Crimson Worlds: Prequel - The Gates of Hell

by Jay Allan

  “Yes, sir.” Masur was reading a feed on his helmet’s tactical display. “We have four squads out on patrol now, sir, and four fresh ones set to relieve them in an hour.” He paused then added, “And all other units are on alert, sir.”

  “Very well, lieutenant.” Holm was still staring out across the ugly yellow sand to the low mountains five klicks to the south. “I want to know the instant the landers disembark from the…”

  “Sir, we’ve lost contact with orbital command.” Masur interrupted, his voice thick with concern. The comlink connection was suddenly noisy, staticky. “It’s almost like…” He paused, staring at his tactical projection.

  “Like what, lieutenant?” Holm’s tone was impatient, demanding. He raised his voice, compensating for the interference. “Lieutenant,” he repeated when he didn’t get a response.

  Masur’s voice went cold, numb sounding. “Sorry, sir.” He hesitated for an instant, checking for the third time even though he knew what had happened. “It’s some sort of atmospheric jamming, sir. Not like before…it’s different this time.” He hesitated a few seconds before continuing, the alarm in his voice increasing substantially. “I’ve detected several nuclear explosions in the upper atmosphere.” Another pause, slightly longer this time. “Sir, they’ve blocked our fleetcom with enhanced E3 EMP.” He was yelling, trying to be heard over the growing noise on the com. “Someone deliberately cut our communications with the fleet.” A brief hesitation then: “And I don’t see how the landers are going to make it down through that, sir.” He stared at Holm. “I think we’re stuck down here.”

  Holm’s eyes blazed as he glared back at Masur. He knew immediately. The peace had been a trick, some kind of ruse. The enemy was coming. And his people were stuck down here…cut off, alone. “All units, prepare to repel an attack.” His voice was sharp, definitive. “All personnel are to take immediate cover.” Maybe they’d cut their paranoid commander a break now, he thought. The trenches weren’t done yet, but they were a helluva lot better than nothing out on that flat open plain.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Holm realized his caution was right, but there was no satisfaction in being vindicated. His people were about to be in a world of hurt, and it was going to take all he had to pull them through. If that was even possible. His armored hands balled up into metallic fists, the frustration turning quickly to anger…then rage.

  “I want all heavy weapons deployed imm…” Holm stopped when his comlink practically exploded in his ears, dozens of voices fighting through the maddening static. Every scout and sentry in the battalion was calling in at once. The reports were all the same. There were enemy troops approaching from all directions.

  Chapter 11

  AIS Stryker

  Docked inside AS Belleau Wood

  Mid-Level Orbit

  Planet Persis – Iota Persi II

  Day Eleven

  Worthington stared down at the untouched tray. Two turkey sandwiches, some raw vegetables with dip, a small pack of almonds…whatever they’re up to, they aren’t trying to starve me, he thought. The lunch would certainly have passed muster with the fleet nutritionist, though he doubted anyone in the naval chain of command was a party to his imprisonment. Whatever this was, he thought grimly, it had the filthy stink of Alliance Intelligence all over it.

  He wasn’t interested in food, however, no more than he’d been when he sent back breakfast…and dinner the evening before. His stomach was twisted into knots. It was anger certainly, but also concern. This abduction was going to have repercussions. There were going to be a lot of questions to answer. Alliance Intelligence didn’t have him locked away in some cell for no reason. Something was going on, and he’d have bet his last credit it was bad. Probably worse than anything he could guess.

  He considered jumping the guard when he came for the tray, but he discarded the plan for the same reason he had that morning. There was a two-part security system in the detention area, designed just to prevent an escape of that sort. All he could achieve by breaking out of his cell was to be stuck in the anteroom beyond, without any means to open the external door. He longed for the days depicted in the historical novels he enjoyed reading, when all a prisoner had to do was jump a guard and grab a physical key. Unfortunately, the locks on Worthington’s prison were all electronic and centrally controlled…and hacking into a top tier security AI was well beyond his abilities. An abortive escape attempt would accomplish nothing except increasing the watchfulness of his jailors. That was the last thing he needed; their carelessness was his only hope of getting out in time to deal with whatever scheme was going on, miniscule chance that it was.

