by James Hunt
When Lance was still an officer in the navy, he’d commissioned a small group of sailors, which included himself, to search the coast for any hidden alcoves that they could use in times of war. The objective allowed them to know where they could exploit their natural barriers and potentially where their enemies could as well.
From the deck of a ship, it would look as though they were about to crash into a cluster of rocks, but the small alcove was deceptively deep, albeit narrow, and only a captain that knew the path would be able to enter. And it was Canice that had helped Lance map the area.
Jason kept to the railing as they passed by towering jagged pieces of rock, the waves of the Pacific crashing into the ancient cliffs, its salty waters slowly eroding the stony walls. White foam splashed upward with the waves, and Jason covered his nose with his shirt as the scent of bird shit intermixed with the salty air.
The path Canice followed led them to a small cave, just large enough for one ship. The high tide allowed for the Sani’s deck to be above the flat ledge of rock they used to tie off and unload. While the crew of the ship was well over one hundred, only six would be infiltrating the camp. It was agreed that the smaller the number, the easier the deception.
Jason grabbed his sack of bombs, each device no larger than his fist, with wires protruding both out and around the brick-like explosive. It was hard to believe that something so small could produce what Alvy had described, but now wasn’t the time to question the engineer’s abilities.
The Russian uniforms that they’d managed to get their hands on smelled as bad as they looked. They were all common infantry. While they thought of stealing officers’ uniforms, they decided it was best to remain low key. The more they blended into the masses, the less attention they’d draw to themselves.
Once all of the bombs had been loaded into their packs and the plan walked through one more time to ensure everyone understood the drop-off points, they made their way up the steep rock, slick from the ocean spray, and toward the capital.
Jason kept them close to the shoreline, hugging the coast to steer clear of the bulk of Rodion’s scouts positioned in the south, using the crashing of the waves to cover any of their noise.
Even from a few miles away, Jason could see the twinkling fires of Rodion’s camp, dotting the horizon like the rising of a morning sun. Tens of thousands of fires, all with men sitting around them, armed with the most advanced weaponry an infantry had possessed in more than fifty years.
Voices murmured to Jason’s left, and he froze, crouching low in the brush. Canice and the rest mimicked his motions. Jason squinted his eyes into the darkness, trying to locate the scouts’ location. The thick Slavic accent easily gave away their identity.
Canice pointed through the brush to a cluster of trees, where Jason watched the outlines of two soldiers pass by, their leisurely pace offering no fear of attack on their patrol. They stayed low until their voices faded in the distance, then Jason gave a nod and continued their trek north.
Half a mile from the main camp, the six members split off to their points of entry. Before Canice took off, Jason grabbed her wrist and pulled her close, keeping his voice low. “The mission comes first. Then we take Rodion.” It was hard to tell in the darkness whether or not Canice’s expression was one of understanding or defiance, but Jason let her go regardless, watching her disappear soundlessly into the night.
Jason kept his head down along the back side of the tents where he penetrated the camp. He pulled his cap low and gripped the cord to the sack over his shoulder tighter. All around him, soldiers laughed, drank, and fought, bragging about the number of men killed in battle. But Jason knew it took no skill to squeeze a trigger that pumped ten rounds a second into the chest of your enemy.
Jason pulled the first device from his pack and tucked it under the shelf of a few rocks stationed next to the garrison then moved on to the barracks, many of which had been the homes of his people. He maneuvered through the thick crowds and drunken nonsense, the bag over his shoulder becoming lighter and lighter.
Finally he made his way to the main quarters, where most of the officers were stationed. The closer he moved toward the officers’ units and away from the grunts, the less rowdy the crowd became, and the more eyes he felt on him as he walked through the camp.
It was slower going once around the officers’ camps, but Jason’s bag had finally emptied. He discarded the sack and started to make his way to find Rodion when gunfire erupted behind him. Shouts and hysteria followed as Jason kept to the edge of the crowds gathering at the officers’ tents.
