***
Rifleman Polly Stewart was silently grateful for her armour as the sun rose ever higher into the sky. The heat was already overpowering, even for someone who had spent weeks in a desert combat environment on the Slaughterhouse; the noise was even more so. The protesters outside consisted of people who had seen their relatives arrested in the purge and wanted them freed, whatever the cost. Some of them, Polly knew, were probably innocent. They still had to be held until the innocent could be separated from the guilty.
She glanced from side to side – the movement invisible behind her helmet – as the crowd seemed to grow larger. Counter-protesters had been marching on the other side of the barricades the Civil Guard had thrown up, threatening to attack the original protesters with naked force. They carried primitive weapons – everything from broken bottles to clubs – but she didn’t care for the thought of what would happen if they tore into the protesters. The Imperial Charter guaranteed the right to protest peacefully, but both sides were already pushing the limits of ‘peaceful.’ A handful of bricks and stones had already been exchanged and worse was probably coming.
“The Old Man shouldn’t have held the meeting here,” Rifleman Chung muttered, through the dedicated channel. The four Marines who were serving as the Captain’s close-protection detail had been horrified to discover that Government House was under siege. The two AFVs that the Civil Guard had parked in the street hadn’t deterred them at all. “They should have held it at the spaceport.”
Polly could only agree. The spaceport was secure; Camelot, without any real attempt to secure the borders, was not. The Governor should have moved operations into a bunker, just to make it harder for any prospective attacker. The Civil Guardsmen defending Government House might have been the best of the best, but she wasn't impressed. None of them would have lasted long on the Slaughterhouse.
“The Old Man’s call,” Corporal Feingold reminded them. He was the current fire team leader, commanding the other three…his ears still ringing with dire warnings from Sergeant Patterson about what would happen if Captain Stalker got so much as a scratch. “The Governor wishes to try to show everyone that everything is normal, so as long as the Captain is prepared to tolerate it…we tolerate it as well.”
He looked over towards a pair of particularly odd protesters, women wearing tight shirts and nothing below the waist. Polly rolled her eyes inwardly. She’d grown up in a socially liberal society and even that would have been remarkable if done in public. They had to come from the upper class. No one who was not utterly convinced of their own superiority would have taken the risk.
“Man, I got to get me one of them,” Chung said, dryly. Polly rolled her eyes. Chung wasn't quite up to Blake Coleman’s standards as a ladies man, but he spent most of his off-duty time chasing orgasmic relief. “Just look at them.”
“Keep your eyes on the crowd,” Feingold reminded him. The whole atmosphere was growing nastier. Polly didn’t envy the Civil Guardsmen, who weren't wearing armour, at all. A handful of rocks were thrown from one side to the other, which retaliated in kind. “There’ll be time enough to chase girls after the fighting is over.”
Polly scowled at the reminder. Most of the Marines were out in the countryside, backing up the Civil Guard and the Army of Avalon. Her friends – her family, in every way that mattered – were out there, fighting to hold the line against a series of increasingly complex and dangerous attacks. She, in the meantime, was stuck in a city that was run by corrupt lunatics. Even though the Council had been arrested, she had no confidence that anyone would make it better. Perhaps the Marines should just take over directly, she thought. They could hardly do a worse job.
“Contact,” Chung said, suddenly. A massive truck had just turned the corner and was coming straight at the protestors, who scattered to get out of its way. No one – of course – had bothered to close the road. If they’d been in a city on any one of the Core Worlds, there would have been a hundred accidents by now. “It’s coming right at us.”
Polly swore as she brought her MAG up to firing position. The driver was gunning the engine, racing right towards the gates. He had to be insane, or intended to ram right into them. Feingold was barking orders, but there was no longer any time to hesitate. They squeezed their triggers as one, pouring fire into the truck…too late. The truck exploded and the entire world vanished in a blinding flash of white light.
***
The entire building shook violently. Edward heard crashing noises as items fell off walls and desks, while the windows blew in and a fine mist of plaster fell from the ceiling. Government House had been very well-built, unlike most of the other buildings in the city, but that hadn’t been a tiny explosion. Part of his mind whispered that it had been a massive bomb, far too close for comfort. His ears were still ringing, but he was sure that he could hear more explosions sounding out in the distance.
The Governor was pulling himself up from the floor, staring at the wreckage of his office. “What…what’s happening?”
Edward already knew the answer. “The Crackers,” he said. There weren't any other suspects. No one else, now the Council had been neutralised, could have launched such an attack. “I think we left our reforms too late.”
The Battle for Camelot had begun.
Chapter Fifty-One
The two most deadly weapons in the entire history of man are surprise and intelligence. A military force that neglects either or both of them is doomed to eventual defeat when it faces an opponent who studies both of them intensely, even if the unprepared are – on paper – the stronger force.
