by Jay Allan
Failure, defeat . . . they were bitter. But they wouldn’t last long. Oddly, Danforth could at least take comfort in the fact that he wouldn’t live out the day—he’d make sure of that. He tapped at his side, at the small pistol tucked under his arm. He had no intention of being taken alive, of experiencing whatever humiliation the federals had in store for the top leaders of the rebellion. No, he would die in battle.
He tapped on the pistol again. Or he would take his own life.
“Major Toland, we have rebel forces shouting out that they wish to surrender. The officers in the line are requesting instructions.” A lieutenant had rushed over from the makeshift communications hut to tell Toland in her command tent.
Toland stood stone still. “They already have their instructions. There are no surrenders, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He ran back to the communications tent.
Thornton watched as this all played out. For all of Toland’s composure and lack of hesitation, once the lieutenant had left, she could see the other major slump, just slightly. Thornton knew Toland would never truly consider disregarding her orders, but she wondered—if the commander had the option—if she would accept the surrender anyway.
Would I be doing anything different in her shoes? Would I throw away my career, face court-martial and prison? Or would I do what I’d been commanded to do, and offload the guilt to the man who gave the order?
The scary thing was, she really didn’t know. People found it easy to criticize others, and far more difficult to live up themselves to the standard they projected onto those around them.
So she kept her mouth shut and let Toland do her job.
As if on cue, Toland turned toward Thornton. “We are likely to face some fierce combat, Major. When the rebels realize we aren’t taking prisoners—and that they are completely surrounded—many will panic. But others will gather together, and they will fight even harder, knowing it is to the death.”
“I agree with your analysis, Major. The troops on the front line should move slowly, methodically . . . use their heavy weapons. Trade ammunition expenditure to cut losses.”
“I concur.” Toland nodded. “We will send out a—”
“Major!” It was the lieutenant, running back from the communications tent.
Toland and Thornton both turned toward the voice. The officer was clearly concerned; Thornton thought it sounded close to full-blown panic.
“What is it, Lieutenant?” Toland asked.
“We’re under attack, Major. Enemy forces are hitting us in the rear at two points of impact, along both sides of the main road.”
Toland glanced at Thornton, then back to the lieutenant. “Forces from outside our perimeter?”
“Yes, Major.”
“Perhaps the rebels had a hidden force. Or maybe it’s those damned rangers again.” She turned back toward Thornton. “Whichever it is, our reserves should be sufficient to stabilize the situation. Major Thornton, take the Third and Fourth companies and lead them to the threatened point at once. Take command on the scene and stabilize things.”
Thornton nodded and said, “Yes, Major.” It still tweaked at her a little to take orders from an officer junior to her in seniority—and vastly so in experience—but she was enough of a professional not to let it show.
She turned and moved toward the two companies, snapping orders through the comm for both unit commanders to have their troops ready in one minute. She doubted it was the enemy irregulars—there had been too many reports of their style of fighting at other points along the line, inside the shrinking circle of rebel forces.
So who the hell are we facing?
A rebel detachment was a possibility, but that didn’t seem right either. They had posted scouts pretty far out during the approach, and there was no sign of any enemy forces deployed within several kilometers of the road. And besides, the rebels didn’t have comm.
So how could they have coordinated that kind of operation?
No . . . it’s not the irregulars. It’s not a detachment either—at least, not one from the main force . . . She’d had one other thought, something that she’d been worried about since they’d left Landfall. She had almost mentioned it to Toland, but something kept her from saying it out loud.
She hoped she was wrong . . . because if she wasn’t, she faced a terrible choice, one she’d dreaded in one way or another since she’d arrived to take command of the colonial forces.
And if she was right, two companies of security troopers weren’t going to be even close to enough to prevent a disaster.
CHAPTER 23
WOODS SOUTH OF DOVER VILLAGE
THE BATTLE OF DOVER, FINAL PHASE
FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)
EPSILON ERIDANI II
“Keep firing,” Johnson said over his comm, “we’re not taking prisoners.” He was crouched behind the tree, his assault rifle out in front of him, struggling to follow his own order. It was butchery, all the worse because there was no escape for the rebels. They were completely surrounded.
The slaughter he’d envisioned earlier in the day was happening right before his eyes.
He could hear his squad’s fire slacking off. The rebels’ fire had almost completely ceased on his sector. What was left of the resistance had pulled back, and his people seemed reluctant to shoot down fleeing men and women who had dropped their weapons. He didn’t blame them. But Major Toland wasn’t an officer likely to show pity for soldiers who’d disobeyed her orders . . . and Colonel Semmes was a psychopath, one Johnson had no doubt would line his own soldiers against a wall if they failed to do as he commanded.
He hated doing it, but if it was a choice between the rebels and his own people, he’d do whatever he could to keep his team alive.
“I said keep firing,” he yelled. “This battle’s not going to be over until we take these rebels down. All of them.”
He moved forward, slipping from one piece of cover to the next, taking care not to let his guard down. The enemy in front of him was breaking, but it would only take one rebel hiding behind a tree with a rifle to put him down.