With most of the paths into the camp blocked, Jason hurried around the sides, looking for a way to cut in without trapping himself in the hordes. When he found a path between two tents, he sprinted then skidded to a halt as he watched Canice being thrown into a circle of soldiers as they howled and chanted around her.
Then he watched Rodion push his way through the cluster of soldiers, towering over Canice, who struggled to get to her hands and feet. Jason cursed under his breath and looked around, the growing crowd dipping into the hundreds now.
“This bitch came into my tent, trying to kill me!” Rodion bellowed then fed off the jeers and curses spit at Canice, whose forehead bled profusely. He reached down and yanked her up by her braid, nearly snapping her neck in the process. “Should we fuck her before we kill her?” The men cheered wildly while Rodion tore at the collar of her shirt.
Jason tried pushing his way through the soldiers, but the crowd had grown too thick. He reached for the rifle over his shoulder but stopped. We’d both be dead before I made it to her. He backpedaled, frantically looking for something, anything he could use as a distraction. His heart pounded in his chest as the Russian chants grew louder.
Canice screamed as Jason pulled the rifle from his shoulder and took aim into the crowd until his peripheral vision caught something on the right side, where he suddenly remembered the last explosive he’d laid and what Alvy had said about the device. It needs a signal or a sudden combustion to detonate. He pivoted his aim to the bomb, brought it between his crosshairs, and fired.
The explosion knocked Jason back three feet, the percussion of the blast deafening. He rolled in the dirt, bits of debris raining down on him, and the cluster of soldiers surrounding Canice sprinting away from the blast site.
Feet and legs scurried past Jason’s face, a few of them stepping on his arms and hands as they ran by. Jason pushed himself up, the ground wobbling under him. He stumbled forward, his shoulder smacking into a number of fleeing Russians. The rifle was gripped in his hand as he saw Canice on the ground, her shirt torn from her, unconscious. Towering above her, barking and shouting orders to the men, stood Rodion. Jason blinked, bits of dirt falling from his eyes. He brought the rifle to his shoulder, his finger on the trigger, ready to end the general then and there.
But before Jason enacted his vengeance, the entire camp erupted in explosions, the detonation of bombs thundering like the voice of God. Once again Jason was dropped to the ground, his entire body rattling from the percussive blasts.
A lull in the explosions provided Jason enough time to return to his footing. Canice was still unconscious, now covered in dirt, the earth around her head stained a darker black in the night. But Rodion was nowhere to be seen. Jason scrambled to Canice, knowing they wouldn’t have much time until the navy started raining down lead with its long-range guns.
Jason tore off his jacket, wrapped Canice up, and scooped her from the ground. He sprinted as fast as he could through the campsite, where he passed the dead and dying, mangled and dismembered bodies.
A soldier barreled through two of the buildings in the town and crashed into Jason’s shoulder, sending him, Canice, and the fleeing Russian to the mud. The Russian jumped to his feet and sprinted away shouting curses, and it wasn’t until Jason heard the thunder of cannons from the coast that he understood why.
A cannonball exploded into one of the nearby houses then detonated upon i
mpact, collapsing the building into toothpicks. The long-range cannons had been modified with explosive artillery, an upgrade compliments of Alvy and the engineers.
The cannonade was relentless, the earth erupting around Jason like volcanoes. Geysers of limbs, dirt, wood, rock, blood, and bodies spewed from the earth with every explosive contact. Jason scooped Canice in his arms, which burned with fatigue. His legs turned to jelly, his knees nearly buckling twice on his sprint through the chaos. He felt Canice’s blood drain from the wound on her forehead, the warm liquid staining his shoulder, chest, and arms.
Roars and shouts coming from the east suddenly intermixed with the booming thunder of the cannon fire, and Jason knew that Dean had ordered the attack. All Jason focused on was putting one foot in front of the other, blocking out the pain, the tiredness, the fog that slowly engulfed his mind, trying to find safety.
A unit of Russians rounded the corner from a surviving section of the camp, heading toward the front lines to engage his brother in war. Jason veered right, trying to stay out of the Russians’ path, but a group of them broke off at the sight of him carrying Canice.
