by Jay Allan
You’re running the battalion now, he thought, scolding himself, not your company. You should have gone through the company commanders, not direct on the open com. The other captains had almost certainly already ordered their platoons into position—he could only confuse things by micromanaging. You’ve got good people under you, he reminded himself forcefully … let them do their damned jobs.
The battalion had dropped behind enemy lines and seized the high ground south of the capital city of Tamiar, a high risk operation, but one with a huge potential payoff. Persis was a must-hold for the Caliphate … and the planet’s capital was the logistical center of the entire defensive effort. By threatening Tamiar and cutting its supply lines to the Caliphate field forces, the Marines disrupted the planetwide defense network and seized the initiative. But it was a dangerous move, a knife’s edge maneuver that could easily end in disaster. The battalion was deep in enemy territory, cut off far from any support. Holm knew his people were on their own.
The rest of 2nd Brigade was going to drive toward the battalion from the main Alliance positions to the north, hopefully taking advantage of the enemy’s disorder to slice deeply into the defensive lines. If the plan held, the two forces would link up on day fifteen, cutting the enemy army in two and opening the way for a combined advance on the capital.
Nothing had gone according to plan yet, though. The landing had been a surprise, and the enemy response was late and largely ineffective. Only three landers were hit coming in, but one of them was Major Wheeler’s. The battalion lost its CO before the first Marine hit ground.
Captain Jones was next. His company landed first, and they immediately ran into a small enemy strongpoint. They took it out, but not before they suffered half a dozen casualties … including Jones. That put Holm in overall command before his boat even landed, and no Marine considered it a good omen when a mission lost two commanders in less than twenty minutes.
Holm was a veteran captain, but running a battalion was a big jump up in complexity from commanding a company. Especially when that battalion was on its own, the centerpiece of a difficult and dangerous operation deep in enemy territory.
Holm could hear the sound of his heavy breathing echoing loudly in his helmet. The pounding of his heart was forceful too, and it rattled in his ears. He’d known, theoretically at least, that he was third in command. Certainly, the possibility of inheriting the battalion was something he’d considered. Marines took losses, after all, sometimes very heavy ones. But he wasn’t prepared for it to happen less than 15 minutes in. Now he had 700 Marines, an entire reinforced assault battalion, shaken by the command losses they’d suffered and looking to him for leadership.
“Captain Clinton, I want your autocannons up and ready to fire in six-zero seconds.” Holm was trying to focus on his new role, shoving the doubts and uncertainty into the back of his mind. He had no time for them now, no time to wonder if he could handle the job that had landed on his back. He was in command now, and that was all that mattered.
He was getting there … slowly the training, the experience started to take over. His first priority was setting up a strong defense. When the enemy high command realized they had an entire reinforced battalion less than five klicks from Tamiar they were going to throw everything they could scrape up at Holm’s people, even if only to pin them down, prevent them from attacking the capital. “Get your mortar teams and rocket launchers situated in good spots within your coverage area. We had some landers come down in the valley, and we need to cover those teams while they move into position.” Clinton’s company had come down closest to the top of the ridge, and Holm wanted them ready for action ASAP. “You know we need to be careful with supplies, so I want those guns where every shot will count.”
“Yes sir.” Clinton’s commission was just ten days younger than Holms’, but there wasn’t a trace of resentment or doubt in his voice. Tom Clinton had known and respected Elias Holm for years, and he didn’t have the slightest resentment about following the barely-senior captain’s orders. Part of him was even grateful the crushing burden had fallen on Holm and not him. “I’m on it.”
Holm looked up at his visor display. He was about to toggle the small control near his left thumb when he remembered the newest suit upgrade. “Nate, display local tactical map. Radius, 10 klicks from current position.” The suit AIs were something new, installed right before the invasion was launched. Battlegroup Persis was the first major formation to be equipped with the new computer assistants, though only the officers and senior non-coms had them. Like most Marines, Holm tended to be a little reactionary, and he had a modest resistance to change. He hadn’t decided exactly what he thought of the thing yet. He was still uncomfortable with it, but he had to grudgingly admit it was a big convenience.
The officers were encouraged to give the new units names. Holm had always been a history buff, and he tagged his AI after an ancient general, Nathaniel Greene … though he’d almost immediately taken to abbreviating it to Nate. Nathaniel was more of a mouthful than he wanted to deal with in the heat of combat.
The historical Greene had commanded a largely outmatched force that lost every battle it fought … but won the campaign anyway. Holm, never a traditional thinker, always found that to be a particularly compelling example of “out of the box” thinking and true generalship. His admiration only grew after he went to the Academy and replaced the partial and heavily fictionalized official histories with the actual ones.
The tech who installed the device had told Holm it was a “quasi-sentient artificial intelligence.” Holm wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, either in practical or philosophical terms. He supposed it depended on how “quasi” they meant. So far the thing seemed almost human to Holm, not much different than speaking with another person. Except, of course, Nathaniel had access to petabytes of data and could do a lot more things at once than Holm or any of his Marines could.
