Crimson Worlds: Prequel - The Gates of Hell

by Jay Allan

  “What is it, Jon?” Worthington caught the change. He looked up at Kell, staring at the young aide.

  “It’s nothing, sir.” Kell stood at rigid attention, clearly uncomfortable.

  “Don’t waste my time, Tom.” Worthington didn’t use first names often, but he was asking his aide to speak freely about a superior officer, always a difficult position for a young captain. Anything that made Kell feel less formal would make that easier. “Do you have doubts about General Samuels?”

  Kell felt like his body was melting under Worthington’s withering gaze. “Sir, it is not my place to offer…”

  “I’m making it your place,” Worthington snapped, and his tone made it clear he expected an answer. “I want honesty, captain. Speak freely.”

  It was nothing Kell could easily put into words. He just didn’t trust Samuels, something he rarely felt about another Marine. It wasn’t his place to criticize Worthington’s command choices, but the sour tone in his voice had given him up, and now the general wanted to know. “Sir…” - Kell was still uncomfortable with the conversation – “…I have nothing specific to report. I just don’t like Colonel Samuels.” He hesitated again. “I don’t trust him, sir. He seems more concerned about his image and reputation than the men and women under his command.”

  Worthington sighed quietly, resisting the urge to nod in agreement. He concurred completely with his aide’s assessment, but it wasn’t going to help anyone for him to admit that. Samuels wasn’t his choice for a second-in-command, not by a long shot. Worthington wouldn’t have assigned him to the campaign at all if he’d had the choice. But he’d barely gotten the approval for Hammer and Anvil as it was, and he’d had to make concessions. Rafael Samuels might not be his choice as one of the best and brightest officers in the Corps, but he was a first rate kiss ass when it came to massaging the brass and the political bosses on Earth. There’s more politician than Marine in that one, Worthington thought. Samuels had come along with the approval for the operation, and there was nothing he could do about that. Charles Worthington was generally considered to be the foulest-tempered human being in all of mankind’s domains, but he was a Marine above all. When the Commandant gave him an order he might argue once or twice, but then he followed it…or died trying.

  “Well, Captain Kell, the colonel is commanding the Anvil forces, so let’s all make the best of it, shall we?” His tone softened considerably.

  “Yes, sir.” Kell cleared his throat. “Of course, sir.”

  “Now, would you kindly contact the good colonel and ask him when the rest of Anvil will be ready to move?” Worthington’s started at a normal volume, but it built up with each word until it became a small force of nature blasting its way through headquarters. “And if that answer isn’t less than one hour from now, you tell him I will come up there myself and rip the backside of his armor off…’cause his ass will be mine.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kell imagined the turmoil in Worthington’s med unit when his temper went off the rails like that. Heart rate, blood pressure…it all had to zoom off the charts. He wondered how the general’s new AI was handling it…and what world-class profanities had already been hurled its way.

  Worthington sat and watched Kell walk swiftly through the portable structure’s narrow doorway. No, he thought, I don’t trust Samuels either, captain…but he should be able to handle Anvil. He shook his head. “It’s Holm who’s got the hard road,” he whispered softly to himself. “He’s the one I’m worried about.” Worthington had extensively briefed Major Wheeler the day before the operation, but it hadn’t been Wheeler’s fate to command on the ground. Now Elias Holm shouldered that burden. Success or failure, the survival of 700 combat Marines…and possibly victory or defeat on Persis, even in the entire war. All on the shoulders of a 27-year old Marine captain.

  The op was designed to end the war, but it was nothing more than a well-devised gamble. Maybe Holm’s people would break through and hook up with the Anvil forces in time…or maybe they’d be overwhelmed and destroyed before they got close to Samuel’s relief columns. War was all calculation and planning…until it wasn’t. Then it was guts and determination. And luck.

