The Final Battle hw-5

by Graham Sharp Paul

  “Big mistake,” Michael said, smiling though the pain.

  The smile did not last. The second trooper whipped his stun pistol out and jammed it into Michael’s stomach. The charge jolted Michael’s body rigid, his entire nervous system screaming in protest.

  “What the Kraa is going on?” It was Hartspring. Even through pain-slitted eyes Michael could see he was seriously pissed.

  “The prisoner attacked Trooper Rajith, sir,” the DocSec trooper said. “I have the situation under control.”

  “You’d better, Corporal Craxi. Rajith, get your useless hide out of here. I’ll deal with you later.”

  Hartspring ignored Michael. He made his way up the compartment and slipped on a headset and boom mike. He climbed into the commander’s position behind the driver, a center-mounted crash seat flanked by two large holovid displays; fingers flew across a small control console.

  Finally Hartspring nodded, obviously satisfied that everything was as it should be. “Tango Niner, this is Box Cutter,” he said. “Move out.”

  The APC lurched forward. Michael craned his head to look at Hartspring’s displays. They were clearly readable in the subdued light. “You’re not taking any chances, are you?” he said under his breath when he worked out what the clutter of icons meant. And Hartspring wasn’t. His APC was accompanied by three more. Two ATVs led the convoy, two brought up the rear, and two more covered the flanks. Surveillance and attack drones orbited overhead.

  It was an impressive amount of firepower to keep one man in plasticuffs and leg restraints in custody. Michael allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Better all those assets and men were tied up escorting him across McNair than facing the NRA, he thought.

  Satisfaction turned to jubilation when Hartspring opened out the range scale to reveal an ugly red line slashing down across the northeastern suburbs of the city.

  Yes, yes, yes, Michael thought. The NRA has broken the Hammers’ defensive line between Yallan and Cooperbridge to cross the Oxus. Now it’s only a matter of time before the Hammer of Kraa is history.

  His jubilation vanished. Behind the front line, red icons marked the positions of the attacking NRA units. And there was the only icon that mattered, the icon for a mechanized infantry battalion: a rectangle enclosing a cross, the symbols | | above, and the numbers 3/120 to the right. That’s Anna’s battalion, Michael thought, and they are only 10 kilometers outside McNair.

  Knowing she was that close almost tore him apart. She might as well have been a million klicks away.

  Michael forced himself to look away. His head went back, and his eyes closed in despair. He was slipping into sleep when, with no warning, the brakes slammed on, bringing the APC to a shuddering halt.

  Something is up, Michael thought, and I’ll be it’s something Hartspring hasn’t planned for.

  The colonel’s body language told the same story. He sat crowbar-straight in his seat, one hand locked into a grab handle and the other stabbing at the command display while he muttered orders into his boom mike. Whatever Hartspring was saying got the APC moving again, only this time it was really shifting. It swayed from side to side, its tires scrubbing as it was pushed hard into corners. And over the noise of the APC came the heavy concussive thud of bombs, the metallic racket of heavy machine guns, the heavy thump of cannon fire.

  I’ll be a son of a bitch, Michael thought. Hartspring’s convoy is being gone over by NRA ground-attack landers. An image of a smart bomb coming down through the roof of the APC right into the man flashed across Michael’s mind.

  Without any warning, a single massive explosion picked up the APC and tossed it high into the air. The blast crushed Michael down into his seat and drove the back of his head hard into the headrest. For a moment, the APC hung weightless. Then it rolled onto its side and plunged back to earth, hitting in a sickening crunch that tossed men around the crew compartment like so many straw dolls.

  The last thing Michael remembered was the butt of an assault rifle hurtling toward him before it punched into his forehead and sent him spinning down into darkness.

  Michael ignored a blinding headache and opened his eyes. Groggy with pain, he looked around the APC. It was a shambles, a terrible sight in the feeble glow of emergency lights. The front of the crew compartment was jammed with bodies. They lay one atop another, piled in awkward disarray against the side of the APC in a tangle of arms and legs. The air was filled with moans of pain. Michael thought the two DocSec troopers and most of the marines were dead.

