“I see,” Marcy said. “You’d better report it to the CO.”
***
Jasmine swore under her breath as the report came in, followed by a report that several satellites had also been targeted by the laser. Who would have thought that an insurgency had somehow managed to get its hands on a planetary defence laser? And who would have thought of using it against drones?
“Take the weapon out,” she ordered. The only advantage to the whole affair was that they’d been able to locate the weapon. Once destroyed, it wouldn't be able to do any more harm. “And then warn the troops to prepare to repel attack.”
Her mind raced as her subordinates scrambled to do her bidding. The insurgents had blinded the command posts, which would have been disastrous if she’d been commanding an Imperial Army unit, let alone the Civil Guard. By taking out the drones, they’d crippled her ability to contact and direct her forces. But it wouldn't last, she knew; once they recovered from their surprise, the locals could direct their satellites to provide coverage. It wouldn't be as good as the drones, but it would be enough to direct the offensive. And the enemy would know that too.
No, she thought. They mean to counterattack now.
***
The ground shook, violently. Pieces of plaster dropped from the ceiling and fell on the map, only to be swept off the table by the operator. Pete looked up at the ceiling, then forced himself to relax slightly. The building was as secure as they could make it, but if the invaders dropped a KEW on their heads there would be no hope of survival.
“They took out the big gun,” the operator said. Thankfully, the telephone network had multiple levels of redundancy built into the system. Wires could be cut – wires probably would be cut, once the invaders caught on – but the network would remain usable. “And an entire block of flats.”
“Unsurprising,” Pete commented.
The thought made him smile. He hadn't expected to be allowed to keep the gun, once the enemy knew it was there. It was just a relief to have taken out the drones before committing his forces to the first counterattack. There was no way to know how many drones the CEF had brought to the party – the local government hadn't realised their value, thankfully – but he doubted they had many replacements. Apart from the Empire, there had been few governments producing drones of their own. Would Avalon have produced more of their own?
“Call the forward posts,” he ordered. “The counterattack is to begin in five minutes.”
He watched the young women leap to obey, issuing his orders, and muttered a prayer under his breath. He’d given his people as much training as possible, attempting to impart the lessons learnt over years of fighting insurgents rather than joining them, but he knew that hundreds of young men were about to die. There was no alternative, he knew, yet it didn't sit well with him. And there were civilians caught up in the maelstrom ...
Your wife is dead, his thoughts reminded him. Don't you want revenge?
Yes, his own thoughts answered him. But at what price?
***
“We’ve got a definite report,” Michael said. He sounded shocked. “Mortar fire is coming out of the Zone in all directions.”
“Understood,” Jasmine said. She pushed her emotions into the back of her mind and sealed them there. “Order the counter-battery units to engage, then alert the troops to prepare to withstand attack.”
She looked down at the map, feeling helpless. Command had just slipped out of her hands, to all intents and purposes. The communications network had been restored quickly, but the all-seeing eyes were gone. Her forces wouldn't be operating as a unified machine so effectively until the drones were replaced. And who was to say there wasn't another anti-starship weapon hidden in the Zone?
Not us, she thought, sourly. We didn't anticipate it at all.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
In hindsight, local understanding, combined with freedom of action on the part of the intervention force, might have actually helped the locals. Protecting local farmers, a pragmatic response to local authorities and building up unified power structures would have proved far more successful. However, it was not to be.
- Professor Leo Caesius. War in a time of ‘Peace:’ The Empire’s Forgotten Military History.
“Incoming fire!”
Thomas swore as warnings blinked up in front of his eyes. The enemy had taken advantage of the sudden confusion, all right; they were firing mortar shells towards the advancing infantry and tanks, as well as towards the FOBs outside the Zone. And probably mounting an infantry attack of their own, he guessed, as the sound of shooting grew louder. They’d caught the platoon in just the right place to do some real damage.
“Check the house,” he snapped, as the first wave of shells crashed down. One of them came down alarmingly close to an AFV, scattering pieces of tarmac everywhere; the remainder hit houses or struck the ground with terrifying force. One of his soldiers was struck by flying debris and sent falling to the ground, blood spurting from his chest. “Look for traps.”
Another wave of shells could be heard as they double-timed it towards the house, then checked the door. It had been struck by a shell, but nothing had detonated; the ground shook as another house, further down the road, exploded into a fireball. The odd-coloured flames suggested, not entirely to his surprise, that the enemy had used non-standard chemicals to make the explosive mix. Chemical warfare was far from uncommon, after all. But most of his men had treatments to make the chemicals less effective.
One of his men kicked open the door, allowing them to slip into the building and take shelter inside. Thomas’s blood ran cold as he saw the detonator on the ground, then realised that the explosions had accidentally disabled the IED. Hastily, he dismantled the rest of the device and ordered his men to search the house as the sound of shelling got louder, hammering the road hard enough to shatter the tarmac into pieces of debris. It would make it harder for wheeled vehicles to advance into the city, Thomas noted absently as his men returned. The remainder of the building was thankfully safe.
