by Jay Allan
His comlink crackled to life. “Charles, what the hell is going on?” It was Admiral Clement, his voice barely audible over the growing static.
“I’m going to help my people, Tom.” Worthington’s voice was calm, though he had to yell to be heard over the interference. “Those pigfuckers at Alliance Intelligence bought their peace with the lives of my Marines … and I’m not going to allow that!”
“What are you going to do with 300 Marines?” Clement was pleading with Worthington, his voice thick with concern. “Abort this insanity, and we’ll deal with the situation together. You know you’ll have my full support. If you do this it won’t make any difference. You’ll all die … and you’ll just be tried for mutiny even if you do somehow manage to make it back.” He paused for an instant and added, “Don’t throw your life away, my friend.”
Worthington smiled. Clement was a good man, a friend. “My people don’t have time, Tom.” He spoke simply, matter-of-factly. “It’s no different than you’d do if one of your ships was in trouble … and you know it.”
Clement paused, sighing hard, but not responding.
“If you’ve got anything else to say, old friend, now is the time.” Worthington knew he wouldn’t. Clement had to try to convince him, but deep down the admiral felt the same way. He’d led his ships and people from one murderous fight to another, and cutting them loose, abandoning them to the enemy … it wasn’t in his DNA and more than it was in Worthington’s. “We’re taking as wide and approach as we can, but we’ll be clipping the EMP area in a minute. The ships will make it through, I think, but we’ll probably lose our com channel with the fleet.”
Clement sighed again. “I know I’m not going to change your mind, Charles. I’ve fought alongside your stubborn ass long enough to realize that.” There was a long pause, only the growing static on the line. “So, let’s cut the crap. How can I help?”
Worthington smiled again. He’d always respected Clement, but the crusty old admiral would never know how much that last sentence meant to him. Still, he wasn’t going to drag his friend down with him. “Stay out of it, Tom. You tried to convince me to come back. You did your duty. Now you and your people lay low, stay out of it. I’m not taking you down with me.”
“Bullshit,” Clement roared loudly enough to rattle the speaker in Worthington’s helmet. “We fought a war together, and by God we’re going to finish it that way. And if you tell me again to cower on my bridge while good men die, I’m gonna show you just how an admiral can kick the shit out of an uppity Marine general.”
Worthington paused for a few seconds. He felt a wave of guilt for dragging Clement into the whole mess. He struggled with it briefly then pushed it aside. Tom Clement was his own man. What he did, he did because he knew it was the right thing to do. And nothing would change that. “You’re a good man, Tom. And a good friend.” The static was growing louder. Worthington glanced at the positional display. He was going to lose contact any second. “We need more strength down there, Tom.” He was shouting as loudly as he could, trying to overcome the almost-total interference. “Get the word to the other ships. Tell the rest of my Marines we need them.” There was a loud burst of static and then the line went dead.
CHAPTER 14
Anvil Force Perimeter
Yellow Sand Valley
Northern Continent
Planet Persis—Iota Persi II
Day Thirteen—Late Afternoon
It was over. He knew that much. Tremont was on his back again, two more slugs in his body. His right arm had been hit, a random shot that shattered the bone. There was more pain, but he ignored it. The suit was still pumping him full of drugs, keeping the agony at least moderately under control. His blade was still extended, but the deadly weapon lay half buried in the yellow mud, the arm that had wielded it sprawled uselessly at his side. Even with the nuclear-powered servo-mechanicals of his suit, there was no way to move the obliterated arm.
There were Janissaries all around him, like angels of death floating over his dying body. He could see at least two bringing their rifles around to finish him off. He knew he was looking at his end. He’d been afraid earlier, waiting for the assault to come. But now, lying in the mud, facing the reality of his own death, the fear was gone. There was something else there in its place, regret possibly? He ached for his Marines, for the rest of Third Battalion, abandoned on an alien world, facing almost certain destruction. He couldn’t understand how this had happened … how it had been allowed to happen. How long a fraction of a second can be, he thought, watching his impending death as if it was unfolding in slow motion.