  He was on a small ship; he knew that much. He’d been led aboard blindfolded, unable to ID the vessel itself. It couldn’t be more than a 200 tonner, or it wouldn’t fit inside Belleau Wood’s bay. There hadn’t been any outside vessels in the bay when his people had launched the invasion, but he’d been down on the surface for weeks now, and he had no idea what ships had docked with the big troop carrier since. He hadn’t felt any acceleration, or any movement at all since he’d been imprisoned, which meant his prison ship was still inside Belleau Wood. Hundreds of his Marines were just meters away. But he had no way to reach anyone. The frustration just kept building.

  He wondered how Kell was faring. The two had been separated when they were brought aboard, and they were put in different cells. Worthington was a little worried about the aide. Kell was good at his job, the best he’d ever seen. Between his cantankerous personality and his unceasing demands, the faithful captain had taken everything he’d dished out and come back for more. Worthington respected that…and beyond that, he just liked the tenacious officer.

  He knew how Alliance Intelligence operated. They wouldn’t hesitate to do away with an officer who got in their way, at least not for any moral or ethical reasons. Worthington himself was too high profile to simply disappear or to end up dead, shot by intelligence operatives. There would be too many questions, too much scrutiny. He was famous throughout the Alliance, a war hero of massive proportions. But a miscellaneous captain could easily be written off, a manufactured list of infractions slipped into his record along with the tragic report that he’d resisted arrest and been killed in a firefight with agents. Kell was probably worth more to Dutton alive, as a tool to gain Worthington’s cooperation, but he was still worried.

  He glanced down at the tray, considering taking one of the sandwiches. He’d refused to give them the satisfaction of eating anything they sent him, but now he started to wonder if he should keep his strength up. If he did manage to get out of the cell, he didn’t know what he’d have to do. He had to be ready for anything, including fighting his way out. He was just reaching down to grab the top sandwich when he heard it…a sound he’d know anywhere. Marine assault rifles firing.

  He scanned the room quickly, instinctively, searching for anything he could use as a weapon. There was nothing useful on the tray, just a set of soft, pliable plastic utensils. He might poke someone in the eye with them, but that was the extent of their combat potential. Alliance Intelligence had its faults, but the organization had enormous expertise at handling prisoners. It was very unlikely he’d find anything that could be weaponized in a meaningful way. He grabbed the tray itself, knocking the food all over the floor. It was light plastic, not very useful as a club. But it was all he had. He leapt up and stood alongside the door, waiting, ready to spring at whoever came through.

  There was more fire, distant at first and then closer…in the anteroom just beyond his door. “General Worthington, sir. Get away from the door. Take cover in there.”

  The voices were muffled by the heavy door, but he understood every word, and his heart leapt. They were Marines. He was sure of it. His Marines. He moved away from the door, ducking quickly down below the small bunk. He was crouched low, his head tucked down between his arms. The training had been decades before, but he remembered it. At least the important parts. He listened to his he
art pounding, each beat reverberating loudly in his ears. The delay seemed like an eternity, though he knew it was only a few seconds. Finally, there was a loud crack, and the door came flying out of its frame, blown inward by the controlled blast. It smashed into the opposite wall with an earsplitting crash. An instant later, armored figures poured inside. One of them looked down at him as he raised his head up and returned the stare. “We’re here to get you out, general. Come with us, sir.” The armored Marine extended a steel-gloved hand.

  Worthington pulled himself up to his feet, grabbing ahold of the proffered arm. He stared at the looming figures, huge and imposing in their dark gray fighting suits, assault rifles extended, smelling faintly of ozone from recent use. He could see through the door at an angle. His field of view was poor and incomplete, but he could make out at least two bodies, both wearing the dark brown uniforms of Alliance Intelligence guards. Whatever was going on, he knew his Marines had acted on their own. There was going to be hell to pay, he was certain of that. But none of that made a bit of difference now…they had more important things to do.

