by Jay Allan
“Yes, general.” Barnes hated to retreat, but he knew Teller was right. They didn’t have a chance of winning the fight where they were. They were heavily outnumbered, and they needed to get some maneuvering room and find a stronger position.
“B company is to peel off one section and refuse the open flank when A and C pull out.” He paused. “I want you to lead A and C, Mike. Pull back about a klick and find some good ground. I’ll try to pin the enemy with the left and, when you’re set, you’ll cover our retreat.”
“General…”
“Save it, major.” Teller knew what was coming. “I’m staying with the rearguard, and that’s the last we’re going to discuss it.”
“Yes, sir.” Barnes voice was sullen but obedient.
“Don’t worry major, I can take care of myself.” Teller was mildly amused at Barnes’ protectiveness. He tended to think of the top hierarchy in the Corps being officers like Erik Cain and General Holm…not jacked up ground pounders like himself. But Teller had fought through the entire Third Frontier War and led the last ditch defense of Cornwall in the first large fight against the First Imperium. In addition to a pile of medals, that last campaign had gotten him a six month stay in Sarah Linden’s hospital and a small limp she was never able to completely heal. He tended to forget that the younger officers looked at him the same way he viewed Cain and Holm. It tended to make him uncomfortable, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it, so he tried his best to live up to their expectations, something he’d come to realize was not an easy thing to do. He had begun to understand some of Cain’s more brittle moods, the darkness that always seemed a part of his otherwise likable personality.
“Yes, sir.” Barnes answered sharply and paused for an instant before crouching low and crawling from behind the shattered structure, heading for C Company’s position.
Teller looked back at his tactical display. The enemy was advancing, steadily but cautiously. They were wary, showing the Marines a lot of respect, but Teller had to admit their maneuvers were as sharply executed as any his people had managed.
He switched his comlink, contacting the support units. “All mortar teams, switch to bunker-buster rounds immediately.” He didn’t have any heavy emplacements to bombard, but the burrowing rounds were good for chopping up the landscape too. Whatever slowed up the enemy helped him right now. His SAWs and SHWs were well-positioned, and they were holding the enemy off for the time being, but eventually mass would tell. He might be able to compensate for being outnumbered, but only if he could get out of this narrow valley and find some space to move.
The acknowledgements came in almost immediately, and a few seconds later he began to hear the distinctive sound of the heavy bombardment rounds. Hopefully, the ammunition switch would confuse the enemy, at least for a few minutes. Anything to buy time right now.
He could see on the display that Barnes already had his first groups falling back. The units in place were firing full, providing cover for those still retreating. The leapfrog was one of the most effective and frequently used maneuvers in the drill book. There were numerous variations, but the basic concept was one of the major building blocks of infantry tactics.
He glanced down at the display, pulling up the casualty figures. They were still moderate, at least so far, but they were getting heavier. The two forces had been dancing around each other for days, trying to take the measure of their respective adversaries. That had worked to Teller’s favor, so he’d done nothing to escalate the intensity of the conflict. He had about 20 men down today, about 50 since the landing. It was going to get worse than that, he knew. Much, much worse.
He had his assault rifle out, but he was just holding it at his side. His job wasn’t on the firing line…not unless things got really bad. He watched the right flank on the display. The forward groups were pulling back now. In another minute or two he’d direct the mortar fire to cover their retreat. Then he’d start pulling back the left.
Then, he thought, all I have to do is figure out how to defeat an enemy just as good as my force and five times as large.
Tommy Handler’s face and hands were soaked with sweat, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He was a Marine, officially at least, but he was fresh from graduation, and the closest he’d come to real combat was getting his ass chewed out by a drill instructor. The training was extensive, but there was one thing he realized it couldn’t prepare you for. The fear. He was scared to death.
You feel pretty invulnerable the first time you climb into a fighting suit, but then you get on the battlefield and see what a hyper-velocity round can do, even to an armored man. Handler had seen fatalities in training…the Marine regimen was pushed to the max, and that meant there were usually casualties. But that was different…more like seeing an accident in civilian life. But here he was facing thousands of troops, armed and trained just like he was…and they were all trying to kill him.
This is crazy, he thought…how the hell did I end up in the rearguard? He was trying to keep his hands from shaking, struggling to bring his rifle to bear when he heard gravel sliding down the edges of the foxhole. Instinct took over, and his body snapped around.
“Be cool, Tommy. It’s just me.” Bill Greene slid down into the trench. “Take it easy man; you’re wound pretty damned tight.”
“Sorry, Billy.” He paused. “This is crazy, man.” Greene had been Handler’s classmate at the Academy. The two couldn’t have been more different, but they’d gotten along from the start. Greene graduated number one in the class, while Handler struggled every step of the way. He knew he’d have never made it without his classmate’s constant help, but in the end he did graduate…and made a best friend in the process.
“I came to get your sorry ass. We’re bugging out. You don’t want to get left behind, do you?”
That got Handler’s full attention. “Fuck no. I’m with you, buddy.”
