by Jay Allan
He glanced down at the tray, considering taking one of the sandwiches. He’d refused to give them the satisfaction of eating anything they sent him, but now he started to wonder if he should keep his strength up. If he did manage to get out of the cell, he didn’t know what he’d have to do. He had to be ready for anything, including fighting his way out. He was just reaching down to grab the top sandwich when he heard it … a sound he’d know anywhere. Marine assault rifles firing.
He scanned the room quickly, instinctively, searching for anything he could use as a weapon. There was nothing useful on the tray, just a set of soft, pliable plastic utensils. He might poke someone in the eye with them, but that was the extent of their combat potential. Alliance Intelligence had its faults, but the organization had enormous expertise at handling prisoners. It was very unlikely he’d find anything that could be weaponized in a meaningful way. He grabbed the tray itself, knocking the food all over the floor. It was light plastic, not very useful as a club. But it was all he had. He leapt up and stood alongside the door, waiting, ready to spring at whoever came through.
There was more fire, distant at first and then closer … in the anteroom just beyond his door. “General Worthington, sir. Get away from the door. Take cover in there.”
The voices were muffled by the heavy door, but he understood every word, and his heart leapt. They were Marines. He was sure of it. His Marines. He moved away from the door, ducking quickly down below the small bunk. He was crouched low, his head tucked down between his arms. The training had been decades before, but he remembered it. At least the important parts. He listened to his heart pounding, each beat reverberating loudly in his ears. The delay seemed like an eternity, though he knew it was only a few seconds. Finally, there was a loud crack, and the door came flying out of its frame, blown inward by the controlled blast. It smashed into the opposite wall with an earsplitting crash. An instant later, armored figures poured inside. One of them looked down at him as he raised his head up and returned the stare. “We’re here to get you out, general. Come with us, sir.” The armored Marine extended a steel-gloved hand.
Worthington pulled himself up to his feet, grabbing ahold of the proffered arm. He stared at the looming figures, huge and imposing in their dark gray fighting suits, assault rifles extended, smelling faintly of ozone from recent use. He could see through the door at an angle. His field of view was poor and incomplete, but he could make out at least two bodies, both wearing the dark brown uniforms of Alliance Intelligence guards. Whatever was going on, he knew his Marines had acted on their own. There was going to be hell to pay, he was certain of that. But none of that made a bit of difference now … they had more important things to do.
He stared at the leader of the group, the Marine who had helped him to his feet. He’d thought the voice was familiar through the heavy door, but he hadn’t been able to make it out. Now it was crystal clear. He’d know it anywhere.
“Colonel Thomas, I’ve never been so glad to see your ugly face before.”
CHAPTER 12
Anvil Force Perimeter
Yellow Sand Valley
Northern Continent
Planet Persis—Iota Persi II
Day Thirteen—Morning
The fire was thick all along the line. They’d been fighting nonstop for three days, and there was no sign of a letup. The enemy had been throwing fresh assaults at them every few hours. Holm’s forces had over 200 casualties, and the toll kept growing. But they were holding everywhere. All along the perimeter, Elias Holm had been wherever the fighting was heaviest, anyplace his Marines were wavering. He’d shifted his scant reserves wherever they were most needed, and he’d stood in the line with a battered platoon, firing his assault rifle along with theirs.
Everywhere Holm went, Danny Burke followed. Lieutenant Masur had been hit two days before. He was alive, but the shell took one of his legs clean off and only left part of the second one. He was in the field hospital, stabilized but still in critical condition. He’d be a candidate for the new regeneration process … a medical miracle that would allow him to grow two new limbs from his own DNA. Regeneration would give him the chance to return to the colors as good as new, but the Marine hospital on Armstrong was the only place off Earth equipped to do regens. Armstrong was lightyears away, and Masur was stuck on Persis, half-conscious on painkillers and sedatives, waiting to see if his brethren won the battle … or if he’d die in a POW camp.