  He stared at the large ‘pad on his desk, full of maps and troop dispositions. In the end, he thought, it all comes down to hoping for the best. Once, he’d been full of cockiness, inside and out, sure he could do anything. That was gone now, lost with the other vestiges of his youth, though the image of Viper Worthington remained the same. The invincible warrior, the Marines’ relentless combat leader. It was theatrics now, mostly, an iron image he portrayed, while inside he was thinking about the men and women living and dying on his decisions. That’s a responsibility men were never intended to endure for so long, he thought grimly. In the end it is caustic, corrosive…it eats a man up from the inside until all he can see are the pale, dead faces staring back at him.

  The invincible Viper Worthington. It was an image he’d worked hard to create, one that spread confidence in his Marines…and fear in his enemies. But Charles Everett Worthington didn’t feel invincible. He felt old.

  Chapter 3

  Yellow Sand Valley

  Northern Continent

  Planet Persis – Iota Persi II

  Day Three

  “What a shithole this place is.” Sergeant Rancik was looking down at his boots, caked with the bilious mustard-colored mud they’d been trudging through for a second straight day. “This fucking dirt is like paste or something.”

  “It’s sand, sergeant.”

  “What?” Rancik hadn’t really expected a response, especially not from the newest snot-nosed puppy recruit in the platoon.

  Danny Burke was marching just behind Rancik, exactly where the veteran squad leader had told his brand new cherry private to stay. “It’s sand, sergeant.” Burke’s voice was irritatingly cheerful, as usual. “Sand is finely ground rock, but dirt also…”

  “Private Burke, why would you think I’d give a fuck about any of this babbling bullshit?” Rancik stopped and turned abruptly.

  Burke had been following too close…he almost walked into Rancik before he caught himself. “Sorry, sergeant.” Most rookie privates would have practically lost their voices under the intense attention of their squad leader, their vocabularies reduced to barely audible versions of “yes sergeant” and “no sergeant.” But not Danny Burke. The eager private had a strange sort of confidence the rawest of the raw occasionally possessed, a wide-eyed eagerness that overrode the human instinct to flinch from something as imposing as a Marine sergeant. “It’s just that this stuff has some impurities that make it almost like concr…”

  “Private Burke!” The sound of Rancik’s voice hit like a tidal wave, rattling the speakers in Burke’s armor. “What are you, a fucking geologist? You will shut the fuck up now and take five steps back. It’s bad enough on this miserable fucking shithole of a planet without you humping my fucking armor.” Burke couldn’t see the withering glare through Rancik’s visor, but he could almost feel it. “Do we understand each other, private?”

  “Yes, sergeant.” Even Burke’s nearly unquenchable enthusiasm met its match in one of the Corps veteran squad leaders.

  “Now follow me and keep your piehole shut. Maybe you’ll even learn to be useful someday.”

  “Yes, sergeant.”

  Rancik turned and started forward again. The squad was on point, checking out an intermittent scanner contact about 5 klicks ahead of the main force. They were behind schedule – mostly thanks to having to trudge through the gluey mud – and Rancik was in a foul mood. They’d gone about another half klick when all hell broke loose.

  Rancik heard it immediately. “Everybody down!” He flopped to the ground, but too late. The first slug hit him in the leg, just below the knee. His body twisted, the force of the impact pushing the stricken leg out behind his body. Then more pain, his shoulder this time. He crashed to the ground, feeling the air forced from his lungs by the impact.

  “Mo
therfucker,” he screamed, his volume impressive despite his wounds. He flipped up his tactical display. It was staticky, hard to read. It looked like the whole squad was pinned down. It was difficult to get a read, but Rancik figured they had two KIA and another two wounded besides himself. That was half the squad down.

  He could feel the suit’s trauma control system working. The pain was already gone, at least most of it. He knew juicing him with painkillers was the easy part of his suit’s medical efforts, but he was still grateful. He needed his mind clear now…he had to get his squad out of this mess. And he had to report back to HQ. Now.

  “Goddammit,” he muttered, poking at the com controls, trying to contact HQ. Nothing. He tried the unitwide com, but all he got was static. Fuck, he thought…they’re jamming us hard. He angled his head as far as he could without getting it blown off, taking as good a look across the valley as he could. The fire was still coming in heavy. He had fallen down behind a small berm, and he was mostly protected where he lay. The tactical display was still a jumbled mess. He wasn’t sure where the jamming was coming from, but there was a hell of a lot of power behind it to shut them down cold like this.