He gritted his teeth, waiting for the pain of the kill shots. At least they would be mercifully quick. Death now was better than a few more hours of life … watching the battalion slowly destroyed. But those shots didn’t come. He saw the shadows looming over him, watched as they moved away … falling, landing in the mud around him. He was groggy, weak. Realization came slowly … figures running down the trench toward him … firing. Marines! His Marines, shooting at his attackers, taking them all down. Saving his life.
“Get that weapon set up, private!” The voice on the com was rough, hoarse. “We’ve got a second wave coming, and we’re gonna need that SAW fire.”
Tremont was wavering on the edge of consciousness as he listened. Mueller, he thought. “Corporal Mueller? Is that you?” His voice was weak, throaty.
“Yes, sergeant. We’re here for you. Just relax … we’ve got things under control.”
That was a lie … Tremont knew that much. But however bad the situation, Mueller’s people had this section of line better defended than he had by himself. Maybe, he thought … maybe they’ll hold. At least for a while. He lay back in the mud and took a deep, painful breath.
Mueller fired off another series of orders. Tremont tried to move his head to see, but he couldn’t do it. Finally, he looked at his display. Mueller had nine Marines, including himself. Less than half the starting strength of his section, Tremont realized grimly. Still, they could put out one hell of a lot of fire. Nine Marines and two SAWs could hold a section of trench for a long time … even against Janissaries. But what were they holding out for? A single battalion, alone on an enemy world, low on supplies and hopelessly outnumbered … what chance did they have?
-o0o-
Burke was crouched low as he shuffled along the back of the small berm. It was a weak defense, desperately put in place. The Janissaries had hit hard in this sector, and they finally drove the Marines back from their trenches. The defenders had held to the last, and the Caliphate’s elite troops paid a heavy blood price to break through. But they had reserves, and the Marines didn’t. No more than a quarter of Captain Clinton’s company were still in the line when the fallback order finally came. They retreated, fighting all the way, and hastily erected a fallback position. Clinton had given the order to retreat, but he wasn’t with his people when they followed it. He’d been fighting in the ranks with his Marines as wave after wave of Janissaries threw themselves at the trench line. He was one of the last to fall, seconds after ordering the retreat. He lay on the line, under a pile of bodies … a handful of his Marines who’d desperately tried to reach him instead of pulling back, only to discover he was already dead. They’d sacrificed their chance to escape, and run head on into the main enemy attack. They had died to a man, bravely, but in the end, vainly.
“Captain Holm, I’m up at First Company’s position.” Burke’s voice was scratchy, deep. There was an authority in it, a confidence that hadn’t been there two days before. The nervous-sounding rookie was gone, replaced by a man who’d seen too much, too quickly. He struggled with the horrors he was facing, but he’d done all Holm had asked of him and come back for more. Baptism by fire … that’s what they call it, he thought. Part of him was overwhelmed, longing to give in to the fear, to flee for his life. But there was more inside him than he’d ever imagined. The training appealed to his rational mind. Fleeing would do no good …
there was nowhere to go. But in his heart, in the place courage came from, there was a resolve he’d never imagined he’d possessed. “They’re in bad shape, sir,” he continued. “The enemy was badly disordered taking the trenches, and that’s buying us a short break. But as soon as they are able to regroup, I don’t see how Clinton’s people are going to hold.”
“Who’s in command up there?” Holm’s voice was hard, steady. He already knew Captain Clinton was dead. He and Clinton had been close for years, but he just filed the information and focused on the matter at hand. There would be time to mourn lost friends later … if anyone survived.
Holm was exhausted, but his mind was sharp, and kept firing out orders, micromanaging every part of his shrinking battle line. The worse the situation got, the calmer the young captain in command seemed to become. He was growing into his responsibilities, and even while his beleaguered forces faced overwhelming odds, their confidence in their commander grew. Elias Holm would one day succeed General Worthington as the Corps’ fighting commander, and his journey to greatness began in those fateful days on Persis.