He glanced back. His troopers were reluctantly obeying. He could hear the rate of fire increasing, if marginally.
“Forward, fifty meters.” It was time to move, to chase down the rebels and end this nightmare once and for all.
And start new nightmares, I suppose.
He ran toward another large tree, pacing his troops. He caught a rebel in his line of sight. The man had thrown his rifle aside, and he was running. Johnson pulled up his rifle, training the sights on the target. He paused for an instant, fighting the urge to let the man go. Then he sighed . . . and pulled the trigger.
This has to end . . . now. And if this is the only way . . .
“Squad . . . another fifty meters . . . now.”
Thornton was at the head of her soldiers, all one hundred and eighty of them. She was moving them at the double—the reports coming in suggested the situation on the flank was deteriorating rapidly.
The battle had seemed almost over, a great victory for the taking, one that would end the revolution in a single fell stroke. Though she despised the brutality Semmes had ordered, she knew an early end to the rebellion would save thousands of lives . . . and untold millions in property. But now there was this new threat, and whatever it was, she had to drive it back or there would be no victory.
And there very well might be a disaster.
I just pray it’s not who I think it is . . .
She sped up, moving ahead, the two privates assigned as her escort struggling to keep up with her as she scrambled deftly over rocks and fallen trees. She could hear shooting up ahead, and as she moved farther forward, she began to see federal troops streaming back from the fighting. They were shaken, beaten. She shouted to them, tried to rally them, but they just kept fleeing.
Fucking worthless, she thought about the parade field “soldiers” streaming past her. And then something else: no rebel re
arguard did this.
She tried to deny her fear, but the closer she moved to the fighting, the more convinced she became she was right about what they were facing.
She slipped off her assault rifle and crept farther forward, peering through the trees as she did. She could see movement now, attacking forces coming toward her position. She froze, watching them for a few seconds . . . and suddenly she knew.
She felt cold course through her . . . and a deep regret. This was her moment, the one she’d thought of as she listened to Toland relay Semmes’s no-prisoners order.
It was her time to see how far she would go to obey orders.
She moved back, motioning for her guards to do the same. She had to get back to her soldiers. They would need her now, more than they ever had.
She tapped on her comm as she jogged back toward the two company columns. “All forces, deploy into line. Now! Grab some cover, and prepare to repel attackers. We’re going to hold here at all costs.”
And get ready for the fight of our lives.
“Odds, covering fire. Evens, forward fifty meters.”
Damian stood and watched as Luci Morgan shouted out orders. He knew she’d been a civilian as long as he had, but at the moment she sounded incredibly sharp, as though she’d just come from the barracks.
She’d been the first one he’d gone to, in the middle of the night . . . and Devlin Kerr had been next. He’d made his choice, but he was unsure whether any of the others would join him. But Morgan and Kerr had agreed immediately . . . and Tucker Jones after them.
They’d spread the word, racing through the countryside, rousing every ex-sergeant and retired private within twenty kilometers of Landfall. By morning they’d rallied almost three hundred men and women, combat veterans all—every one of them ready to follow Damian into rebellion. Damian had known he was influential in the veteran community, but he was stunned that no one—not one—refused his call.
The veterans had fallen in just after dawn, and he’d led them on a forced march to Dover, determined to save the revolution before it was too late. Now they were attacking, and the enemy troopers were melting away before the assault.
The enemy forces had been stunned by the attack, just as Damian had planned. He knew enough about soldiers to realize there was nothing as devastating to morale as being attacked from the rear while already engaged . . . especially when it was a surprise.
Damian struggled to hold his focus on the battle, on the movements of the men and women who had followed him there. He was still conflicted, and he wished there had been any way for Haven to avoid revolution. But Semmes’s order had been the last straw. Damian would have willingly obeyed the recall orders if Federal America had found itself at war again, or even if his service had been required in some natural disaster. But trying to force him to take arms against his friends and neighbors? That was too much to endure.
He still hated the idea of firing on other soldiers, men and women serving the same flag he had. If neutrality had been an option, he might very well have hunkered down on the farm and waited for the struggle to exhaust itself. But he knew Semmes wouldn’t accept that. Having issued the recall orders, he would insist on them being obeyed, and he would make an example out of anyone who refused.
Fucking Semmes.
Damian sighed. Semmes was one son of a bitch he didn’t mind fighting. And now that he’d made his decision, he felt a weight lifted as well. Staying out of this fight meant watching Jamie and John Danforth—and a dozen other men and women he called friends—risking their lives. Now, at least, he was here, fighting with them. It might not be enough, but at least he didn’t have to watch from the sidelines as people he cared about died.
“Evens, covering fire. Odds, advance fifty meters.”
Damian was impressed by the volume Luci Morgan could push out of her small frame. He’d known intellectually that his makeshift force wouldn’t have any communications that could penetrate the jamming, but it had still surprised him how difficult it was to coordinate even a small force when orders and reports had to be shouted or delivered by messenger.