  He realized how lucky he had been. Unlike the crew, he had been strapped in tightly when the APC was blasted skyward by what must have been a very close miss, his hands and feet restrained, his head and body cradled by the crash seat. Michael reckoned a glancing blow from a wayward rifle was a small price to pay for surviving the mayhem.

  But surviving had left him with a small problem. The crash seat and restraints might have saved him, but he had to get out before help arrived. But how? He twisted his head around to look at Hartspring’s body. Was the man alive? If he was, Michael wanted to be long gone before he woke up. Michael could see no way to get free. He swore long and hard under his breath, his frantic attempts to wrench his arms free only making bruised muscles protest in pain.

  He swore some more when the side hatch opened. The sound of cannon fire and explosions flooded in. A head sporting a bloodstained field dressing appeared. “Anyone alive in here?” it shouted over the racket.

  It was Corporal Haditha. “Just me, I think,” Michael called up. “Rest are either dead or unconscious.”

  “Hold on.” Haditha’s feet replaced his head. The marine lowered himself. He looked around. “Kraa!” he hissed. “What a fucking mess.”

  “Can you get me out before this thing goes up?”

  “It won’t,” Haditha said. He was already checking for survivors. “I’ve shut everything down.” He paused, turning to Michael. “Besides, why would I help you? What I should do is blow your fucking head off, you piece of Fed crap.”

  Hope vanished, replaced not by fear but by anger. “You think this is what I want?” Michael shouted. “It’s not. I just want you fucking Hammers to stop killing each other and to leave the rest of us alone.” His head slumped back. “I don’t care what you do,” he muttered, closing his eyes. And he didn’t. He had given all he could; he had nothing left.

  Haditha worked his way over to Michael. “You think I’m just another stupid Hammer, don’t you?”

  “Piss off,” Michael muttered. “If you don’t kill me now, that son of a bitch Hartspring will, so what do I care?”

  “Believe me, nothing would make me happier than to kill you.”

  “So do it.”

  Haditha sighed. “No,” he said. “I won’t. You can give me a hand to see who’s alive, and then I don’t give a shit what you do. This fucking war’s over-” They both flinched as a second explosion punched the wrecked APC bodily to one side. “-and there’s the proof. I never thought I’d see the day the NRA would be bombing the shit out of McNair. But today’s the day, and it is. Now shut up and let me get you out of there.”

  It was the work of only seconds for Haditha to cut away the restraints. “That’s it,” the marine said. He threw off the safety harness that had kept Michael alive. “Now help me see who’s still breathing. You can start with your friend, the colonel. I’ll take the humans.”

  Michael wanted to kiss the man. Instead he grabbed a medical kit off the bulkhead. He pushed past Haditha to where Hartspring lay, moaning softly. For an instant, Michael’s hands were around the man’s throat, but sense prevailed, and he let his hands fall away.

  Hartspring’s eyes opened. He peered up at Michael. “Couldn’t do it, then?” he croaked. “You Feds always were piss weak.”

  Michael put his mouth to Hartspring’s ear. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, “it’s only a postponement. I need you.”

  He was wasting his time. The man had slipped back into unconsciousness, so Michael turn
ed his attention to the rest of the survivors, though not before relieving Hartspring of his pistol.

  Fifteen minutes later, he and Haditha had done what they could. It wasn’t much. Only one of the marines was conscious; the rest were either dead or so severely wounded that they would be if they did not get medical attention soon. Michael did not fancy their chances. By the sound of it, the NRA had launched a full-scale assault on McNair. The noise was incredible, the hull of the APC shaken repeatedly by near misses, its hull battered by a relentless shower of shrapnel and wayward gun and cannon fire.

  “I think we’ve done all we can,” he said to Haditha, “but these guys need help and fast.”

  “I know,” the marine said, rubbing his face with a bloody hand. “I’ve radioed for the medics, but Kraa knows when they’ll get here.”

  “What now?”

  “Up to you.” Haditha waved a hand at the hatch. “It’s not too good out there, so I’m not going anywhere. This is the safest place to be right now.”

  “I can go?” Michael asked.

  “If you want to. I don’t give a shit.”