“Lieutenant Fargus, sir. But he’s wounded. He’s still on his feet, but he can’t be 100%.” Burke paused, looking up toward the front line. “Sir, I’ll move forward and get a better look at the defensive positions…”
“No you won’t.” Holm’s tone pre-empted any argument. “I need a live aide, Danny, not a dead hero.” He paused. His respect for Burke was growing. He’d had serious doubts about the young private serving as his aide, especially in a desperate fight like this, but Burke had vastly exceeded his expectations. “Stay the hell back, and get your ass over to 2nd Company’s position.”
Burke was distracted by chatter from Fargus’ people on the line. He knew what it was immediately. “Captain Holm, the enemy is moving against the fallback position.” The Janissaries were coming in … and they outnumbered the 50 or so Marines manning the hasty works at least 10-1. The defenders would fight … but that was just a formality. The enemy would overrun them all … and burst into the rear of the entire battalion.
-o0o-
James Fargus knelt in the deep yellow mud, staring across the flat, featureless plain. His people had fallen back a little more than a kilometer from their abandoned trenches. They’d fought long and hard to hold the painstakingly built defensive line, but ultimately numbers had prevailed … as they usually did in war. Perhaps, he thought, we could have held indefinitely against the regular line troops … but the Janissaries were elite shock troops. The Marines had made them pay dearly, but in the end, there had simply been too many of them.
The Janissaries were coming again. It looked like a whole orta … at least several times as many as it would take to wipe out Fargus’ battered force. Worse, their formations seemed intact … which meant they were fresh troops, not the battered units that had finally taken the trench line.
He’d been crouched behind the berm his people had hastily erected, ready for what was almost certainly going to be his last fight. The wound in his side ached, but his trauma control system had packed it in sterile foam and flooded his system with painkillers and amphetamines. He felt a little weakness, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He didn’t think it was going to matter for much longer anyway.
“Lieutenant Fargus, I am receiving intermittent signals from approaching aircraft.” Fargus’ AI spoke with the same human-sounding tone as the others. “Approximate location 30 kilometers southwest, altitude 9 kilometers.”
Fargus sighed. It just kept getting worse. The Alliance and Caliphate air assets had fought each other to mutual annihilation early in the campaign. If the enemy had hidden aircraft during the initial fighting, they would have total air superiority now. Third Battalion was already doomed, but the end would come almost immediately if they had to face coordinated ground attacks and air strikes.
He glanced left and right, looking at the thin, ragged line of Marines waiting for the enemy assault. His instinct was to prepare to receive an air attack, but there was no point. Let them focus on giving the Janissaries one last good fight, he thought. They had almost no AA ordnance left anyway. His mind was dark, resigned to his fate.
“Aircraft positively identified as Reynolds-class landing craft.”
Fargus heard the AI’s statement, but the reality of it lagged, following a few seconds behind. His mind raced. Reynolds landers? Marines!
“Confirm aircraft identification.” He was looking up as he snapped the order to the AI, cranking his magnification and trying to get a glimpse of the incoming landers.
“Identification confirmed. Approximately 60 Reynolds-class ships currently inbound … projected landing zone 1.5 kilometers northeast of our position.”
He felt his stomach clench. If those were reinforcements, they were coming down close to the enemy position … too close. He felt his hands ball into fists. His people had to hold the line, at least until those ships came down. If the Janissaries broke through and were waiting in the LZ, the landing would be a bloody fiasco. He couldn’t imagine why the landers were coming in so close … landings were usually better planned. But if those were Marines …
“We’ve got reserves incoming, Marines.” He shouted his orders on the com, his renewed energy and determination clear in his voice. “We’ve gotta hold this line, people … long enough for our brothers and sisters to hit dirt. We don’t give a centimeter. Not a motherfucking centimeter!”