“Displaying tactical map, captain.” Nathaniel had an unremarkable voice, calm and professional. “I have highlighted enemy force concentrations in red and 3rd Battalion’s positions in blue. There is activity consistent with imminent movement in the two locations flashing red.”
Holm had only asked for the map, but Nate’s analysis was spot on, and the added notations were highly intuitive. Maybe this contraption is a good thing after all, he thought.
“Nate, I want you to store all available tactical data from the satcom transmissions while they’re active. The Alliance navy had launched a surprise attack, seizing total control over the planet’s orbital space, a necessary prerequisite to executing the landing. While Holm’s forces were on their way down, the ships of the fleet deployed a network of intel satellites around the planet and destroyed the enemy’s own surveillance assets. The invasion force would have its eyes, and the enemy would be partially blinded and restricted in long range com … but only as long as the Alliance controlled orbital space.
“Yes, Captain Holm.” The AI’s voice was changing slightly, almost imperceptibly. Holm had heard that the units were designed to develop personalities specifically attuned to the officers they served. Supposedly that had caused some unpredictable results during the test phase, though none of that data had been officially released yet. Persis was the first real deployment of the devices, so there was no feedback from actual field use yet.
Holm wondered if the fleet units could hold until the end of the operation. The entire campaign had been a seesaw affair in space, with the arrival of each fresh squadron tipping the balance one way or another. If the Caliphate navy did return in force and drive the Alliance ships away from the planet, Holm would lose those satellites … and it would be the enemy who had the better intel. He intended to get the most he could out of his com advantage … as long as he had it.
“Captain Holm…”—Clinton again, sounding a little more serious—“ … we’ve got bogeys heading our way, sir.”
Holm’s eyes were angled up, watching on his own tactical display. �
��I see that, captain.” Nate was already filling in details in the readout alongside the display. It was some kind of militia, probably from the Tamiar garrison … third line troops that had no place assaulting an elite Marine battalion. “Looks like militia, captain. I think these people need a quick reminder about who they are facing.”
“Yes, sir.” Clinton’s voice took on a vaguely feral tone. “I agree.”
“You may open fire when ready, captain.” Holm grinned. These part-timers would run as soon as Clinton’s autocannons opened up, he was sure of that. His smile didn’t hold, though. Chasing away militia is one thing, he thought, but there are Janissaries out there too. The Caliphate’s elite slave-soldiers were trained from childhood, raised in a dedicated warrior culture. They had no families, no life outside their corps. They were feared across human space, just as the Alliance Marines were. The two forces were bitter rivals, and a bloodbath was almost inevitable whenever they met … and they were certain to meet on Persis.
Holm stared out across the valley below. He’d faced the Janissaries before, many times, and his Marines had paid a huge price in blood in each encounter. He wouldn’t admit the Janissaries were as good as the Corps; no Marine would. But he knew they were close, very close. And they were out there somewhere, waiting to face his forces.
CHAPTER 2
Battlegroup Persis HQ
Northern Continent
Planet Persis—Iota Persi II
Day One
“The landings appear to have been successful, sir. Force Hammer is on the ground, and losses are well within the most optimistic range of estimates.” Captain Kell stood at attention in front of the general, but there was something in his voice … a hitch, a hesitancy to continue.
“Viper” Worthington sat quietly. He stared out from behind a makeshift desk, nothing more than an old sheet of plasti-steel held up by two plastic shipping crates. He wore a snarled frown on his face, an expression his officers had come to know well. “What is it, captain? Let’s not waste each other’s time, shall we?” Worthington’s tone was sharp, impatient. The general was legendary for going through aides, but Kell had weathered the storm far longer than anyone who’d come before. He was started to get his own reputation … as the aide Viper Worthington couldn’t break.
“Well, general…”—Kell cleared his throat—“ … Major Wheeler was killed when his ship was destroyed during the landing.” No aide liked to report that the commander of a vital mission had been killed five minutes into the operation. But Kell wasn’t done. “And Captain Jones was wounded assaulting an enemy strong point.” Kell paused, eyes cast down as he did. “They tried to get evac down to him, but there wasn’t time. He lived for a few minutes, but the wounds were too severe. We just got the report of his death.”
Worthington let out a long breath. Losing two commanders so quickly was damned bad luck. He hoped it wasn’t a sign of things to come. “OK,” he finally muttered. He paused again for a few long seconds. “That puts Captain Holm in command.” He nodded slowly. “Elias is a good man. He can do the job.” Though it’s a lot for a young officer to handle, he thought, especially in a situation like this.
“Status report on Anvil?” He abruptly changed the subject. Worthington wasn’t a man to dwell on things he couldn’t change. The landings were done and Elias Holm was in command, and that was that. There was nothing he could do to help Holm now, so he’d just have to proceed on the assumption that the young captain could handle the burden fate had handed him. In the end, Worthington knew he had to have faith in his people. Besides, there was other work to do … things he could do something about.
“Colonel Samuels reports the first wave is ready to go.” Kell didn’t like Rafael Samuels, and his voice changed as he spoke, a hint of disdain working its way in despite his efforts to hold it back.
“What is it, Jon?” Worthington caught the change. He looked up at Kell, staring at the young aide.
