The Hig
h Temple was huge. It had more entrances than the 385th could cover, and if that wasn’t bad enough, they’d have to pick their targets out of a large crowd of Brethren.

  “Niner-Niner, this is One. Fallback Kilo, Fallback Kilo now!” Moore said. Directed at the entire unit, the order sent the 385th pouring through the gate into the sanctuary. Moore’s men ran hard for the temple. They split into six units: four groups to cover the building’s perimeter, one to secure their egress, and a snatch squad to locate and extract Calverson and Malfroy.

  Tanglevine hung in the balance. Moore did not have the reserves to deal with any more complications.

  “Squatter, this is One,” Moore said to the snatch team. “Building secured. Go!”

  The snatch team sprinted through the High Temple’s imposing bronze doors, each a good 10 meters high. They stood open, spilling golden light into the night. The image from the team leader’s holocam flared. Michael blinked in the light scintillating off the gold- and jewel-encrusted walls. Hundreds of voices filled the air with their chanting. The team ran down a passageway parallel to the main chamber. Arched openings every 10 meters opened onto the assembled mass of Brethren. Brethren packed the brilliantly lit space.

  “One, Squatter,” the leader of the snatch team said. “In position. We have eyes on Tango-One and Tango-Two. We’re ready.”

  “One, roger … Stand by … go!” Moore barked a microsecond after a small explosive charge blew the building’s switchboard apart. Darkness engulfed the proceedings. A brace of grenades skittered across the marble floor and popped into life, spewing gas and smoke in all directions. A volley of flashbangs followed as the snatch squad exploded into the main temple chamber.

  Michael would never forget the confusion and fear on the two targets’ faces, which he could see for a split second in the searing flare of the flashbangs. The men stared, open-mouthed. Then the snatch squad was on them, three to each target. They half lifted, half dragged Calverson and Malfroy off the altar steps, out the door, and into the courtyard.