Rebellion's Fury

by Jay Allan

  Jamie continued forward, redirecting his fire to the retreating troopers. He knew Damian and the other veterans had mixed feelings about gunning down their former comrades, especially when they were running. But Jamie shared no such hesitation. The federals had stolen a decade of his life, stripped him away from the mother he barely remembered now. He had endured horrors that still tormented his sleep, and he didn’t care to differentiate between one group of feds and another. Those soldiers were here to crush his new home, to kill his comrades and allies. And that was all that mattered.

  The federal retreat was quickly turning into a rout as soldiers began to turn and run, their discipline finally failing them.

  “Target those fleeing feds,” he shouted into his comm. “None of them get away, do you hear me? Keep after them. This is our time! Time to repay these bastards for years of misery and death and oppression.” Damian had discouraged Jamie from choosing too many former prisoners for the new corps, but he’d still put about fifty of them in. Some of them were problem types, but nothing he couldn’t handle. And nobody hated the damned feds worse than men who’d been imprisoned in that mine.

  “After them,” he yelled. “Nobody escapes.” He fired his autocannons, taking down a whole row of troopers who were in wholesale flight. “Nobody!”

  Chapter 34

  South of the Intersection of Tillis and Sanderson Roads

  31 Kilometers North of Landfall

  Federal Colony Alpha-2, Epsilon Eridani II (Haven)

  The Third Battle of Dover—The Pursuit

  “The entire line is to fall back two kilometers.”

  “Yes, Colonel.” The aide repeated the order into the comm unit, the edginess in his voice clear. Granz wasn’t surprised. He felt it himself, though he dared to guess that he hid it better than the young lieutenant manning the communications board. He didn’t like depending on an officer’s academy grad still wet behind the ears as the conduit for his orders, but he’d sent all his more experienced aides off to the army’s left, to try to halt the collapse of the line before this still mysterious rebel assault.

  “And I want every third company to pull back and re-form. Their parent battalions are to thin their ranks to cover the gaps.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was one thing not to have any reserves when pushing forward, finishing off an almost broken army, and quite another not to have any when retreating. Which was what Granz knew his army was doing, even though he hadn’t overtly acknowledged that to himself.

  He’d imagined a tough fight, and as things progressed, he’d come to realize just how costly the victory here would be. But he’d never really seriously believed the rebels could beat his army. He’d blamed many of the problems encountered so far in the war on Semmes and his interference, but he was an honest enough man to realize he’d lost this fight himself.

  If it is lost, a stubborn thought shouted from within. Reorder the line, redeploy troops from the right.

  But even as the voices echoed in his mind, he shook his head. There wasn’t time. Too much of his army was spent. If he issued the retreat order now, he could withdraw in good order, rest and resupply. They still held Landfall, and from there the war could continue. The rebels were as exhausted as his troops, and they would have a much harder time replacing the vast amount of ordnance they’d used.

  And you will have time to find out just what is attacking your left flank, what kind of rebel trick or deception it is . . .

  “Lieutenant, I want all supply transports to begin moving south. We’re going to disengage. As soon as the army has pulled back to the new position, we’re going to start taking units off the line and getting them on the road.”

  “You mean we’re running? That the rebels beat us?”

  Granz felt a burst of anger at what he could take as insubordination. But he knew it was just the pride and spirit of a freshly minted officer talking.

  “No, Lieutenant, we’re not running. It’s a strategic decision, a redeployment preparatory to reengaging at a more advantageous time.” He shook his head. He’d always despised that kind of bullshit, the attempt to disguise failure as something else. “Yes, Lieutenant, we’re retreating. The rebels got the best of us here, but we’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again. But we’re not running. We’re withdrawing in good order. Have I fully explained myself enough for your satisfaction?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then give the order.”

  And let’s hope whatever the hell Ward has out there doesn’t destroy us before we make our escape.