-Major-General Thomas Kratman (Ret), A Marine’s Guide to Insurgency.
Armstrong Base was the largest Civil Guard base on Avalon, situated on the outskirts of Camelot itself. It played host to Alpha and Beta Companies, the primer Civil Guard units, as well as a handful of supporting units and various military vehicles. It was also currently playing host to the 1st Avalon Infantry – as the new unit had been designated – which had been pulled back from the war to give its soldiers a chance to catch their breath and pass on their lessons to the newcomers and retrained Civil Guardsmen. The war was far away, but its impact was not.
Colonel Watanabe stood in the Command Room and surveyed the map with grim disapproval. It said something about the Council’s - the former Council – priorities that Armstrong Base possessed a reasonably modern command and control system, which was barely usable outside Camelot because the Council had been unwilling to invest in sophisticated communications systems that would keep it in secure communication with the outlying settlements. As the purge of officers and men continued, it was becoming increasingly clear that one reason the Civil Guard had failed to destroy the Crackers was because the Crackers had the Civil Guard quite effectively penetrated. Their spies had operated in low-key posts, but they’d been more effective than an entire brigade of armed troops.
Still, the Colonel allowed himself to feel hopeful for the first time in years. His command of Beta Company might have been brought to a halt by the bandits, who had managed to shoot him in the leg and cripple him for a few months, but he’d rapidly been ordered to take command of Armstrong Base, where a busted leg wasn't so much of an impediment. The former commander was currently stuck in the stockade, awaiting trial for gross corruption and theft of government funds. It offered him a chance to learn to command on a strategic level and make sure that his former Company – and the other fighting units out in the field – received what they needed from the men in the rear. He’d had to relieve several REMFs in his first week – two of whom would be joining the former commander at his trial – but since then, the base had started to shape up into an effective fighting unit. Hell, he'd even been promised that new Civil Guard units – who would be paid in cash, rather than electronic transfer, as would the old units – would be raised and trained at Armstrong Base. He was looking forward to the chance to place his stamp on a whole new generation of Avalon’s martial history.
“Report,” he barked, unwilling to panic. He might not be in direct command of anything outside the base, but he had faith in the new generation of leaders. “What’s happening?”
“Multiple reports coming in from all over the city,” an operator said. “We’re picking up reports of bombings and shootings, concentrated around the government and military sector of town. The fusion plant is reporting armed men inside the control centre and then went off the air. Sir, we’re under attack!”
“You don't say,” Watanabe said, dryly. The problem with promoting newcomers in to replace the men he’d relieved or sent to less sensitive duties was that the newcomers were inexperienced and he hadn't had the time to run emergency drills. “Get me a direct link to the Major and inform...”
He broke off as the entire building shook. A moment later, the lights flickered and dimmed. “We just lost main power, sir,” the operator said. “They cut the link to the fusion plant. Backup systems are coming online now, but they’re not capable of handling the entire load.”
“That might be the least of our worries,” Watanabe said. He hit the emergency key, knowing that the base itself was under attack, but the emergency alarms failed to sound. “What are we getting from outside?”
The building shook again. “I’m not sure, sir,” the operator said. “Security cameras are reporting armed men within the perimeter, attacking the base, while hostile forces are moving in from all directions. Half of the security systems have been knocked out!”
Watanabe saw it, too late. As the purge moved closer and closer to wiping out the Cracker penetration altogether, they had moved from spying to active sabotage, operating as a fifth column within the base to assist their allies on the outside to penetrate the defences. The explosions had been close enough to suggest that they’d somehow managed to obtain weapons from the armoury, which meant that his military police and infantrymen were likely to find themselves outgunned.
“Arm yourselves,” he ordered, as another group of cameras failed. The bastards had to be shooting them out as they attacked their former comrades, slaughtering unarmed soldiers before they could arm and defend themselves. By law, the Civil Guardsmen were expected to hand in their weapons and ammunition once they returned to base, a security procedure that no one had managed to change, even in the midst of an insurgency. “Get me a line outside the complex!”
“All direct links are down, sir,” the operator reported. Watanabe realised, with a curse, that he had effectively lost control of his base. He’d condemned incompetent officers before, yet history would record him as just another incompetent, one who had allowed his base to be penetrated and subverted from within. “I can’t link into the Marine network without the right codes.”
“Declare a state of emergency,” Watanabe ordered, tightly. The main board had looked as if the Crackers were attacking everywhere, just before it had failed along with most of the power. The Marines presumably had their hands full as well. “Warn them that men in Civil Guard uniforms are engaging loyal troops within the complex and...”
Another explosion, this one far too close for comfort, knocked him to the ground. “Sir, we just received word from the internal security guardhouse,” the operator said. “They’re under heavy attack and...”