Burke had convinced Holm to let him fill in for Masur. Holm had doubted the idea at first. His impression of Burke was positive, but he wasn’t sure any rookie could be up to the job. He considered other options, but he finally decided he couldn’t afford to pull even a single veteran officer from the line. He needed his people where they were, all of them. So the cherry private, last survivor of his squad, became a makeshift aide, carrying out Holm’s orders, moving from one beleaguered section of the line to another. Burke found courage and resourcefulness he’d never imagined he possessed, and he stood firm wherever Holm’s orders took him, running without hesitation from one meatgrinder to another. Not a doubt, not a shred of fear interfered with his executing Holm’s orders. He was afraid, certainly, as every Marine on Persis was, but it didn’t affect his duty, not one iota.
The fighting along the front lines was brutal. The open plain had seemed to be a death trap, devoid of natural cover. But the Marines quickly adapted, benefiting from Holm’s earlier paranoia. Instead of celebrating peace, they had been digging makeshift foxholes, later expanding those scratchings into a legitimate network of trenches. If the enemy had expected to overwhelm Holm’s Marines in the open country, they had gotten a nasty surprise. The attackers faced one strongpoint after another, hastily built but powerful nevertheless. Their attacks broke on the Marine defenses, and they lost hundreds to the defenders’ withering fire. There were mounds of enemy dead lying in front of the trenchlines, the detritus of a dozen failed assaults. The Marines had taken heavy casualties too, but they had inflicted vastly greater losses on the enemy. The Caliphate line troops and the Persis levies were no match for the Alliance’s Marines, and it showed. Mathematics would ultimately have its say—Holm knew that—but so far the skill and tenacity of the Alliance’s elite shock troops had been enough to hold back the overwhelming numbers of the enemy.
“Captain, we’re getting reports from all along the line.” The comlink was still staticky, and Burke’s voice was hoarse from shouting. The enemy had continued with the atmospheric detonations every few hours. Line of sight ground to ground communications were only marginally affected, but all contact between Force Hammer and the Alliance fleet had been interdicted without a break. The enemy clearly had no intention of allowing Holm to reach the ships in orbit … or the fleet to contact the Marines on the ground. “It’s very strange, sir.” He paused, only for an instant. “The attack forces are withdrawing.”
Holm’s head snapped around, a natural gesture, but a relatively pointless one when buttoned up in armor and communicating by comlink. “They’re pulling back?” There was an edge to his voice. This was unexpected.
“Yes sir.” Burke’s voice was high-pitched. He was just as surprised as Holm. “I’ve confirmed it with all commanders, sir. They are withdrawing everywhere. All along the perimeter.”
Holm was silent. He felt a tightness in his chest, a constriction in his stomach. Something was wrong, very wrong. The enemy had been attacking relentlessly for more than two days. His people couldn’t take much more … they’d been pushed to the brink. Why pull back now? It didn’t make any sense. Or did it?
“Sir, we’re getting reports of smoke shells landing in front of our positions.” Burke sounded confused. The rookie had never encountered the ordnance the Marines called smoke. But Holm had.
Fuck, he thought angrily. I should have known; I should have been ready for this. Smoke was an interdiction system … a radioactive chemical steam seeded with tiny metallic particles. It blocked line of sight and interfered wi
th virtually all scanning technology … providing perfect cover for an attacker. It was used by one corps of shock troops, one of the best and most feared in human space.
“Prepare to receive Janissaries.” Holm’s voice was like ice. The Caliphate’s Janissaries were the Marines’ most hated enemy, the only troops in space who laid claim to being their equals. No Marine would admit the Janissaries could beat them in a straight up fight. But this was far from an even matchup. Holm’s people were exhausted and shot to pieces … and they’d be running low on ordnance soon too. The Janissaries were fresh, and Holm expected them to outnumber his people too. He’d known there were Janissaries on Persis, but they hadn’t shown themselves. No matter how many losses the Marines inflicted on the defenders, the Janissaries remained inactive, hidden somewhere the Alliance scanners couldn’t penetrate. He’d finally begun to hope the reports had been wrong, that there were none of the Caliphate’s elite soldiers onplanet. Now he knew … the intel had been right all along. Now they were coming. And his battered Marines had to dig up the strength to hold them off. Somehow.