“Let’s go.” Greene stared out over the burnt grasslands and shattered trees extending out behind them. It had been a stretch of idyllic farmland and orchards a few days before, but the fighting had turned it into a scorched desert. “There’s some cover to the east, Tommy. Let’s make for that wrecked house.” He was pointing as he spoke, and he slapped Handler’s armor to get his friend’s attention.
“Got it, got it.” Handler was in pretty bad shape, but Greene was determined to pull his friend through.
Greene was damned scared too, but he was doing a better job of controlling it. “From the house we can make it over that small rise.” He kept reminding himself what they repeated in training. Stay focused, and master the fear…or your chances of ending up dead go through the roof.
Handler didn’t say anything. He was standing right next to Greene, waiting.
“You good, Tommy? I need you to get your fucking shit together.” Greene smacked his friend’s armor again. “You with me, brother?”
“Yeah, I’m with you.” He sounded a little better, not great, but Greene figured his friend had managed to push the panic back a little.
“Alright…let’s go.” Greene ran out into the open, zigzagging, heading toward the shattered farmhouse 80 meters from their position. Handler felt a hitch, a second’s hesitation, but he overcame it and launched himself into the field, following his friend.
He could feel the suit compensating for his exertion, increasing the oxygen content of his breathing mix and injecting high protein energy formula into his bloodstream. It all helped…he could feel the alertness, the mental focus. He knew he’d be completely exhausted by now without the drugs.
He was running. They were halfway there, maybe a little more than that. Then he saw it. An enemy soldier, partially hidden behind the remnants of a burned out transport. He was raising his rifle, taking aim at Billy.
Handler’s body moved on its own, seemingly with no direction from his brain. His hands snapped up, pulling the assault rifle to firing position, toggling the thing to full auto as he did. It seemed to happen in slow mot
ion, though it was a fraction of a second in reality. The next thing he knew, he was firing, the assault rifle ripping through almost a hundred rounds in less than three seconds.
The hyper-velocity projectiles, driven at 8,500 kps by the nuclear reactor on his back, ripped into the remains of the transport, tearing a large section to shreds. At least 20 of the projectiles hit the enemy trooper behind, slicing his body in half and almost vaporizing his torso.
Handler didn’t stop…he just kept running, diving headfirst behind a pile of rubble where part of the building had collapsed. He was terrified, elated, confused. He felt his stomach lurch, but the suit detected the muscle contractions and injected an anti-emetic before he could throw up more than a little spray.
He sat behind the jumbled pile of charred wood and shattered masonry and stared straight ahead, trying to catch his breath. His mind was racing, and sweat was pouring down his body. Realization came slowly. He’d killed a man. And he’d saved Billy. Where, he thought…where did that come from?
“There you go, Tommy!” It was Greene, panting hard, voice strained. He’d come a hair’s breadth from getting wasted, and he was just realizing that his friend had saved his life. “Well, I guess I just got paid back for every test I coached your sorry ass through!”
Chapter 4
Presidential Palace
Washbalt Metroplex
Earth, Sol III
“Gavin, I appreciate your getting here so quickly. I’m afraid I’m going to need your help. You’ll have to drop everything else and focus on this new problem.” Francis Oliver had been President of the Western Alliance for 29 years. An enormously arrogant man, he generally expected to be obeyed without question. But there was something different in his demeanor this time. He was scared…and he didn’t know what to do.
Stark sat facing the president, looking across the massive walnut desk. His expression, entirely manufactured, was one of reverent respect, though he was secretly enjoying the fear he saw in Oliver’s eyes. This great and powerful man, a bully who had bested all his political rivals for decades…he could feel it all slipping away, Stark thought with a silent laugh. If he only knew the real truth.
“Of course, Mr. President. We must all do what we can in a crisis of this sort.” His tone was perfect…concerned, supportive, anxious to help. Stark could sling some serious bullshit when he wanted to.
“Gavin, I know you are familiar with the situation, but things are starting to spiral out of control.” He paused, struggling to find the words.
I’ve never seen him this disoriented, Stark thought…he really has no idea what to do.
“To date we have been unable to determine what caused the complete communications blackout at Wolf 359. I dispatched two scout vessels to investigate, but we lost contact with both of them as soon as they entered the system.”
He’s rambling, Stark thought…he knows I know all of this already.
“The other Powers are becoming extremely aggressive. They all have vessels in Wolf 359 under repair at the shipyards. They are accusing us of an attempt to seize those ships.”
“Which is understandable, sir.” Stark spoke slowly and clearly, with his best poker face. “It would be an advantageous plan if our intentions were to renew hostilities.” He paused deliberately, silently counting to five before continuing. “Particularly if a move was also made on the foreign contingents in Grand Fleet. No doubt that is what they fear.” He hesitated again, as if he was considering what to say. “Of course, such complaints would also be an effective cover for an enemy to hide their own attack against the shipyards. Seizing the vessels docked there and completing the repairs would provide an aggressor with a large pool of warships.” Another pause. “Coming on the heels of the losses in the war against the First Imperium, that could place one of the Powers, or an aligned group, in a very strong position…possibly an unbeatable one.”