“It’s nothing, sir.” Kell stood at rigid attention, clearly uncomfortable.
“Don’t waste my time, Tom.” Worthington didn’t use first names often, but he was asking his aide to speak freely about a superior officer, always a difficult position for a young captain. Anything that made Kell feel less formal would make that easier. “Do you have doubts about General Samuels?”
Kell felt like his body was melting under Worthington’s withering gaze. “Sir, it is not my place to offer…”
“I’m making it your place,” Worthington snapped, and his tone made it clear he expected an answer. “I want honesty, captain. Speak freely.”
It was nothing Kell could easily put into words. He just didn’t trust Samuels, something he rarely felt about another Marine. It wasn’t his place to criticize Worthington’s command choices, but the sour tone in his voice had given him up, and now the general wanted to know. “Sir…”—Kell was still uncomfortable with the conversation—“ … I have nothing specific to report. I just don’t like Colonel Samuels.” He hesitated again. “I don’t trust him, sir. He seems more concerned about his image and reputation than the men and women under his command.”
Worthington sighed quietly, resisting the urge to nod in agreement. He concurred completely with his aide’s assessment, but it wasn’t going to help anyone for him to admit that. Samuels wasn’t his choice for a second-in-command, not by a long shot. Worthington wouldn’t have assigned him to the campaign at all if he’d had the choice. But he’d barely gotten the approval for Hammer and Anvil as it was, and he’d had to make concessions. Rafael Samuels might not be his choice as one of the best and brightest officers in the Corps, but he was a first rate kiss ass when it came to massaging the brass and the political bosses on Earth. There’s more politician than Marine in that one, Worthington thought. Samuels had come along with the approval for the operation, and there was nothing he could do about that. Charles Worthington was generally considered to be the foulest-tempered human being in all of mankind’s domains, but he was a Marine above all. When the Commandant gave him an order he might argue once or twice, but then he followed it … or died trying.
“Well, Captain Kell, the colonel is commanding the Anvil forces, so let’s all make the best of it, shall we?” His tone softened considerably.
“Yes, sir.” Kell cleared his throat. “Of course, sir.”
“Now, would you kindly contact the good colonel and ask him when the rest of Anvil will be ready to move?” Worthington’s started at a normal volume, but it built up with each word until it became a small force of nature blasting its way through headquarters. “And if that answer isn’t less than one hour from now, you tell him I will come up there myself and rip the backside of his armor off … ’cause his ass will be mine.”
“Yes, sir.” Kell imagined the turmoil in Worthington’s med unit when his temper went off the rails like that. Heart rate, blood pressure … it all had to zoom off the charts. He wondered how the general’s new AI was handling it … and what world-class profanities had already been hurled its way.
Worthington sat and watched Kell walk swiftly through the portable structure’s narrow doorway. No, he thought, I don’t trust Samuels either, captain … but he should be able to handle Anvil. He shook his head. “It’s Holm who’s got the hard road,” he whispered softly to himself. “He’s the one I’m worried about.” Worthington had extensively briefed Major Wheeler the day before the operation, but it hadn’t been Wheeler’s fate to command on the ground. Now Elias Holm shouldered that burden. Success or failure, the survival of 700 combat Marines … and possibly victory or defeat on Persis, even in the entire war. All on the shoulders of a 27-year old Marine captain.
The op was designed to end the war, but it was nothing more than a well-devised gamble. Maybe Holm’s people would break through and hook up with the Anvil forces in time … or maybe they’d be overwhelmed and destroyed before they got close to Samuel’s relief columns. War was all calculation and planning … until it wasn’t. Then it was guts and dete
rmination. And luck.
He stared at the large ‘pad on his desk, full of maps and troop dispositions. In the end, he thought, it all comes down to hoping for the best. Once, he’d been full of cockiness, inside and out, sure he could do anything. That was gone now, lost with the other vestiges of his youth, though the image of Viper Worthington remained the same. The invincible warrior, the Marines’ relentless combat leader. It was theatrics now, mostly, an iron image he portrayed, while inside he was thinking about the men and women living and dying on his decisions. That’s a responsibility men were never intended to endure for so long, he thought grimly. In the end it is caustic, corrosive … it eats a man up from the inside until all he can see are the pale, dead faces staring back at him.
The invincible Viper Worthington. It was an image he’d worked hard to create, one that spread confidence in his Marines … and fear in his enemies. But Charles Everett Worthington didn’t feel invincible. He felt old.
CHAPTER 3
Yellow Sand Valley
Northern Continent
Planet Persis—Iota Persi II
Day Three
“What a shithole this place is.” Sergeant Rancik was looking down at his boots, caked with the bilious mustard-colored mud they’d been trudging through for a second straight day. “This fucking dirt is like paste or something.”
“It’s sand, sergeant.”
“What?” Rancik hadn’t really expected a response, especially not from the newest snot-nosed puppy recruit in the platoon.
Danny Burke was marching just behind Rancik, exactly where the veteran squad leader had told his brand new cherry private to stay. “It’s sand, sergeant.” Burke’s voice was irritatingly cheerful, as usual. “Sand is finely ground rock, but dirt also…”