  The runner came bursting out of the woods, heading right for Damian. The guards snapped their rifles out, alarmed at the potential threat to their commander.

  “Hold,” he yelled, afraid one of the overzealous sentries would shoot the messenger. “Report,” he said to the new arrival as he skidded to a stop right in front of him.

  “Sir . . .” The runner was gasping for air, and he was soaked in sweat, despite the definite chill in the air. “Captain . . .”

  “Take a breath, soldier. Another few seconds isn’t going to matter.”

  The trooper nodded and sucked in a deep breath, exhaling loudly. Then another.

  “General,” he said, still out of breath, but far better than he had been. “Captain Grant sent me to report. His assault is under way. His people encountered light resistance at first and swept all federals they encountered before them. Then they met up with what he believes were two fresh battalions. The fight went on for about fifteen minutes, sir . . . and the federals broke. Captain Grant and his people pursued, and he believes they virtually destroyed the two formations.”

  Damian felt a wave of relief. Things were far from over, and a hundred things could still go wrong, but it was good news no matter how he looked at it. Especially if Jamie was right about two whole federal units breaking.

  “That’s good news, Corporal.” He turned toward one of the guards standing behind him. “Take Corporal . . .”

  “Koogan, sir.”

  “Take Corporal Koogan and get him some water, and a place to rest for a few minutes.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Damian nodded. Then, turning toward Withers. “Get me a fresh runner, Ben. I want to send a message to Jamie.”

  “Yes, General.”

  Damian allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Perhaps his people could get their victory after all. That would be a great success, but his excitement was tempered. It was far from decisive, at least in terms of the rebellion as a whole. Even if Kutusov had been honest, if he would lobby his government to intervene, he still had to figure a way to get him back to Earth, and those there had to listen to him. Winning here at Dover would be only the first of seven or eight things that all had to work if Haven was going to win its independence.

  But you can’t get to seven or eight without getting past one.

  “General!” The runner was a captain, and from the looks of him, he was at least a veteran of the last year’s fighting. Ben Withers clearly understood as well as Damian what a crucial juncture they’d reached.

  “Find Captain Grant, and tell him to keep up his advance no matter what, in spite of resistance, casualties, anything. He is to angle his direction toward the enemy rear, attempting to get behind the federal army.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go,” Damian said. Then, as the officer turned and started to run, “And, Captain . . .”

  The runner stopped and looked back.

  “Tell him not to let anybody by. We need to bag as much of the federal army as we can.”

  “Yes, General.”

  Damian waved, and the officer took off again, disappearing into the dense woods.

  “Ben,” he yelled, and then turned, realizing his aide was right behind him. “Ben, army-wide order. All units are to advance. The feds are pulling back. Now let’s see what we can do to turn that retreat into a good old-fashioned rout, shall we?”

  “Yes, sir,” Withers said, wi
th about as much enthusiasm as Damian had ever heard in the grizzled veteran’s voice.

  “Keep firing. If you’re getting low on autocannon rounds, concentrate on the closest targets. Those lasers you’ve got’ll turn these guys into Landing Day dinner at a hundred meters or less.” Jamie was moving forward, firing aimed shots now, dropping one federal after another. It was easier, and a lot more fun, when the bastards were running instead of shooting back. A few thoughts tried to drift out of the recesses of his mind—guilt, pity—but then another recollection of the mine came bursting out of his memory and he gleefully shot another fed.

  He kept firing, and then, when the warning light flicked on, advising him he was down to his last 10 percent of heavy rounds, he took his own advice, and activated the lasers built into each arm of his suit.

  He extended his right arm and tapped his finger inside the suit, firing the weapons. The lasers made a high-pitched whine inside the armor, vaguely annoying, but nothing he couldn’t ignore. His first shot missed. The lasers had a different aiming dynamic than the autocannons, and he had to adjust. It took three more shots, but the fourth practically sliced a federal trooper in half.