  “But I do,” a voice said from the front of the APC.

  Michael and Haditha swung around to find themselves looking down the barrel of an assault rifle held in the wavering hands of Colonel Hartspring. Michael cursed his own stupidity; he’d assumed that Hartspring was too badly wounded to pose a threat.

  “Now, Corporal Haditha,” Hartspring went on, his voice weak, “I will give you an order, and if you do not obey me, I will shoot you. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Haditha replied.

  “Find some flexicuffs and make sure that little shit can’t go anywhere.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You don’t have to do this, Corporal,” Michael hissed.

  “Shut up,” Haditha snapped, rummaging through the DocSec troopers’ jumpsuits. “Bear with me, Colonel,” he said, moving away from Michael. “I need to get cable ties from the spares-”

  Haditha moved so fast that it was all over before Michael even realized what was happening. As if by magic, a stun pistol appeared in his hand, and he shot Hartspring right in the chest. The shock dropped the colonel into a trembling, shaking heap, his face a rictus of pain before his head went back and he passed out. “Fucking piece of DocSec garbage,” Haditha said. He scrambled forward to take the gun from Hartspring’s hand. “I think you’d best go,” he said to Michael.

  “I will, but I’m taking Hartspring with me. I need him to get me a meeting with Chief Councillor Polk.”

  “Polk?” Haditha’s eyes flared in surprise. “You’re joking.”

  “No, I’m not. Now, help me get the dirtbag out of here.”

  “I hope he breaks his fucking neck,” Haditha muttered as they manhandled Hartspring’s limp and unresponsive body up to the hatch and pushed him out.

  “He’ll live,” Michael said, grabbing a rifle and a pistol before scavenging everything else he might need and jamming it all into a pack. “People like that always do. Right, I’m off. I’ll see you.”

  “I hope not. You’re too dangerous to be around.”

  Michael grinned. “True. Look after yourself, Corporal Haditha.”

  Ignoring the inevitable complaints from his badly abused body, he climbed out of the hatch and dropped down to land beside Hartspring’s unconscious form. He looked around. “Holy shit!” he whispered. He was in a scene from hell. The road was littered with the shattered remnants of Hartspring’s convoy. The vehicles had been ripped apart; now their carcasses burned fiercely, sending thick clouds of acrid black smoke boiling skyward. Only one was still recognizable as an ATV. Its snout was buried under the rubble of a collapsed building. Its occupants, shocked and dazed, had taken what cover they could beside the wreck. A marine bent over one of the survivors, lurid green woundfoam on his hands as he struggled to deal with an ugly gore-spattered chest wound. Intent on his work, he ignored Michael.

  Spurred on by a wayward bomb that ripped the street apart only a hundred meters away, Michael slung the rifle across his back. Stripping Hartspring of his personal comm, he took the man by the collar. With every last grain of energy he possessed, he dragged the colonel’s dead weight away, then down a side street and into the dubious safety of a half-collapsed office block. The effort was almost too much. Dropping Hartspring, he collapsed. His lungs heaved, and his heart pounded; he could only lie there, oblivious to the battle raging outside.

  “This won’t do,” Michael said out loud, forcing himself to sit up. “This won’t do at all.”

  Ferreting around inside his pack, he found the medical kit. Inside was what he was looking for: a blister pack of autoject syringes marked in red with the words “CAUTION: EMERGENCY USE ONLY. MORE THAN 1 DOSE PER DAY MAY KILL.”

  “One dose per day? Well, screw that,” Michael said. He broke three out. Taking one, he smacked it into his arm. In an instant, an unholy cocktail of ampakine-derived stimulants and painkillers flooded his system. A tsunami of energy and exhilaration flushed the fatigue and pain out of his body. He turned his attention to Hartspring. Working fast, he propped the man up against the wall, flexicuffed him, and ripped the sleeve of his black jumpsuit off. He drove first one and then a second autoject home.

  For a moment Michael thought that he’d overdone it, that the drugs had killed Hartspring. The colonel lay motionless. Then, to Michael’s relief, his eyes opened. He looked around in wild confusion before his body shuddered upright, quivering and shaking.