He heard a ripple of cheers and acknowledgements … and then a single clear voice shouting. “Here they come!” The entire line opened up, blasting away at the approaching Janissaries with renewed enthusiasm.
CHAPTER 15
Painted Hills
HQ—Force Hammer
Northern Continent
Planet Persis—Iota Persi II
Day Sixteen
“Sergeant Mulligan’s strike force has been overrun, sir … sirs.” Burke snapped out his report, his eyes shifting involuntarily between Holm and Worthington. It was a lot of brass for a rookie private to deal with. He was Holm’s aide, but Worthington was so lofty a figure he thought he’d get a nosebleed just being near him. “I can’t raise any of his people … I’m afraid there may be no survivors.” Burke put his hand up for a few seconds as he listened to another incoming report. “Lieutenant Barret is down as well. His company is retreating with the enemy in pursuit.”
Holm turned and looked at Worthington. “I think we’re down to the last stand, general.” Holm’s voice was raw and tired … but unbeaten. He would fight to the last, with the final bit of strength in his body. He was beyond exhausted, but he took a stim whenever he felt like he was losing effectiveness. He couldn’t imagine the wear and tear on his body, but none of that was important now. Staying sharp … as sharp as drug-induced consciousness could be … that was the most important thing.
He was a realist too. Worthington’s relief force had bought them some time … a little at least. Confused and surprised, the enemy pulled back all along the perimeter as Worthington’s landers hit ground. The new troops deployed immediately and went right into battle, gaining back a few meters of lost ground and giving Holm’s exhausted Marines a little rest … a day’s worth. Then the reformed and resupplied Caliphate forces redoubled their efforts, throwing themselves at the Marines’ reinforced lines. For the last two days the forces had been locked in a death struggle. The reinforced and resupplied Marines held firm at first, but then numbers began to tell again. The enemy could replace its losses; the Marines couldn’t. Slowly, grudgingly, the combined Alliance force was forced back into an ever-shrinking circle. The front lines were less than a kilometer from HQ in all directions now. There was no more room to retreat. They would fight and die where they stood.
“Captain Holm, sir, this is Lieutenant Fargus.” The lieutenant’s voice was weak. He’d been fighting with two holes in his side for three days. His suit’s med systems had stabilized the injuries, and they had stopped the bleeding again every time he tore op
en the packing and reopened the wounds in combat. But there was a limit to what the human body and spirit could endure, and James Fargus was close to it. “It’s Colonel Thomas, sir. He’s been hit.”
Holm winced. Sam Thomas was one of the most loved and respected officers in the Corps … and the closest thing Viper Worthington had to a protégé. “The general is listening in, lieutenant. How bad is it?”
“Yes, sir … and general, sir.” Fargus paused, his tension increasing at the mention of Worthington. “It’s pretty bad, sirs. I sent him back to the field hospital.” It wasn’t so much a field hospital as a small stretch of ground where Force Hammer’s two surgeons worked on the most critically wounded, low on equipment, drugs … even shelter. “I think…” He paused, a coughing spasm interrupting his report. “ … I think he’ll make it.”
“I want you off the line too, Fargus.” Holm spoke slowly, his hand sliding slowly along the assault rifle clipped to his side. “Get back here and see one of the docs.”
“Sir, I can’t leave … there’s no one else up here to take command.” He was struggling to keep his voice firm, but it was obvious he was struggling.
Holm pulled the assault rifle from the harness. “You bet your ass there is. I’ll be there in two minutes. Now follow my orders and get to the aid station.” Holm turned to face Worthington. “You don’t need me here, do you sir?”
Worthington opened his mouth then closed it again. He wanted to order Holm to stay put. Things were bad at the front and getting worse by the minute. But those were Elias Holm’s people out there, at least half of them were. The general knew what was going through the heroic captain’s mind. It would be over in a few hours anyway. The lines were collapsing everywhere, and there were no reserves left to plug the holes. Why shouldn’t Holm die on the lines with his Marines?