-o0o-
“Get your Goddamned heads down now!” Sergeant Tremont crouched behind the berm of the hastily-built trench firing his assault rifle into the billowing cloud of steam ahead. He couldn’t see anything more than half a meter in—and his scanner was giving him nothing but incomprehensible garbage—but he knew the Janissaries were there. He turned his head left then right, checking to make sure his orders were being followed. The Marines were edgy, even more than they had been. A hopeless fight was one thing, but now the Janissaries were coming. Now it was more than just a fight to the death; it was a matter of honor. They carried the pride of the Corps with them.
He didn’t know where the attackers were in that swirling green mass of toxic steam, but he wasn’t about to let them get through unscathed. “I want those clouds bracketed with fire.” His voice was raw, edgy. “They’re in there somewhere, so let’s take ‘em down.”
The steam was a terror weapon as much as a camouflage system. It didn’t block projectiles, and the Janissaries inside the clouds could suffer considerable losses from fire, especially since they tended to favor mass attacks. Their tactics were highly effective at intimidating their enemies, filling them with fear as they waited for the attacking masses to emerge from the sickly green clouds. It worked well against many of their adversaries, already half beaten by the legend of the Caliphate’s elite slave-soldiers. Against many adversaries, but not the Marines.
Tremont’s section consisted of veterans. They’d all faced the Janissaries before, and they’d be damned if they were going to let a bunch of theatrics get to them. They stood firm, meticulously crisscrossing the clouds with fire, working to maximize the casualties they inflicted. It was frustrating not being able to see what damage you were doing, but the discipline of the Marines was being buttressed by their rivalry. They might get overwhelmed on Persis, but to a man they’d be damned if they were going to shake in their boots because the Janissaries were coming.
Tremont was focused on the forward edge of the nearest cloud. It was barely 80 meters from the line. When they emerged, the Janissaries would cover that distance in less than ten seconds. Then they’d be in the trenches. Hand to hand combat wasn’t common on the 22nd century battlefield, but it did happen, especially when elite forces clashed. The Janissaries wouldn’t falter … Tremont knew that. And his Marines damned sure weren’t going anywhere.
“Incoming!”
Tremont’s head snapped around. It was Corporal Connors on the com. An instant later he heard the whoomp sound of mortar rounds exploding. The Caliphate mortars were similar to the Alliance’s. They could be highly effective against an unarmored enemy, but troops in modern fighting suits were well protected against anything but a direct hit. The Marines rarely bothered with the weapons except in special situations, but it was all part of the theatrics so central to the Janissary way of war.
“It’s just the enemy’s popguns, people.” Tremont kept his voice slow and calm. “Maintain rifle fire. You can’t see it, but we’re taking these fuckers down while they’re hiding in those clouds throwing water balloons at us.” He glanced at the scanner. The mortar rounds had been mostly ineffectual, as he’d expected. Mostly wasn’t entirely, though. It looked like two of his people had taken minor hits … nothing their suits couldn’t patch up, but a wound didn’t do anything to increase a Marine’s combat effectiveness.
Tremont was snapping another clip into his assault rifle when he saw it. The first Janissary, pushing forward, out of the swirling green mist and into the open, less than 100 meters away. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. Always when I’m reloading, he thought. The enemy soldier was running quickly, heading straight for Tremont, firing away at full auto with his own rifle. Then there was another just behind him … and more to the left and right.
He crouched low, pushing himself forward against the front wall of the trench, his rifle in front of him. He fired at full auto, sweeping the area directly in front of him. The first Janissary went down, struck by at least three projectiles. Then another, stumbling forward, crashing hard into the yellow mud. There were at least a dozen still heading for him, and they’d covered at least half the distance. He aimed at another, letting his guard down for just a second and lifting himself up a few centimeters to get a good shot.