  He kept moving, and then he froze. There was something up ahead. It was the Sanderson Road, with a whole line of transports just sitting there.

  “Take those transports,” he yelled into the comm. “That’s the federal supply column. We’re behind the army! Get over there, take out those transports before they can withdraw, and cover that road. My bet is we’ll have retreating feds coming right into us.”

  Jamie swung around to the side, avoiding the small remaining cluster of federal troops in front of him. There were plenty of his people still there to finish them off. He wanted to get to the road.

  Another ten or twelve steps and he was there, standing out in the open, looking at a confused mob of feds, on the verge of panic. A few started shooting at him, but most of them were too busy trying to get away.

  He swung his arm around, clicking the control to activate his right autocannon. He didn’t have much ammo left, but this was a good use of it. He opened up on the crowd, just as three of his people burst out of the woods and did the same. It was a nightmare, a massacre like none he’d ever seen before. There had been perhaps four hundred federals stacked up on the road. Maybe one fourth of those escaped into the woods . . . and the rest were sprawled out on the blood-soaked road, dead or dying. Even Jamie’s rage and hatred was satiated, and he turned his attention to the trucks.

  “Careful with these transports. They may have supplies the army needs. Just make sure none of them get away.” As he spoke he saw a small column of vehicles among the supply transports. They were different, bigger, with large dish antennas on top. They were some kind of communication vehicles, he could guess that much. But what?

  The jamming?

  He had no idea. He couldn’t tell a jamming transmitter from a telephone, but it seemed like a good guess. And he was damned sure Damian would appreciate some clear comm for a change.

  “Take out those vehicles over there,” he shouted, pointing toward the trucks. “The ones with the dishes on top. Take them out now.”

  He stood where he was, staring at the forward vehicle, as he brought the rail gun up to bear.

  “General, the federals are breaking! We’re getting reports from all across the field. They’re breaking.” Katia came rushing toward Damian from the small tent where his people had set up the main comm station. The federal jamming had left her without much of a job, save to answer repeated requests for updates from the Haven Congress, in session back at the army’s old camp, but then, suddenly, the interference was gone, and almost as one, every unit on the field reported in, all with the same message. The federal army was running!

  Damian felt a rush of excitement. He’d hoped the pressure would push the federals back, but the disappearance of the federal jamming was something he’d never thought about. He didn’t know what had happened, and he didn’t care, but he intended to get the most out of his clear communications while he had them.

  “Let’s go,” he said, waving toward the comm tent. “Send messages to all units. Attack. My orders to all commanders are attack.”

  “Yes, sir.” Katia was excited, as well, because the battle appeared to be swinging their way, of course, but also because the success indicated that Jamie’s armored troopers were doing well. Damian was enough of a veteran to know that victory didn’t mean Grant’s people hadn’t suffered losses, or that his friend couldn’t easily die in the triumph, but he didn’t want to darken her hope. It would serve no purpose.

  The two of them slipped inside the tent. Katia sat at her station. Damian listened for a few seconds as she repeated his order to the various commanders along the front.

  The whole thing still seemed unreal, almost like a dream. He tried to restrain his thoughts, to remember that even a crushing win here—and he was far from sure his people would achieve that—was no guarantee of winning Haven’s freedom. But the discipline he’d demanded of himself since the day he’d accepted command of the army had its limits, and he let out a deep breath and gave himself a few seconds to smile, a moment of pride for his soldiers. No one, at least no one with any military experience, had given his people a chance, any chance at all, he was sure of that, and he counted himself in that group. They’d had an assist here from Holcomb’s amazing armor, but he reminded himself to give credit to the men and women as well as the tech. His troopers had fought doggedly all across the line, inflicting massive casualties on the attacking federals, even before Grant’s armored troopers attacked.

  He took a few steps—three were enough to reach the other side of the tent—and he picked up the headset for the second comm unit. He reached down and turned the channel controls. He had to report this to John Danforth, now. It wasn’t out of any sense of obligation to the congress, but Danforth was the father of the rebellion, probably the man most responsible for all that had happened. And he was Damian’s friend.

