by Jay Allan
“Clear,” one of the Marines called, as he checked out a bedroom. It showed the signs of having been abandoned in a hurry, suggesting that the Crackers had warned the owners to evacuate. Jasmine was grateful for that, at least. She didn’t want to slaughter civilians. “Room two; clear!”
“Get up on the roof,” Jasmine ordered, as she checked out a storage room. A handful of cardboard boxes had been abandoned there, without any labels or explanations. She glanced at the contents and winced, realising that they were homemade children’s toys. “What have you found up there?”
“A dead body and an enemy sniper on the next rooftop,” Mark reported. “I shot him down before he could react.”
“Mark this building as clear and let’s move on to the next one,” Jasmine ordered. The sound of shooting was fading, although she could still making out gunshots echoing across the city. A quick status check revealed that the platoons trapped on the outside were still under heavy fire. “The sooner we get the bastards away from our base, the sooner we can recover our friends.”
Another noise intruded on her awareness and she glanced up sharply. “We have incoming helicopters,” the dispatcher warned. “Stand by for orders.”
Jasmine braced herself. If the Crackers had any antiaircraft weapons, they’d use them now. “Understood,” she said. A single HVM could blow a helicopter out of the sky before it could escape. “We’re ready.”
CHAPTER 46
Who wins any given battle? He who gets there first, with the most; troops, weapons, firepower and so on. Of course, in an insurgency, defining victory can be a little complex. History is replete with examples of counter-insurgency forces that have won battles—indeed, have won every battle—and yet lost the war.
- Major-General Thomas Kratman (Ret), A Marine’s Guide to Insurgency.
“Get down!”
Michael hit the deck as the helicopters swooped down, launching a salvo of rockets towards their targets. The ground shook as the missiles impacted, sending brilliant fireballs billowing up into the air. Darkness fell, just for a second, as the helicopters roared overhead, seemingly so close that he could have reached up and touched them. Silence fell as they receded into the distance, just before it was broken by the sound of the Crackers opening fire again. There was noticeably less shooting now than there had been before the helicopters had made their pass.
“We got them good,” one of the soldiers shouted. He sounded delighted and tired at the same time. “Look at it!”
Michael looked. Across the street, there had once been a row of shops, all clearly closed up for the ambush. Now, three of them were little more than smouldering ruins and several more were on fire. The Marines had hammered one phase into his mind back on Castle Rock and he heard Barr speaking in his mind, as clearly as if he’d been standing right next to him. We had to destroy the village in order to save it. The devastation, as if an angry god had decided to knock down half of the town, shocked him. He had known, intellectually, just how powerful and destructive modern weapons were, but it was a far cry from seeing them in action. The Crackers would have hundreds of new recruits, not least the ones who had just lost their livelihoods in the fighting.
“Yeah,” he said, feeling a great weight settling across his shoulders. If the Crackers hadn’t kept up the firing, he would have sat down and closed his eyes. The tiredness was almost a physical force, tearing away at his concentration. “I guess we got them.”
His radio buzzed. “Report,” the dispatcher said, as the helicopters started to circle back over the town. This time, they didn’t have it all their own way and lines of tracer reached up towards them. The heavily-armoured helicopters could probably shrug it off unless the machine guns hit something vital, but if the enemy had any antiaircraft missiles the pilots would be dead before they realised what had hit them. “Do you require additional support?”
The helicopters started firing back towards the hidden machine guns, swatting their crews like bugs. Michael had to admire their bravery, even though he knew it was futile; they stood at their posts and kept firing until the helicopters blew them out of existence. The helicopter missiles were far too powerful for whatever firing positions the Crackers had set up. One by one, the bursts of tracer terminated and vanished.
“We need cover to get back to base,” he snapped, pushing the tiredness aside. There were stimulants in his combat netting, ones that would have him buzzing for hours, but he didn’t dare take one. If even hardened Marines could become addicted to them, Michael didn’t dare take the risk for himself. “What is the status of our relief?”
“The base itself has been attacked,” the dispatcher said. “We’re driving them back from the walls now, but it may be some time before we can get reinforcements through to you. You’re actually in the best position of all four platoons; one has lost over half its strength and is pinned down, burning through their ammunition too quickly to survive.”
Michael swore. If they were in the best position, he definitely didn’t want to see the worst. “I understand,” he said, as the sound of shooting grew louder. Something exploded in a billowing fireball towards the west, sending shockwaves running through the ground. Had that been the result of the Crackers, or of the helicopter bombardment? There was no way to know. “Do you want us to remain here or attempt to assist the other patrols?”
There was a long pause. Michael used it to survey the situation. The Crackers were still firing, but the rate of fire had diminished, suggesting that they had been badly scattered by the helicopter attack. Or, perhaps, that they were trying to lure the soldiers out to where they could be slaughtered in the open. Michael was uncomfortably aware that the Crackers often came from people with a hunting background, rather than people who had grown up in a city that didn’t allow the private possession of weapons. They might have a military potential that was vastly greater than anything the cities could produce.