“Hey!” A short, stout Russian with a broad face wrapped his chubby hands around Jason’s arm, yanking him backward. When the second and third soldiers crept up on him, he dumped Canice to the side and pulled his rifle. The bullets tore through their soft flesh and dropped them to the ground just as another unit sprinted by, witnessing the carnage. Before the soldiers had a chance to fire, Jason dragged Canice behind the cover of the building, which quickly turned to Swiss cheese.
Jason reached for another magazine of ammunition, the boots of the Russians stomping in the mud down the alleyway to finish the job. He clicked the magazine into place just as the first soldier turned the corner. He fired, sending the Russian slithering back behind the cover of the building. He kept his finger on the trigger until the firing pin signaled he was out then chucked the rifle away and shoved Canice’s body in the tight space under the building and drew his sword. He charged the corner, thrust his blade into the first body he encountered, and shoved the bloodied Russian into his comrades. Gunfire flashed from one of the muzzles, and Jason ducked left to evade it, knocking the rifle away with his saber in the process, then silenced the gunshots and the soldier with quick slice of his throat.
With the remaining three on the ground, Jason hacked off one head while the Russian knelt and drove the heel of his foot into the face of another. The very last Russian backpedaled on all fours, his face twisted and begging for mercy, but he received none. The Russian Jason had heeled in the face flopped on the ground, moaning as he crawled for one of the rifles just a few feet away. Jason drove the steel into his back and ended the Russian’s struggle.
Jason returned to Canice and pulled her from under the building, her body covered in a gritty mixture of dirt and blood. The gash on her forehead had clotted, but her face was pale, and she still lay unconscious. “Canice!” He checked her airway; she was breathing, but barely. He checked the rest of her for any injuries then cleaned the gash on her forehead with a canteen from one of the dead Russians and wrapped it with the cleanest part of his shirt that he could find.
Jason carried her back to the coast, the sound of war still raging behind him, and he didn’t stop until he saw the ship in the Pacific, its long-range cannons chasing the Russians north. Once he made it back to the cove where the Sani was harbored, the crew helped carry Canice the rest of the way, and Jason collapsed on the deck, exhaustion finally catching up with him. He looked down at his arms and chest, unsure of whose blood was whose.
Chapter 8
Delun burst through the doors of the engineers’ hut, all of them turning at once upon his entrance, their heads bowed in submission, but not before Delun caught the look of surprise on their faces at the sudden intrusion. “Delays?” The word rolled off of the emperor’s tongue and into their ears like a blade piercing flesh. “Have I not given you the necessary resources?” Delun walked around the group, their heads still bowed. “Have I not given you the time? The patience?” Once he made a full circle, he stopped then pounded his fist on the table, rattling the tools and parts that rested on top. “Have I not given you trust?”
The first engineer that spoke kept his head down. “My emperor, you have, but these systems are complex, and with many of our tools still in Brazil, it has been difficult with the replacements you have given us.”
Delun gripped the engineer by the throat and yanked his head up, his fingertips digging into the man’s skin. “Your excuses will not win me this war.” He spoke through gritted teeth as the engineer’s face turned a light shade of red from lack of oxygen. “Your ignorance will not keep my enemies at bay! Nor yours!” Delun shoved the man back, and he crashed into the table of gear behind him, gasping for breath. The rest of the engineers kept their heads bowed, every last one of them quivering. “I want those weapons outfitted on my ships by the end of the week. Do you hear me?”
“It can’t be done, Emperor.” The engineer on the far-right side spoke quietly, his voice shaking with every syllable. “It will take more time.”
“More time?” Delun raised his eyebrow. He walked over to the engineer calmly then placed his finger under the man’s chin and lifted his face. “What is your name again?”
“Marco, my emperor.”
Delun let the man’s chin go. He patted the back of the engineer’s head then gestured to one of the soldiers behind him. “Ah, yes, Marco. You have a son, if I’m not mistaken.”
Marco offered another shudder at the mention of his family. “Yes, Emperor.”