The guards there couldn't stop a determined assault, Watanabe knew. “Purge the computers now,” he snapped, “and then trigger the self-destruct protocols. If they are going to take this base, they are going to inherit a corpse!”
The door blew open. Watanabe swung around and raised his personal weapon, but it was already too late. A spray of automatic fire cut him in half, sending blood and gore splashing all over the room. A moment later, the remainder of the operations staff were captured or shot down like dogs.
***
Michael and his platoon had been enjoying a moment of downtime in the R&R barracks when the attack began. They’d been called back for a few days to train with the new trainees – it seemed absurd, somehow, to think that a mere month ago he’d been more incompetent than the wide-eyed kids he’d been training – and the Drill Sergeant had finally given them a chance to catch a break. Barr seemed somehow less of a monstrous tyrant now that Michael had seen combat and understood the value – and quality – of their training. He was just mildly surprised that they’d been pulled out of the line of battle.
“What the...”
The second explosion, followed rapidly by heavy shooting, put paid to any illusions that it might have been an accident. Michael grabbed for his duty weapon at once – a week on duty in Sangria had taught him to have his personal weapon nearby at all times, even in the shower – and stood up, bracing himself for a fight. The Crackers had tried to infiltrate bases out in the countryside before, but had largely failed. The two explosions, definitely within the base’s perimeter, suggested that they had succeeded in the urban areas. The irony of the situation didn't escape him.
“Grab weapons and armour,” he ordered, tersely. The exact legal status of the Army of Avalon’s weapons was in some doubt. Marines got to keep their weapons with them at all times; Civil Guardsmen handed them in after duty. Barr had poured scorn on that concept, claiming that it only created more paperwork for the duty sergeant as well as rendering the soldier helpless, and ordered that the Army of Avalon was to keep their weapons with them at all times. The one concession they’d made to the more timorous nature of the Civil Guard was to keep the weapons unloaded. It had satisfied the bean counters, even though it took only a few seconds to reload and prepare for combat. “Secure that door and...”
One of the soldiers had scrambled up to the window. “Sir,” he said, “the bastards are wearing Civil Guard uniforms.”
Michael saw the problem at once. An enemy force wearing friendly uniforms would have a chance to get a shot in while the friendly force was trying to sort out friend from foe. The Army of Avalon wore different uniforms, but what if the Crackers were wearing the same uniforms as well? He considered the issue for the moment, and the dismissed it with a shrug. There would be time enough to deal with it when it came up.
He keyed his communicator and swore at the burst of static. The 1st Avalon Infantry consisted – at present – of a single Company, although they had been promised that it would be raised to a full regiment once the men and commanders were ready. The entire Company would be needed to fend off the enemy attack, but if he couldn't communicate with the others, how could anyone coordinate a counterattack? The Cracker plan was smart, smart enough to cripple one of the advantages the Marines had painstakingly hammered into their trainees. Communications were the key to any successful offensive, along with surprise, and the enemy had already taken both.
A quick touch set the communicator to scanning for a rotating frequency, hunting for any other Marine-issue communicators in the area. A moment later, one result popped up; Sergeant Hammersmith, one of the few locals who had been promoted as a result of his service in the countryside. Michael didn't know him that well – they’d been in different training units – but he had a good reputation.
“Sergeant, report,” he ordered. “What is the current situation?”
“Our barracks have been attacked after having been infiltrated by groups of armed men,” the Sergeant reported. “We have barricaded the building and are trying to hold on as best as possible, but we’re short of ammunition and other supplies. The bastards can’t get in, but they can keep us from getting out for resupply or escape.”
Michael summoned up a mental map of the complex and nodded. The Civil Guard had never anticipated operating within its own bases and hadn't exactly designed them to withstand an assault. As long as they held the Army of Avalon trapped within their barracks, they could starve them out or destroy them with high explosives or mortar fire. Relieving the remainder of the Company would be the first priority, a task that would be complicated by an unknown amount of
enemy fighters roaming the base. If they got their hands on the armoured vehicles, they’d practically control the entire complex.
“We’re moving out,” he ordered, glancing from face to face. There were no doubts or hesitations on their faces, just a grim determination to live up to the trust placed in them – and their own self-image. “Grab your weapons and follow me.”
The enemy seemed to have missed the R&R barracks in their initial attacks, although doubtless they would have attended to them in due time. Outside, Michael could hear shots being fired in an endless wave of sound rolling across the base, broken only by screams and the sound of explosions echoing up in the distance. The command building seemed to be on fire, with smoke billowing up towards the sky. Dead bodies lay everywhere, many clearly showing signs of shock and disbelief just before they died. They hadn't expected an attack from within.
The Empire’s Corps: Book 01 - The Empire's Corps Page 51