  He stared at the leader of the group, the Marine who had helped him to his feet. He’d thought the voice was familiar through the heavy door, but he hadn’t been able to make it out. Now it was crystal clear. He’d know it anywhere.

  “Colonel Thomas, I’ve never been so glad to see your ugly face before.”

  Chapter 12

  Anvil Force Perimeter

  Yellow Sand Valley

  Northern Continent

  Planet Persis – Iota Persi II

  Day Thirteen – Morning

  The fire was thick all along the line. They’d been fighting nonstop for three days, and there was no sign of a letup. The enemy had been throwing fresh assaults at them every few hours. Holm’s forces had over 200 casualties, and the toll kept growing. But they were holding everywhere. All along the perimeter, Elias Holm had been wherever the fighting was heaviest, anyplace his Marines were wavering. He’d shifted his scant reserves wherever they were most needed, and he’d stood in the line with a battered platoon, firing his assault rifle along with theirs.

  Everywhere Holm went, Danny Burke followed. Lieutenant Masur had been hit two days before. He was alive, but the shell took one of his legs clean off and only left part of the second one. He was in the field hospital, stabilized but still in critical condition. He’d be a candidate for the new regeneration process…a medical miracle that would allow him to grow two new limbs from his own DNA. Regeneration would give him the chance to return to the colors as good as new, but the Marine hospital on Armstrong was the only place off Earth equipped to do regens. Armstrong was lightyears away, and Masur was stuck on Persis, half-conscious on painkillers and sedatives, waiting to see if his brethren won the battle…or if he’d die in a POW camp.

  Burke had convinced Holm to let him fill in for Masur. Holm had doubted the idea at first. His impression of Burke was positive, but he wasn’t sure any rookie could be up to the job. He considered other options, but he finally decided he couldn’t afford to pull even a single veteran officer from the line. He needed his people where they were, all of them. So the cherry private, last survivor of his squad, became a makeshift aide, carrying out Holm’s orders, moving from one beleaguered section of the line to another. Burke found courage and resourcefulness he’d never imagined he possessed, and he stood firm wherever Holm’s orders took him, running without hesitation from one meatgrinder to another. Not a doubt, not a shred of fear interfered with his executing Holm’s orders. He was afraid, certainly, as every Marine on Persis was, but it didn’t affect his duty, not one iota.

  The fighting along the front lines was brutal. The open plain had seemed to be a death trap, devoid of natural cover. But the Marines quickly adapted, benefiting from Holm’s earlier paranoia. Instead of celebrating peace, they had been digging makeshift foxholes, later expanding those scratchings into a legitimate network of trenches. If the enemy had expected to overwhelm Holm’s Marines in the open country, they had gotten a nasty surprise. The attackers faced one strongpoint after another, hastily built but powerful nevertheless. Their attacks broke on the Marine defenses, and they lost hundreds to the defenders’ withering fire. There were mounds of enemy dead lying in front of the trenchlines, the detritus of a dozen failed assaults. The Marines had taken heavy casualties too, but they had inflicted vastly greater losses on the enemy. The Caliphate line troops and the Persis levies were no match for the Alliance’s Marines, and it showed. Mathematics would ultimately have its say - Holm knew that - but so far the skill and tenacity of the Alliance’s elite shock troops had been enough to hold back the overwhelming numbers of the enemy.

  “Captain, we’re getting reports from all along the line.” The comlink was still staticky, and Burke’s voice was hoarse from shouting. The enemy had continued with the atmospheric detonations every few hours. Line of sight ground to ground communications were only marginally affected, but all contact between Force Hammer and the Alliance fleet had been interdicted without a break. The enemy clearly had no intention of allowing Holm to reach the ships in orbit…or the fleet to contact the Marines on the ground. “It’s very strange, sir.” He paused, only for an instant. “The attack forces are withdrawing.”

  Holm’s head snapped around, a natural gesture, but a relatively pointless one when buttoned up in armor and communicating by comlink. “They’re pulling back?” There was an edge to his voice. This was unexpected.