  Damian didn’t like jumping the gun, reporting things before they were fully in hand, but he knew Danforth would be waiting, his gut twisted with tension. He deserved to know, as soon as possible.

  “This is General Ward,” he said softly. “Get me President Danforth. Now.”

  Chapter 35

  The Old North Road

  4 Kilometers South of Vincennes

  Federal Colony Alpha-2, Epsilon Eridani II (Haven)

  The Federal Retreat

  “Stay on them. They’re still disorganized, even if they’ve rallied some. Pick a spot, sneak up on their line of march, take out a few, and slip away before they can do anything. Then do the same damned thing again.” Patrick Killian was standing in front of a dozen rebel soldiers, gesturing to the west, toward the road that was clogged with the retreating federal army. He’d gotten Damian’s permission to take a force in pursuit of the feds, to harass them and inflict as many additional casualties as possible. His efforts had borne fruit, but less than he’d hoped. His rangers had been almost annihilated in the protracted fighting around Landfall through the winter, and now he had mostly line troops—not quite up to the guerilla tactics he employed.

  He turned toward Des Black. “Des, I want you to take half this group. Slip down that ravine”—he pointed to the south—“you remember it, right? It should give you a great route to sneak up and grab some high ground with a good field of fire to the road.”

  “Yes, Colonel. I remember it.”

  “I’ll take the rest, and we’ll backtrack. These units closer to the rear are still pretty shaken up. If we can hit them a few times, maybe we can slow them down, give us the chance to hit them a few more times.”

  “I agree, sir.”

  “Good. Get on that ridge and hit them as hard as you can. But pull back before they can come at you. You’re better off repositioning and hitting them again than getting into a firefight.”

  “Yes, Colonel.” Black turned and started barking out
orders to the troopers standing in front of him. A few seconds later, they slipped off into the woods.

  Killian pulled up his rifle and moved toward the remaining troopers. “Okay, you’ve done well so far, but the job’s not done, not yet.” He paused, looking off through the woods for a few seconds before continuing. “Let’s go. We’ve still got work to do.”

  “Colonel Granz, I will see that you pay for this. Our plan was flawless, the enemy on the verge of total collapse, and yet somehow you managed to turn certain victory into a unmitigated disaster.” Robert Semmes was more than angry.

  He was completely unhinged.

  Granz stood and silently endured Semmes’s tirade. He was too miserable himself to even care about the general’s abuse. The whole thing still seemed surreal. In a single day, he’d gone from the expectation of victory to the officer who had led federal forces to the worst defeat in their history. It was a nightmare, a living one, and part of him wished a bullet had found him, that he was one of the nearly fifteen hundred of his soldiers dead on the field.

  He’d come close to total despair, but just for a moment. His life had been one of duty, and he refused to fail that now. He had thousands of wounded soldiers, and the rest of the army retreating. They needed him. They had to re-form, reorganize, prepare for the next fight. Granz was no expert on revolutions, but it was clear even to him that news of Damian Ward’s victory would spread like wildfire. Recruits would pour into the rebel camp, thousands of volunteers, and the general had already shown his ability to turn those unseasoned colonists into hardened warriors.

  Granz hadn’t wanted to come to Alpha-2. The idea of fighting colonists who were his countrymen had been unsettling to say the least. But the last thing he’d expected was a real war, one his army could lose. Now, for the first time, he contemplated just such an outcome.

  Damian Ward had proven himself, and he’d won Granz’s respect. And this new weapon the rebels possessed was worrisome. He’d finally had a chance to piece together the reports, and in the closing moments of the battle, he’d witnessed the things himself. He knew the federal authorities had been working on powered armor for a long time, but had never figured out workable prototypes. He had no idea how the rebels had managed to develop such weapons, let alone produce what seemed like hundreds of the suits.