Luckily, some of his people had turned out to have impressive lungs.
He moved forward, following behind Morgan’s people. Kerr was doing the same thing on the right, Jones on the left. Altogether, the veterans were attacking on a three-hundred-meter front, driving forward, trying to link up with the rebels trapped in and around Dover. When they did, he would send them in both directions, rolling up the federal line. His force was a small one, and it was a dangerous plan to try to outflank a force perhaps four times as large as yours. But his people would have momentum and superior discipline and training. It would be enough.
It had to be.
He held his rifle in his hands, his eyes panning the woods, looking for targets. He’d been a farmer for four years now, but he could feel his combat instincts reawakening. The memories of past battlefields floated on the edge of his consciousness.
The weapon felt oddly familiar, though it had been stored in a closet these past years. It was Federal America’s regulations that had armed his hastily assembled force. Veterans returning to Earth were disarmed. The Earthside government didn’t like its civilians having weapons . . . and even less trained killers returned from war. But those retiring to colonies were required to keep their arms. It was all part of the plan to leaven the colonial defense forces with a ready reserve of trained soldiers. Now that policy was backfiring.
Almost literally.
“It looks like they’re breaking, sir.” Withers came jogging back from the front lines. “They’re running, Lieutenant . . . all along our frontage.”
“Good,” he said. “Good.” He stared toward the front, pulling out his binoculars and looking forward. He reached out and put his hand on Withers’s arm. “Go back up there, Ben. Jones and Kerr need to detach flank guards. We don’t want the federals on either side moving in on us, taking the assault column in the flanks.” He was sure the two officers would know that, but Damian had always been meticulous on the battlefield, and he didn’t see any advantage in getting careless now.
“Yes, sir.” The aide turned and trotted back, moving quickly despite crouching low as he headed forward.
Damian checked his rifle, a subconscious routine. It was loaded and ready—of course it was. But the confirmation calmed him. He’d hung back long enough to make sure the troops went in as he’d planned. But he had no intention of staying in the rear, not when his comrades were up in the line fighting.
He ran forward, right to the center of the attack, where Luci Morgan’s people were already driving through the enemy lines.
He wasn’t worried about being able to break through. He just hoped his people were in time, that the rebels trapped in the center were still holding out.
I’ll know soon enough, he thought as he ran forward into the maelstrom.
“On me! Everyone on me!” Alexandra Thornton was in the middle of a nightmare. Dozens of federal troops were streaming by, terrified, disregarding all her attempts to stem the rout. She was able to rally perhaps one in ten—a horrible number—but at least enough to help her form a last-ditch line to block the enemy’s relentless advance.
These were no rebels. Not like the others at least. These were combat veterans, and that could only mean one thing: Alpha-2’s retired soldiers, at least some of them, had shed their neutrality and thrown their lots in with the rebels. And she knew the one man who had to be at the center of it all, the only one who could have rallied so many ex-soldiers so quickly. Alpha-2’s most celebrated warrior.
She had scanned the advancing enemy line for any signs of Damian, but so far she’d found nothing. Still, she had no doubt he was out there.
She knew the federal army still had the numbers, but Ward’s sudden appearance was a grave threat. Damian Ward was a gifted tactician. She’d even admit he was better than her. More important, though, he was vastly more capable than Toland or any of the glorified riot police S
emmes had brought with him. Which meant Damian had a decided advantage. The only thing she had going for her was she had numbers . . . or did, in theory. If she could somehow figure out a way to actually get them to fight, they might be able push his forces back.
But she didn’t put a lot of faith in that.
She was a soldier, though, and she had a job. So until she had new orders or was taken out of the battle, she was going to fight. “Take whatever cover you can find.” She screamed to her thin line of soldiers, waving her arms and whipping her head around as she watched them slip behind rocks and fallen trees. “We’ve got reserves on the way, but we’ve got to hold them here. Stay focused, keep your eyes on the woods in front of you. Aimed shots, okay? Spend your shots one at a time.”
She slipped behind a large boulder herself, just as the veterans moved up and their fire began slamming into the trees all around. She peered out of her cover, her eyes moving, looking for enemy soldiers.
These are veterans. Men and women who served on Beta-9 and Ross-154. Far better troops than your own . . .
She stared out, her eyes catching some rustling branches ahead. Her arms whipped around, almost by instinct, bringing her rifle around and firing half a dozen bursts. She couldn’t tell if she’d hit anything, but there was no more movement.
“Major Toland.” She held out her rifle with one hand as she gripped the comm unit in the other one. “Thornton here, Major. We’ve got enemy forces hitting us from behind. I have reason to suspect the attackers are retired veterans. Request immediate reinforcements.”
“Toland here, Major. Are you sure it’s not just a band of rebels caught outside the perimeter?”
Thornton sighed. “No, Major, I can’t be sure, but my gut is telling me they’re more than that. Their movements, their precision—it’s all too practiced. Unless the rebels were hiding a significant reserve of highly skilled troops, this is something different.