The impact slammed into him hard, knocking him backwards from the edge of the trench. He landed on his back, splashing wet muck all over as he hit the ground. His shoulder was hit. It was a glancing blow, not a serious wound, but it hurt like hell. He struggled to focus, and he held his rifle up with his good arm just as the Janissaries reached the edge of the trench. He was shooting wildly, spraying the whole area with fire. He took out another enemy, maybe two, and then he was hit again. It was worse this time, somewhere in the abdomen. There was pain, then a rush of painkillers and amphetamines. Tremont wasn’t done yet, and his suit would do everything possible to keep him in the fight. He flipped the switch in his right glove, activating his blade. The weapon thrust out from his suit’s arm, an almost impossibly thin shard of iridium, honed to an edge barely a molecule wide.
He thrust himself upward, slashing hard. His extended blade sliced through the leg of the closest Janissary, sending the enemy soldier crashing to the ground. Doug Tremont wasn’t finished … not yet.
CHAPTER 13
Marine Lander A34-V111
Upper Atmosphere
Planet Persis—Iota Persi II
Day Thirteen—Afternoon
The lander bounced around wildly. Worthington was bolted in firmly, but he still felt like he’d go flying off any second. It had been years since the Marines’ celebrated field commander had ridden a first wave landing sled. The first Marines to hit dirt had the roughest ride … the follow up units and headquarters elements came down in larger, more comfortable shuttles. Worthington had never forgotten what a rough ride the front line troops endured, but it was still a shock to re-experience it after so many years.
He was regretting the sandwiches he’d eaten after Thomas’ people had freed him. There’d been no time for intravenous feeding periods or most of the other pre-landing protocols. He’d barely allowed a few minutes for the doc to administer the anti-emetics and other standard injections to the attack force. For the guys who’d celebrated the short-lived peace with greasy pizzas and sloppy burgers, it was just so much bad luck. A number of his officers pleaded for more prep time, but Worthington’s response was simple, and he repeated it to anyone suggesting delay. “There are Marines dying down there Goddammit.” He didn’t think any more needed to be said … and neither did anyone else.
The landing wasn’t as well planned as most of his ops had been … indeed, it had been the most seat of the pants thing he’d ever done. But he was going to get help to his men and women on the surface, whatever it took. Whatever happened, he was resolved those Marines on the surface would not die alone and abandoned.
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br /> The repercussions would be ugly; he knew that much. His career would be over … there wasn’t much doubt of that. Alliance Gov had approved the hateful terms of the peace, and Worthington’s actions were in direct violation of orders from the highest level. Court-martial was almost certain, and a firing squad wasn’t out of the question. He’d escaped from an internment approved by Alliance Gov, left a trail of dead intelligence agents behind, and rallied the Marines on Belleau Wood to follow him on an unauthorized landing, heading right back into the fight on a world they’d just left. His actions, which he considered profoundly justified, threatened the new peace and risked a return to full-scale war. Worthington knew the risks, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t leaving his people behind, no matter what the cost.
The Marines had behaved exactly as he’d expected. He hated involving them in this, but there was no choice. He’d been straight with them all. They were going into another blast furnace, where their deaths were far likelier than a successful rescue. They could end up alone, with no one coming to their aid as they were coming to Holm’s. There was no way to be sure any of the forces on the other ships would follow their lead … or that they’d even be able to now that Alliance Intelligence was alerted. The 300 Marines from Belleau Wood might find themselves trapped and overwhelmed just like the forces they were trying to rescue. And even if they somehow made it back, they’d likely face disciplinary action. Their careers could be destroyed … they might even do time in a penal facility. But none of that mattered. Every one of the 400 Marines on Belleau Wood had volunteered to go. Worthington ended up drawing lots … for the 100 who had to stay behind for lack of landing craft to get them to the surface.