He looked back outside and swore. One of the AFVs was nowhere to be seen, but the other two were burning wreaks. There was no sign of their crews, all of whom should have been able to bail out in time if the vehicle came under attack. Had the enemy managed to get lucky or had they loaded their mortar shells with armour-piercing warheads? If so, they’d given up the advantage of HE to try to take out a few dozen vehicles. But it would certainly dent morale to see burning vehicles.
“We should get the body, sir,” one of his men said. The sound of mortar shells was dying away, probably because the counter-battery officers were taking them out. If Thomas had trained the mortar gunners, he would have prepared them to fire one shot and then switch position before the return fire came howling in to extract revenge. “Clive’s out there ...”
“There’s nothing you can do for any of them now,” Thomas said, gently. The enemy wouldn't content themselves with a small amount of shelling, not when they’d never have a better chance to inflict major damage on the advancing forces. “We have to turn this place into a strongpoint.”
It wasn’t a very well-built building, he discovered, even though it had survived the mortar shell with impressive fortitude. From what he’d heard, no one had been intended to stay in the Zone for longer than a few months, which explained the complete absence of shops, parks and everything else a growing community might need. The buildings might as well have been mass-produced and dumped in the Zone en masses, making it harder for him to identify their building to his superiors. In the end, they just had to hope that they would be relieved before the enemy finally overran the building.
He peered out of the shattered window and smiled, darkly, when he saw the first enemy troops come into view. They looked surprisingly impressive for insurgents, he decided; their formation was almost military, although there was a sloppiness about it that didn't surprise him in the least. The insurgents probably hadn't had access to a proper training ground
and some excellent Drill Instructors. Still, they might be advancing, but they weren't committing suicide by charging towards the guns.
“Take aim,” he muttered, just loudly enough to be heard. “Conserve your ammunition. I don’t want a single wasted shot.”
The insurgents paused as they saw the burning vehicles, then kept moving towards the house. Thomas wondered, absently, if they knew the house was occupied, before deciding they probably didn't. None of them seemed to pay the houses any special attention, apart from keeping their distance from the ones that might be primed to explode. IEDs were not discriminatory weapons, after all. The IEDs Thomas had seen on Han had taken out enemy fighters as well as their enemies.
“Fire,” Thomas snapped.
Seven shots rang out in quick succession. Five insurgents fell to the ground, dead; one more dropped, clutching his shoulder. The seventh insurgent gaped for a long second, then threw himself to the ground and started crawling backwards with speed. Thomas felt a flicker of sympathy, which didn’t stop him from firing another shot. The insurgent jerked and lay still.
“That won’t be the end of it,” Thomas warned, as he heard the sound of mortars firing in the distance. Shells passed over their heads and headed towards the edge of the Zone. “They’ll know we’re here now.”
The next group of insurgents were more professional, he noted, as they appeared at the end of the road. Two of them advanced towards the house, moving from cover to cover, while their remainder fired short bursts of fire to force Thomas and his men to keep their heads down. It wasn't a bad tactic, Thomas decided, as he unhooked one of the grenades from his belt and set the timer. But it had the weakness of forcing him to use other tricks to get rid of the two intruders. He threw the grenade and had the satisfaction, a few seconds later, of hearing it explode. There was a yell from outside, followed by screaming.
Poor bastard, Thomas thought, as he took a peek. One of the insurgents had taken the brunt of the blast; he’d literally been blown into pieces of flesh, scattered all over the road. The other had been hit badly by flying debris; Thomas winced as he saw blood pouring from a wound in the man’s lower chest. Even the best medical clinic on Avalon wouldn't be able to save him.
The remaining insurgents opened fire, violently. Thomas kept his head down as bullets cascaded over the house, blasting through the windows and slamming into the far walls. The sound was deafening as the bullets started to punch through the redbrick; desperately, he crawled out of the room before one of the bullets could score a hit through sheer bad luck.
He pressed his communicator and called for support. Moments later, he heard the sound of a mortar shell, followed by an explosion that made the entire building shake. It had taken enough abuse, he realised, to finally start collapsing into debris. Quickly, he ordered his men to evacuate the building, despite the risk. They didn't dare lose anyone in a pile of falling debris.
Outside, there was a smoking crater where the insurgents had stood. Thomas looked towards it, satisfied himself that they were no longer under attack, then half-ran, half-crawled towards the wounded insurgent. The man had gone into shock, Thomas discovered as he reached the insurgent; he didn't have long to live. If the shock didn't get him, the bleeding out definitely would. Thomas hesitated, then reached into his medical kit and produced a sedative tab, which he pushed against the man’s head. It would at least ensure his final few moments were peaceful. Half-annoyed at himself for such sentimentally, Thomas stood up and headed back towards his men. They’d pulled the bodies from the vehicles and placed them at the side of the road.
“They’ll be picked up,” Thomas assured them, as he heard more shells racing over his head. The enemy, it seemed, either had plenty of mortars or very capable launch crews. “But we have to report back to higher authority.”