  “Yes sir.” Burke’s voice was high-pitched. He was just as surprised as Holm. “I’ve confirmed it with all commanders, sir. They are withdrawing everywhere. All along the perimeter.”

  Holm was silent. He felt a tightness in his chest, a constriction in his stomach. Something was wrong, very wrong. The enemy had been attacking relentlessly for more than two days. His people couldn’t take much more…they’d been pushed to the brink. Why pull back now? It didn’t make any sense. Or did it?

  “Sir, we’re getting reports of smoke shells landing in front of our positions.” Burke sounded confused. The rookie had never encountered the ordnance the Marines called smoke. But Holm had.

  Fuck, he thought angrily. I should have known; I should have been ready for this. Smoke was an interdiction system…a radioactive chemical steam seeded with tiny metallic particles. It blocked line of sight and interfered with virtually all scanning technology…providing perfect cover for an attacker. It was used by one corps of shock troops, one of the best and most feared in human space.

  “Prepare to receive Janissaries.” Holm’s voice was like ice. The Caliphate’s Janissaries were the Marines’ most hated enemy, the only troops in space who laid claim to being their equals. No Marine would admit the Janissaries could beat them in a straight up fight. But this was far from an even matchup. Holm’s people were exhausted and shot to pieces…and they’d be running low on ordnance soon too. The Janissaries were fresh, and Holm expected them to outnumber his people too. He’d known there were Janissaries on Persis, but they hadn’t shown themselves. No matter how many losses the Marines inflicted on the defenders, the Janissaries remained inactive, hidden somewhere the Alliance scanners couldn’t penetrate. He’d finally begun to hope the reports had been wrong, that there were none of the Caliphate’s elite soldiers onplanet. Now he knew…the intel had been right all along. Now they were coming. And his battered Marines had to dig up the strength to hold them off. Somehow.

  “Get your Goddamned heads down now!” Sergeant Tremont crouched behind the berm of the hastily-built trench firing his assault rifle into the billowing cloud of steam ahead. He couldn’t see anything more than half a meter in – and his scanner was giving him nothing but incomprehensible garbage – but he knew the Janissaries were there. He turned his head left then right, checking to make sure his orders were being followed. The Marines were edgy, even more than they had been. A hopeless fight was one thing, but now the Janissaries were coming. Now it was more than just a fight to the death; it
was a matter of honor. They carried the pride of the Corps with them.

  He didn’t know where the attackers were in that swirling green mass of toxic steam, but he wasn’t about to let them get through unscathed. “I want those clouds bracketed with fire.” His voice was raw, edgy. “They’re in there somewhere, so let’s take ‘em down.”

  The steam was a terror weapon as much as a camouflage system. It didn’t block projectiles, and the Janissaries inside the clouds could suffer considerable losses from fire, especially since they tended to favor mass attacks. Their tactics were highly effective at intimidating their enemies, filling them with fear as they waited for the attacking masses to emerge from the sickly green clouds. It worked well against many of their adversaries, already half beaten by the legend of the Caliphate’s elite slave-soldiers. Against many adversaries, but not the Marines.

  Tremont’s section consisted of veterans. They’d all faced the Janissaries before, and they’d be damned if they were going to let a bunch of theatrics get to them. They stood firm, meticulously crisscrossing the clouds with fire, working to maximize the casualties they inflicted. It was frustrating not being able to see what damage you were doing, but the discipline of the Marines was being buttressed by their rivalry. They might get overwhelmed on Persis, but to a man they’d be damned if they were going to shake in their boots because the Janissaries were coming.

  Tremont was focused on the forward edge of the nearest cloud. It was barely 80 meters from the line. When they emerged, the Janissaries would cover that distance in less than ten seconds. Then they’d be in the trenches. Hand to hand combat wasn’t common on the 22nd century battlefield, but it did happen, especially when elite forces clashed. The Janissaries wouldn’t falter…Tremont knew that. And his Marines damned sure weren’t going anywhere.