“Your analysis is flawless, as always, Gavin.” Oliver shifted nervously in his chair. “But what we need is hard information.” He slapped his hand on the desk in frustration. “The only thing we know for sure is that it’s not us.”
Stark nodded solemnly. “Of course, sir.”
“But we have no way to prove that to the other Powers…assuming it’s not one of them behind it all.” He stared down at the dark-grained wood of the desk before his eyes darted up and found Stark’s. “We have no idea what is happening in that system.” He hesitated. “I must know if this is some renegade First Imperium force or some natural disaster…or if…” He paused again. “…if one or more of the Powers are making some sort of move against us. I need to know, Gavin. Are you sure you don’t have some intel…anything? Perhaps something you initially discounted as unimportant?”
Stark felt a mix of anger and amusement, though none of it affected his expression or demeanor in the slightest. I don’t miss things, you arrogant fool, he thought. “Mr. President, I am not in the habit of bringing you alarmist reports assembled from unconfirmed data.” He paused, eyes focused on Oliver’s facial reactions. “I am certain you realize the sheer volume of information that passes through Alliance Intelligence on a daily basis. The vast majority of it turns out to be of no significance.”
“Yes, Gavin, I understand. And normally, I appreciate your filtering, but at this moment I need to know if there are any indications…any at all…that one or more of the Superpowers may have attacked Wolf 359. I must decide within hours if I am going to allow the other Powers to contact Grand Fleet through Commnet, and I have no idea if this would serve to relive tensions…or simply enable an enemy to gain another advantage on us.”
Stark paused. “Well, sir…”
“Out with it, Gavin.” Oliver was impatient, edgy. “I understand it may be raw.”
Stark had an uncomfortable look on his face. “Yes, sir. Please understand that this is extremely incomplete. I urge you not to make any precipitate decisions based upon it.” He hesitated for a few seconds, enjoying the tense look on Oliver’s face. “We have several communications intercepts we are currently studying. While they do not specifically reference Wolf 359, they do appear to be military in nature.”
Oliver’s eyes opened wider. “Intercepts? Intercepts from whom?”
Stark let out a soft sigh. “From the Central Asian Combine, sir. We believe they originated from C1’s military liaison division.” He paused for a few seconds and added, “Possibly even from Minister Li’s private office.”
“So it could be the CAC behind this?”
“Mr. President, I must urge extreme caution in drawing conclusions from data of this sort.” Stark’s tone was urging, almost pleading, for restraint. “There are numerous possibilities, most of which are entirely innocuous.”
“But these intercepts you have…they could indicate some type of CAC operation in Wolf 359?” Oliver wasn’t listening to Stark’s pleas for caution.
“There is no direct link to Wolf 359, sir. All we have are fragments, bits and pieces we have reassembled the best we could. We are still analyzing the data, trying to match it up with other communications that might shed more light on the true subject matter. It is extremely time-consuming work, sir.”
“But the CAC could be behind what is happening, correct?” Oliver’s mind was fixated.
Stark sighed. “Yes, sir.” He paused, watching Oliver’s expression closely. “That is one of many possibilities.”
“What about the Caliphate?”
“Mr. President, at this time I cannot even conclusively state that the CAC has made any hostile moves against us.” He paused, letting Oliver think for a few seconds. “Perhaps…” He let his thought hang unfinished.
“Perhaps what, Gavin? Don’t hold anything back. I need to know everything you know…even wild guesses.” The tension in Oliver’s voice was rising. He was in a bind. If he allowed the other Powers to communicate with Grand Fleet, he could relieve the tensions brewing over Wolf 359. But if the CAC or Caliphate were already engaged in hostilities…wh
at would they order their ships to do? Would Garret find himself the target of a surprise attack from his own former allies?
“Sir, I was just going to say that frequently when we uncover one piece of evidence it sheds light on other, more mundane, data that we previously reviewed.” He changed his expression, appearing to be deep in thought. “It is possible that if we are able to verify a CAC operation, we can go back and discover that the Caliphate is also involved.” He put up his hands. “But I must remind you again, sir…this is all unconfirmed supposition at this point.”
“I understand, Gavin.” Oliver took two deep breaths. “If I asked you for your recommendation, would you suggest I allow Commnet access or refuse it?”
“Well, sir…” Stark leaned back, acting as if it was a difficult decision. “At the very least, I would advise you to stall. If there is any type of hostility brewing, we can’t have Admiral Garret blindsided, can we?” Not yet, at least, he thought.
“Thank you, Gavin. I am inclined to agree.”
Good, Stark thought. He didn’t think Oliver was going at approve access, but he wanted to be sure. “Sir, if you’ll excuse me, I really should get back to Intelligence headquarters. We’re going to have to get you some better data than I was able to give you today, and the sooner I can get over there and crack the whip…well, you know, sir.”
Oliver stood up and extended his hand across the table. “I agree completely. Your insight was most helpful, and I look forward to a timely update.”
Stark stood up, reaching out to grasp the president’s hand. “I am very glad to be of help, Mr. President.” He turned and walked toward the door.