  “Hammer HQ, this is recon force Beta.” He screamed into the com, hoping some portion of his message would get through. “We are under heavy attack. There are hidden strongpoints all over this valley. Request immediate combat support.” He slammed his fist down in frustration, the vibrations sending a wave of pain up his arm that momentarily overwhelmed the narcotics the suit had given him. “Fuck,” he screamed angrily.

  What am I going to do, he thought…how am I going to get this report back to HQ? The suit was still working, trying to stabilize his wounds. He felt a cold, mushy feeling, first on his shoulder and, a few seconds later, on his knee. He winced in pain, despite the heavy dose of drugs in his system. The trauma control system was forcing sterile foam into his wounds, stopping the bleeding and protecting the injured areas. It was a surprisingly effective stopgap measure, but it hurt like hell going in, even with the drugs. The stuff was formed on the spot from a chemical reaction, and it expanded as it was being injected, squeezing and working its way into every corner of the wound.

  His mind was racing, trying to figure a way out. They had no com, and they were pinned hard. He felt a shove…then a harder one. What the fuck? Then he realized. Burke!

  “Danny…” He instinctively tried the com, but it was completely blocked. He fumbled around, fishing for his visor control. He winced…the switch was controlled by the injured arm, and it hurt like hell fishing around for the lever. Finally, he got his finger in place and pulled. There was a clicking sound and then a small hiss. His visor snapped up, and he was looking at the dark gray image of Burke’s armored form hovering above in the corner of his vision.

  Burke was leaning over, looking at the med readouts on the sergeant’s armor. “Burke,” Rancik yelled as loud as his stricken body could manage. “Danny! C’mon, Danny, pop your fucking visor kid.” He swung around, trying to lift his good arm, slapping Burke’s armor with his gloved hand.

  Burke turned and looked down at Rancik. He paused, just staring for a few seconds. Great, Rancik thought…I must look just great.

  Burke’s visor snapped and retracted with the same hiss. “Sergeant, how bad are you hit?”

  “Never mind that, Burke.” Rancik was having trouble getting out the words. “Forget about me, kid. I need to you to go find headquarters and report to Captain Holm.”

  “I can’t leave you like this, serg…”

  “Do what I tell you, kid. Are you gonna argue with me every time I give you an order?”

  “No sergeant.” Burke still sounded uncertain.

  “Just do what I tell you and stop thinking, OK?”

  Burke nodded silently.

  “Get your ass outta here and go find Captain Holm. Tell him the enemy has hidden positions all through this valley.” He shifted uncomfortably, gritting his teeth. “Tell him they have some kind of heavy jammer around here. They’ve got all our com completely blocked.”

  Burke was looking down at Rancik, his face a mask of concern. “Sergeant…”

  “Just go, private.” Rancik looked up at the young Marine. “Go now. I’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, sergeant.” Burke looked around, trying to figure a way out of the depression that didn’t expose him to enemy fire. There was a small gully extending back, down the slight slope behind the position. He crawled a step and stopped, turning back toward Rancik.

  “Go private! Now!” Rancik waved his good arm.

  Burke paused for another few seconds then turned and crawled down the ditch, quickly disappearing from Rancik’s view. The veteran sergeant lay back, exhausted. He coughed, a fluid, loose sound in his chest, and he could feel the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. “I’m fucked up worse than I thought,” he muttered, laying his head back and letting out a long, painful breath. Then: “C’mon kid…keep your head down and make it back there in one piece.”

  Chapter 4

  Caliphate Outer System Command Station

  Orbiting Iota Persi IX

  Day Three

  “Mr. Dutton, I appreciate your meeting with me on such short notice.” Ali Hassan was a tall man, over two meters. He was wearing a tailored silk outfit typical of formal attire in the Caliphate. His beard was neatly trimmed, and he wore jeweled rings on several of his fingers. He was the picture of a Caliphate lord of the highest rank. “I realize that we have been longtime adversaries, but on this occasion, I believe we may be able to work together to end this costly and destructive war.”