“You probably couldn’t get to the other patrols,” the dispatcher said. “If you feel that you can get back to base, you may make the attempt.”
Michael felt another weight falling down on his shoulders. He hadn’t grasped, not really, what independent command meant! Barr had explained that Marine commanders issued general orders and trusted their subordinates to handle the situation as they saw fit, but he hadn’t realised what it really meant. If he made the wrong call, the remaining members of his platoon—and two little girls—would be caught in the open and killed. If they stayed, they would eventually run out of ammunition and be slaughtered, unless the Crackers would accept surrender. If they moved, they might have a chance.
He looked up at his men and saw the same concerns reflected in their eyes. “I understand,” he said. He could have asked for opinions, but the responsibility went with the Corporal’s stripes he’d been so proud of when they’d been placed on his uniform. It was his call. He understood, suddenly, why the Council was so nervous about the Marines. They were trained to take independent action when the Civil Guard required orders in triplicate before they did anything at all. “We’ll make our way back to base.”
There was no dispute, he was relieved to see. “Understood,” the dispatcher said. “Be aware; Death One and Death Two will be on standby to provide whatever firepower you need. Keep us informed of your progress and we may be able to slip reinforcements to you.”
“Thank you,” Michael said, dryly. “We’re on our way.”
He broke the connection and looked up at his men. “We’re going through the walls,” he said. Breaking out into the street would be suicide. “Get shaped charges set up and prepare to move.”
He smiled to himself and headed up the stairs to the two girls, who were cowering on the floor. “Listen to me,” he said. They might have been safe if he’d left them behind, but he couldn’t take the risk. “You have to come with us and keep your heads down, understand?”
One of the girls looked up at him. “But who will look after the shop?”
Her plaintive
voice sent an oddly protective feeling rushing down Michael’s spine, followed by a flash of pure rage, directed not at the girls, but at the Council. It just didn’t seem fair, somehow, that they should have a chance at a better life while Michael and his counterparts remained stuck in the slums, weighed down by debts they’d never assumed. If he got through the war alive, he vowed, there would be a reckoning. The Marines had taught him that uncomfortable realities could be changed with a little effort. The Council was more isolated than it knew.
“We’ll come back,” he promised, and beckoned to them. Slowly, they followed him down the stairs. “Come on.”
The two soldiers at the bottom had already rigged the wall to blow. At Michael’s command, they trigged the blast, sending the wall tumbling down. The next-door shop was deserted, thankfully, but Michael took no chances. As soon as they were through, they were already blowing their way into the next one and the next. There was no sign of anyone until they hit the sixth store, where they ran into a group of Crackers who had clearly been waiting for them to come walking down the road, somehow missing the sounds of their transit through the walls. The soldiers opened fire at point-blank range and killed them before they had a chance to react.
Michael heard a scream behind him and remembered the girls. They hadn’t even had the casual exposure to violence that marked someone growing up in Camelot’s slums; they’d grown up somewhere safe, where everyone could be trusted. The lucky bitches … he bit off that thought and silently prayed that they wouldn’t be too traumatised by what they saw. He checked the bodies quickly, confirmed that they were dead, and then led his men into the final shop. They’d have to move quickly now. It wouldn’t be long before the Crackers realised what was happening, if they didn’t already know.
“Outside, now,” he snapped, and led two men out into the open. The air, which had been fresh and clear only thirty minutes ago—it felt like years, somehow—now stank of burning flesh and smoke. The towering pillars of smoke hadn’t abated at all, although the sound of shooting seemed to have faded. He saw a pair of armed men swinging around to cover them and fired twice, knocking one of them down and sending the other diving for cover. There had been no time to wait and see if they were hostile, but they’d been in the middle of a war zone. “Come on!”
The sound of shooting grew louder as they double-timed it back towards the base. The whole environment was taking on an increasingly surreal appearance; in places, it was blackened by gunfire and helicopter missiles and in other places it was normal, just as it had been before all hell broke loose. He caught sight of a smaller and broken body lying by the side of the road and had to swallow hard to prevent himself from vomiting. The child—male or female; it was impossible to tell—had been shot in the head by a heavy weapon and had been left headless, completely beyond hope of salvation. His heart almost broke when he saw the doll on the ground, a few steps beyond its former owner. He wanted to study the body, to work out who had killed her and seek justice, but the truth was that it could have been either side. The child had simply been caught in the middle of the fighting and cut down in passing. No one could have mistaken her for a threat.
They rounded the corner and he swore under his breath. The enemy had established a barricade across the road, trying to prevent anyone from coming out of the base. He grinned suddenly, realising that the Crackers hadn’t realised that his force was coming right up their rear end, and issued orders to his men using hand signals. The crump-crump-crump of a mortar started up as one of the enemy fighters started to open fire, tossing shells towards the base. Michael motioned the girls into cover, cursing himself for bringing them right into the heart of danger, and opened fire. The enemy were taken completely by surprise.