  “What the hell did you just do to me?’ Hartspring asked, his voice firming as the drugs took hold, eyes now alert but wary.

  “I smacked two of these babies into you,” Michael said, waving an empty autoject.

  “Kraa! No wonder I feel so good.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” Michael said. “Now it’s time to talk about how you’re going to help me.”

  “Hah!” Hartspring snorted his derision. “Me? Help you?” he said with a sneer. “Why would I do that?”

  “How about this?” Michael raised the laser pistol and fired into Hartspring’s shin, the sharp, metallic crack of the hair-thin laser pulse loud even over the noise of the battle raging outside. “Will that do for a reason?” he said.

  Hartspring did not flinch. “You’re wasting your time,” he said. “I didn’t even feel that.”

  Michael swore under his breath; he should have known Hartspring’s drug-laden system would absorb the shot without complaint. “Okay, then. Let’s try this.” Michael shot Hartspring again, this time in the stomach, low down and to one side. “I don’t suppose you felt that, either,” he went on. “Now, I’m no doctor, but my guess is you’ll be dead inside six hours if I don’t get you to a hospital. And if not dead, then pretty close to it … and in agony as those drugs wear off.”

  Fear flickered in Hartspring’s eyes. “What do you want?” he said.

  “I want you to set up a meeting with Polk for me.”

  Hartspring stared at Michael in open disbelief. “Polk?” he said. He shook his head. “You’re kidding. Those Kraa-damned heretics are tearing McNair apart, and you want me to set up a meeting with Polk? Dream on, sonny boy. I can’t do that.”

  Michael shot Hartspring in the stomach again. Hartspring looked down in disbelief at the tiny smoking hole punched through his black jumpsuit.

  “How’re your guts going?” Michael said. “Not too good, I’d say. I think I’ll try for the liver next time. You’d better hope I don’t hit one of those big blood vessels, because you won’t have six hours left if I do. Hell, you might not even have one. Now, will you help me or not?”

  Desperation joined fear in Hartspring’s eyes. “It’s not possible,” he said.

  “That’s crap. Polk wants me real bad, remember?”

  “Not anymore. Please believe me. The man’s paranoid about security. He won’t let you get anywhere near him, and even if he did, what would be the point?”

  A tendril of doubt slipped
into his mind. Let it go, it whispered. Polk’s not worth it. Michael stomped down hard on the slender thread. This was not the time for second thoughts, he told himself. A promise was a promise, and if he didn’t kill Polk, the man would get away. Besides, Polk would want to see him; he too was obsessed by thoughts of revenge, and that was the lever Hartspring would use.

  “This is what we’re going to do,” Michael said. He tossed Hartspring’s personal comm over. “Call the man. Tell him that you’re bringing me in. Let’s start with that, and we’ll see how it goes. Come on, Colonel. Time’s running out, and don’t try anything stupid or the next shot will be through your throat.”

  “Okay, okay,” Hartspring said. He fiddled with the comm, then put it to his ear. Primitive, Michael thought. There was a long pause. “Polk’s not answering. Nobody from his office is answering. He’s gone.”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Michael shouted. “So where is the bastard?”

  “No idea. Probably off-planet by now if he’s got any sense.”

  “Get back on your comm and find out where he is or I’ll leave you here to rot. Do it! Now!”

  “How am I going to do that? It’s chaos out there.”

  What was left of Michael’s self-control vanished. Without a second’s consideration, he shot Hartspring in the gut a third time. “I don’t care. Just do it,” he said. He ignored the man’s whimpering protests.

  “Polk was last seen in his office around midday,” Hartspring said ten minutes later. “After that, nobody’s seen or heard from him. I’m sorry; that’s the best I can do. Get me to a hospital, now! For Kraa’s sake.”

  “You’re lying. He’s there, isn’t he?”

  “Maybe, but I don’t think so,” Hartspring bleated. His face was twisted with pain. “The NRA attacked the Supreme Council complex this morning; the place is a ruin, and the Hammer of Kraa is finished. Why would he still be there?”

  This is not good, Michael thought, angry and frustrated. What the hell do I do now?