He heard an engine sound and turned to see a pair of AFVs nosing their way towards their position. Hastily, he signalled that they were friendly. It would be all too easy, in the confusion of a battle, for friends to be mistaken for foes. But the AFVs stopped just past the burning ruins of their comrades and opened their hatches, disgorging reinforcements.
“We have orders to pause here to regroup, then press onwards,” the leader said. “You held this position?”
“Yes,” Thomas said, flatly.
“Others were killed in the houses,” the leader explained. “They sought cover ...”
Thomas gritted his teeth. The enemy CO – treacherous former Marine or not – was cunning. He’d known that the natural response to mortar bombardment was to seek cover ... and the houses had all been mined. When the soldiers had tried to hide, they'd run right into the blasts that had killed them.
“I see,” he said. “What are our orders?”
“Take forty winks, then get back into the fight,” the leader said.
Thomas nodded. At least the enemy wouldn't be getting much sleep.
***
“Two hundred and forty men – thirty-seven of them ours – killed or wounded,” Volpe said. “Seventeen AFVs, nine trucks ...”
Jasmine held up a hand. “Spare me the rest of the figures,” she ordered. She’d been played, right down the line. She hadn't realised the implications of a former Marine directing the enemy preparations ... and she damn well should have done. Instead, she’d been assuming – without ever quite realising it – that she was facing a standard insurgency. “Have the satellites been moved into place?”
“They have,” Volpe confirmed. “But they’re not as capable as the drones.”
“I know,” Jasmine said, tartly. She'd been a Marine before Volpe had started to shave, let alone joined the military. “But we have to make do with them.”
She wished, with a sudden intensity, that Mandy was there. They could talk openly. Instead, she was on her own.
“I will suggest that we start demolishing the buildings as we come across them,” Jasmine said. Some of the local magnates had wanted to redeem the Zone, rather than smash it flat, although Jasmine had pointed out that the rebels were hardly likely to leave the Zone intact by the time they were defeated. “The IEDs can be detonated ahead of time, allowing us to advance forward quickly.”
She sighed, then turned to look down at the live feed from the satellites. Her forces had held the line, but they’d been pushed back in places and morale had been dented quite badly. Thankfully, the enemy’s one major attempt at a large-scale counterattack had been detected and engaged with long-range weapons before they got into firing position. It had put them off launching another such attack.
“And then we can keep pushing them until they stand and fight,” she added. “Let the bastards try to stop us then.”
***
Gudrun had never worked so hard in her life before her first stint in the hospital when the fighting began. Hundreds of wounded, mostly men but some women, were dragged into the complex and dumped on the floor. The handful of trained medical personnel were utterly overwhelmed within minutes, leaving Gudrun and the other nurses – if they dared use that title to dignify themselves – to do what they could for the wounded. She had cleaned and bandaged wounds, wrapped up broken bones and watched helplessly as some of the wounded had died. And she didn't really know what she was doing!
She wanted to cry as a young man, no older than her brother, was brought into the room, bleeding from a nasty wound to the stomach. He made a noise of protest as Gudrun pulled open his shirt, then started to choke up blood. Gudrun had long since lost the squeamishness she’d felt when she’d first seen a wounded body, but she felt sick when she saw the full extent of the damage. She'd hoped she could bind the wound long enough to give him a fighting chance, yet she couldn't convince herself that it was possible. The man – practically a boy – let out a gurgling sound and sagged. Moments later, he was dead.
A hand fell on her shoulder and shook her, roughly. “There's no time to cry,” the doctor snapped. She was a shrew-faced woman who seemed to have developed an aversion to everyone on sight.
Gudrun disliked her and knew that most of the other nurses felt the same way. “Get the body out of here, then move on to the next patient.”
Gudrun pulled herself to her feet, signalled the orderlies and moved over to the next person. The doctor looked from wounded man to wounded man, then pointed to one of the less-wounded men and directed her orderlies to take him into the operating room. Gudrun gave her a puzzled look, which earned her a sarcastic scowl and an order to get back to work. The doctor didn't seem to be concentrating on the most badly wounded at all.
She was binding up a man’s stump – where his leg had been before the fighting started – when it hit her. The doctor was choosing to spend her time with the least critical patients because those were the ones with the greatest chance of survival. Their limited medical supplies couldn't be wasted on patients who were certain to die. Sickened, she finished binding the man's leg and then turned and fled from the ward. There was nothing she could do for them, for any of them. She didn't even know if she was doing more harm than good.
Outside, she saw a couple of young men sitting just outside the door and smoking something aromatic. Both of them looked shattered; one of them held the rolled-up piece of smoking paper towards her, as if he expected her to take a sniff for herself. Gudrun shook her head, firmly. One lesson she’d learned from her father was never to trust drugs, if only because there was no way to know where they'd come from or what had been done to them. The drug business had been booming ever since the economic crisis had begun, but the pushers had had a nasty habit of mixing the pure drug with other substances, trying to make it last longer.
Instead, she sat down next to them, put her head in her hands and started to cry.
“There, there,” one of the smokers said. He pointed towards the nearby buildings. “It will all be over soon.”
Retreat Hell Page 26