Delun snapped his fingers, and a soldier dragged Marco’s boy inside by the scruff of his neck. Delun grabbed the boy and dropped him to his knees. He was barely sixteen, old enough to be a soldier, but Marco had asked that his boy not fight in exchange for the engineer’s services. “Death does not wait for time, nor time for death.” Delun turned his back to Marco and bent down to look his son in the eyes. “Your father’s lack of confidence will be painful.”
Delun smacked the boy across the chin, and he hit the floor. Marco lunged for Delun, but the soldiers held him back. The boy whimpered on the ground, trying to crawl away, blood dripping from his lip. Delun turned the boy around and punched him in the nose, knocking him backward onto the floor.
“No! Please! Stop!” Marco writhed fruitlessly in the guard’s control, tears streaming from his face as he helplessly watched Delun strike his son again and again.
The warm gush of blood covered Delun’s fist with each punch, the light crunch of bone and cartilage slowly morphing to pulp from each blow. His knuckles ached, and his shoulder grew tired, but Delun continued the beating until the boy’s body went limp on the floor, blood dripping from his knuckles.
Marco was finally released and crawled to his son, cradling the boy’s beaten face in his lap. The father looked up, tears and pain dripping from his eyes, and he shook his head. “Why?”
Delun knelt down and grabbed the father’s face, smearing his own son’s blood on his cheeks. “Because I am the emperor. My word is law, and anyone who does not abide by it will die. Outfit my ships by the end of the week, or I’ll drag in your daughter next.” He shoved Marco backward then looked to the rest of the engineers. “And that goes the same for all your families. I will not tolerate laziness, excuses, or failure. Work or die.”
All of the engineers kept their heads bowed except for Marco, who lay sobbing on the ground, clutching his son, praying to whatever gods he believed in to save his child.
The news coming from Rodion’s retreat from the capital had left a sour taste in Delun’s mouth, and the fact that the Australians had begun raiding some of the smaller islands, testing their limits in warfare against Delun’s navy, had left him irritable. He knew the game the Aussies were playing. They wanted to draw him out, make him come to Australia once again to fight on their land, their terms. The western Australian city of Perth was one breath away from being retake
n by the Australians, ending Delun’s foothold in the country. He knew it could be retaken once the bulk of his fleet returned from the Bering Sea, but it would cost more resources than he was willing to part with.
Delun’s nerves were frayed by the time he returned to his quarters, and he ordered everyone out so he could think in quiet. Rodion’s failure in the west wasn’t nearly as concerning as the weaponry he’d described now in the Mars brothers’ possession. No doubt the engineers that Fung had failed to bring him were now working for the governors. It was astonishing how much frustration one family could bring.
Delun rubbed his temples then made his way over to his books and plucked the first spine his hand touched. Reading had always calmed his mind, and he needed to slow his thoughts, corral the chaos into a more ordered stream of consciousness.
Where do they derive their strength? The answer to that question had eluded Delun. Was it their naval superiority? Their army? Their generals? Weapons? People? Land? Alliances? What was their purpose?
Delun knew that every man had a driving force, a renewable energy that fueled his actions, pushed him beyond the realm of his own capacity. For Delun, it was his mind; for many of his soldiers, it was their weapons; but for the Mars family, he could not place it.
Family. The word tickled the back of Delun’s mind, and he shot up from his chair, pacing back and forth, doing his best to cultivate the small spring welling up in his thoughts. The Mars family had rooted itself by means of war, but that wasn’t what kept it growing, flourishing. It was a tree that never ended and would continue to grow until the roots had been ripped from it.
But what were the Mars roots? Delun sent for the communications director at once, hoping the intelligence they’d gathered would prove useful. He had eyes everywhere, albeit he found that in that particular line of work, trust was a delicate balance. Perpetual deception was a life not everyone was capable of living.
When the communications director entered, he bowed, the long tip of hair stretching from his chin remaining as straight as an arrow from the thick balms he used for grooming. While the man’s facial hair may have been angular, everything else about him was incredibly round. “My emperor, I thank you for your invitation.”