  “It is my honor, Lord Hassan.” Jack Dutton bowed slightly to his companion, his eyes remaining fixed on the taller man’s. There was wary respect between the two, but no trust. In the Alliance, Dutton would have extended a hand, but Hassan had made the invitation, so he adopted the customs of his host. Dutton was a ruthless spy who had put more men in their graves than the Marines’ best sniper, but no one ever said his manners were less than impeccable. “I must confess to a bit of curiosity as to the purpose of this meeting.” Dutton was initially concerned Hassan was planning to assassinate him, but then he decided that didn’t make sense. They were enemies, yes, but there was nothing to be gained by a pointless killing. Alliance Intelligence would just retaliate in kind. No, there was no advantage in random murder, not for either side. Ali Hassan was ruthless, but he was also capable and coldly rational. Dutton didn’t see how a war of assassination between the agencies would help either Power’s war effort, and the Caliphate’s top spy was only too aware that Alliance Intelligence had the best covert killers of all the Superpowers. Any treachery by Hassan would only seal the Caliphate lord’s own fate.

  “I will do us both the courtesy of skipping over pointless niceties and, as your people say, get right to the point.” Hassan spoke in perfect English, with only the slightest accent. Though not relevant to the matter at hand, he also spoke Mandarin, Russian, and French. “I am authorized to offer peace terms to your government.”

  Dutton was a master at masking his emotions, but it took all he had to hide his surprise. The war had been trending in the Alliance’s favor, but the matter on Persis was far from decided. A peace overture was the last thing he’d expected. “Are you referring to a cessation of hostilities on Persis or a termination of the overall conflict?”

  “I am proposing a comprehensive settlement to end this long and destructive war.” Hassan paused and sucked in a deep breath. “Again, I will spare us both pointless posturing that can do nothing to benefit either of our nations’ interests. The Caliphate’s economy is nearing total collapse.” He looked up and stared directly into Dutton’s eyes. “And the Alliance’s as well.”

  Dutton felt an urge to deny the allegation about the status of the Alliance, but he caught himself. It would be a pointless gesture. There was no way to hide the strain the war had placed on his government and little to be gained in light of his adversary’s surprising honesty. T
he Alliance needed peace, as much as their enemies did. If the offer was sincere – and good enough – it could be a great opportunity. “If I return the favor and withhold my own pointless lies and posturing, perhaps we can expedite our business. What are the details of your proposal?” He knew he had the upper hand. It was weakness that compelled Hassan to call for the meeting. The Caliphate was on the defensive, and if they lost the battle for Persis, their position would be downright dire.

  Hassan looked down at the floor for an instant before catching himself and darting his eyes back toward Dutton. He was well aware he had the weaker hand, and he hated being in that position. But he knew what he had to do. “Your General Worthington is a capable adversary. He has brought your nation back from the brink of defeat.” He paused again, as if not wanting to say what he knew he had to. “The invasion of Persis was a masterstroke, and his insertion of forces behind our lines to threaten Tamiar was utterly brilliant. He caught Lord Atta entirely unawares.” Atta was the commander of the Caliphate defenses on Persis. “Indeed, the fool has already been sent to make his petition to a higher authority. He was executed this morning.”

  Dutton didn’t react. He wasn’t at all surprised that a scapegoat had been selected after Worthington’s daring operation. And, knowing the Caliphate, he wasn’t shocked it had happened swiftly. The landing had been only three days before, and Earth was nearly a full day’s transmission from Persis along the Caliphate’s Hypernet system. So the Caliph hadn’t thought long before handing out the death sentence. If he’d even been told of the situation. Unlike his brilliant father, the current Caliph was dangerously unstable and prone to fits of extreme rage. It was just as likely Atta had been condemned by the Caliphate high command, desperate to retrieve the situation before they were compelled to come clean with their unpredictable ruler. Indeed, after considering the facts briefly, Dutton would have ventured a guess that Hassan himself had ordered the deed done.