He keyed his radio as they blew through the defenders, sending the survivors scurrying for cover. “Dispatch; enemy position under attack,” he snapped, knowing that the dispatcher would have located him the moment he started transmitting. “We need support as quickly as possible; I say again, we need support as quickly as possible!”
“Understood,” the dispatcher said. “Help is on the way.”
-o0o-
Jasmine threw a grenade into a room, waited for it to detonate and jumped inside, rifle at the ready. The final house had been a nightmarish combination of traps and enemy fighters, suggesting that they’d either intended to confuse the Marines or had been caught before they’d managed to withdraw from the area. A dead enemy leered at her before falling to the floor, allowing her to step back and survey the entire room. It was empty. It was also going to need a heavy repair job before someone could use it again. With soldiers and even a Marine down, no one was interested in taking chances.
“Clear,” she reported, as she slipped back outside into the hallway. It was blackened, the remains of an IED that had thrown ball bearings towards the Marines when they’d detonated it. Only long experience had kept them back far enough to avoid another casualty. “Dispatch; house is clear. I say again; house is clear.”
“Copy that,” the dispatcher said. New orders blinked up in front of her eyes, displayed by her helmet. “Some of the locals need your help.”
Jasmine surveyed the orders quickly and then fired off a stream of her own orders to her fire squad, ordering them outside to meet up with the rest of the platoon. As soon as they were out, they started to run up the street, disregarding the increasingly accurate shots from Cracker snipers. The armour could handle most of it and the remainder had their own problems. With helicopters overhead and AFVs advancing behind the Marines, the Cracker resistance was slowly starting to melt away. The battle had lasted barely an hour. It wouldn’t even have been that long if there had been a Regiment of Marines in the town.
This was a nice town once, she thought sourly, as they turned the corner and ran right towards the Crackers, firing on automatic. They might not have been able to believe their eyes, she knew; they’d only faced the Civil Guard before and the Guard wouldn’t do something as insane as charging an enemy position. Jasmine’s thoughts were moving slower than her body and the reflexes she’d learned from the harshest training course in the Empire. The Crackers wouldn’t be able to see her as anything other than a blur. They slashed into them as if they were made of paper …
And then, suddenly, it was all over. The Crackers broke contact and faded away, leaving the Marines and the new soldiers to mourn their dead. Jasmine found her body shaking as she slowed down from combat reflexes, trying to relax. It wasn’t easy. The bandits had been easy prey. If the Crackers had had equal training and weapons … she wasn’t sure how the battle would have turned out.
“All units, return to base,” the dispatcher ordered. “I say again…”
“I heard,” Jasmine grunted. “We’re on our way.”
-o0o-
Michael wanted to take off his helmet and pour cold water onto his head, but he didn’t quite dare, not until they were safely back in the base. The AFVs and armoured Marines had formed a guard of honour for the new soldiers, covering their backs as they limped towards the base, but Michael had no illusions. They didn’t look like real soldiers, not now. They looked like sweaty tramps and probably smelled bad as well. The thought couldn’t even make him smile, for he felt as if he had aged a hundred years overnight. The combat had finished, but the scars it had left on his soul would never fade.
“Thank you,” he said, as one of the base’s small complement of staff took care of the girls. The new soldiers were pointed towards their barracks and bunks, but Michael was too exhausted to even try to get into the shower. He pulled off his helmet and body armour as soon as they were safely inside the barracks and then sat down hard on the ground, unable to remain upright any longer. He had never dreamed, he had never realised, he had never understood … not until he was too late. He felt the shaking welling up from somewhere deep inside and he was no longer able to resist it. The shakes swept through his entire body, leaving him shivering on the ground. He’d been in battle; he’d surviv
ed … somehow. Not all of the men under his command had been so lucky.
He knew that he should be seeing to them, that he should be carrying out his duties, but he couldn’t muster the energy. If the Crackers had launched another attack, he would have been unable to resist and he didn’t think that any of his platoon would have been in any better condition. He couldn’t believe just how quickly the entire situation had simply collapsed into hell, or just how much damage both sides had done to the town. What would it be like, he asked himself, if they ever had to fight such a battle in Camelot itself?
“Hey,” a voice said. He looked up to see the female Marine; Jasmine, her name was. “Are you all right?”
“No,” Michael growled. All the frustrations boiled up inside him. “I got some of my men killed. I might as well have killed them myself.”
“Don’t think like that,” Jasmine advised, dryly. “It doesn’t make it any easier.”
Michael looked up at her. She didn’t look tired, yet he knew she had to be tired, even though she’d been at the base rather than trapped in an isolated shop. “They knew that this was a populated town and they decided to fight in it,” he protested. “What sort of monsters are we fighting?”
“The weapons of the weak,” Jasmine said, coldly. “Even Kappa Company could have beaten them in the open before they were disbanded. What did you expect from them? Did you expect that they would line up and be slaughtered?”