by Jay Allan
He glanced down at the scanners. It appeared his little flotilla had remained undetected. They were on a carefully charted course straight for Mars. His ships engines were shut down, and he intended them to stay that way until they were about to enter orbit. He had no intention of giving the Martians any chance to spot him, not until it was too late. Once the deed was done his ships could run for it, and they were faster than anything in space, except perhaps one of the Martian Torches. But even Vance’s superfast craft would have a hard time catching one of his Spectre-class ships before they slipped back into stealth mode and disappeared from the Martian’s scopes.
Stark allowed himself a smile. Even as his little flotilla approached Mars, he knew his fleet was engaging the Martians somewhere in the outer system. Admiral Liang was probably on his flag bridge, Stark thought, even now working himself up into his own lackluster version of a battle frenzy. Liang was a mediocre commander at best, one whose former master had been trying for ten years to carry out a death sentence she’d placed on his head.
Thwarting Li An all those years had been its own special pleasure, but Liang had become useful in his own right. He wasn’t an Augustus Garret, nothing close, but he was the best Stark had available. Admirals with fleet command experience were hard to find, especially ones willing to see their old comrades sacrificed along with everyone else. Stark prized moral ambiguity in his subordinates. Men who were motivated solely by personal gain were easier to control. It tended to make things far less complicated.
Liang had enough strength to take out the Confederation’s fleet, but Stark was far from confident. The admiral could easily snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, and the Confederation had a reputation for placing talented commanders in charge of its fleets. But Stark didn’t care, not really. All he wanted was for Liang to cripple the Martian fleet, take them out of any future fight. If he suffered even greater losses himself, even if he lost the battle and retreated in disarray, it was of no account. Liang thought he was leading the attack to cripple the Confederation, and Stark had encouraged that belief. But the former CAC admiral and his fleet were a diversion, nothing more.
Gavin Stark was going to deal with the Martian Confederation himself.
“Admiral Ross is reporting heavy damage to all battleline ships, Admiral.” There was concern in Christensen’s voice, and sadness. The Martian Fleet wasn’t as large as those of the other Superpowers, and it was manned almost totally by career officers and enlisted personnel. Almost everyone on John Carter had friends and relatives on the other ships, and it was hard to think about what they were going through fighting against an overwhelming enemy. Especially when John Carter and Sword of Ares appeared to be running away, escaping while the rest of the fleet held off the enemy.
“Very well, Commander.” Campbell felt the worry and guilt as much as any of his crew, but he kept his voice calm and even. He knew if he didn’t set the example for his people, no one else would. Besides, they weren’t abandoning their comrades. Once Carter and Sword of Mars completed their slingshot move around Saturn, they would emerge behind Stark’s fleet, at close range with laser batteries firing full. Then it would be a fight to the death.
His ships had left a trail of buoys behind as they arced around the solar system’s second largest planet, so they’d been able to maintain communications and follow reports of the battle. The Martian ships had been hit hard by the enemy’s massive missile barrage, but they’d managed to score nearly as many hits with their own smaller volleys, and they’d destroyed one of Stark’s battleships with targeted attacks. The Martian capital ships were all damaged, but none of them had been taken out of the fight.
Campbell allowed himself a smile. David Ross was a brilliant officer, one Campbell had been confident to leave in charge of the main fleet while he led the flanking move. Whoever was commanding Stark’s ships, it was clear he was no match for Ross in an even fight. Campbell’s smile faded. Too bad it’s not an even fight, he thought grimly.
“We’re about to lose contact with the fleet, Admiral.”
The buoys had extended the time Campbell’s two ships could stay in contact with the rest of the fleet, but now they were entering the inner zone of Saturn’s magnetic field. They would lose contact for 18 minutes, and then they would emerge behind Stark’s fleet.
“C’mon, David,” Campbell whispered to himself. “Hold it together for another 20 minutes, and we’ll be there.” He closed his eyes, imagining the hell his people were going through. Twenty minutes, he thought. Just hang on for another twenty minutes. But he knew that was a long time.
Chapter 7
Front Lines
120 kilometers east of Paris
French Zone, Europa Federalis
Werner stared out from inside the heavy command vehicle. There were mushroom clouds in a long line stretching across the Europan lines, and more rising up in the distance behind. He’d hesitated as long as he could before launching the deadly barrage, but his orders were explicit, and they left him no latitude at all.
He’d been reluctant to escalate the conflict so significantly, but once he moved to execute his orders, he found the entire episode began to feed on itself, compelling him to increase the intensity of the attack even beyond the minimum requirements imposed by the high command. He knew his attack would almost certainly prompt a response in kind. Facing certain escalation, he realized he had to make his first strike count, and he actually added to the target list and increased the number of warheads used, hoping to gain as much advantage as he could from hitting first.
His forces were advancing now, moving almost without resistance through the shattered remnants of the Europan lines. He knew that wouldn’t last. He’d hit the enemy as hard as he could, but he knew they would still have enough surviving batteries and rocket launchers for a retaliatory strike. He was surprised it hadn’t happened yet, but he knew that only meant he’d taken the enemy by surprise. That would buy him a few hours, nothing more. Then his own troops would be bracketed by nuclear explosions and bombarded with nerve gas. His command centers and supply depots would be targeted and destroyed, and his surviving units would be scattered and disorganized.
His hospitals and rear areas would be flooded with wounded, soldiers with severe burns and radiation poisoning. Thousands would die waiting for care or for lack of medical supplies or adequate facilities. The roads that weren’t destroyed in the blasts would be clogged with stunned and wounded survivors, separated from their decimated units and straggling aimlessly through the countryside. He knew it was coming, he could see it in his mind, but there was nothing he could do to stop it.
His people were as ready as they could be, though there were limited options to prepare for a massive nuclear bombardment. He’d dispersed his command and control and logistics as much as possible. He was riding around the wilderness in a glorified truck, not a very impressive headquarters for an army group commander. But he’d chosen mobility and anonymity over trying to dig deep enough to survive the inevitable strike that would obliterate his headquarters.
His hospitals were fully staffed and stocked with all the supplies and medicines he could obtain, and he’d moved them as far away as possible from any likely military targets. He had disbursed extra food and ammunition to his units, in anticipation of them receiving nothing else for a considerable time after the assault.
The Europan armies were already struggling with that hell, he knew, and they’d been far less prepared than his forces. With any luck, his people would endure the nuclear hell better than their enemies. But, however prepared he was, he knew it would be bad nevertheless. Within a few days, the men on the front lines might be fighting with rocks and using their empty rifles as clubs. The few that were still alive, at least.
“Sir, General Hoffman reports his forces have reached the outskirts of Fontainebleau. He has encountered only light resistance, and his troops have taken 200,000 prisoners.” Potsdorf sounded excited. The aide was an experienced soldier, b
ut he’d come so far, so fast, he couldn’t fully grasp the implications of what was happening. Hoffman’s army was halfway to Paris in just a few hours, and it looked like enemy resistance was falling away.
Werner nodded. “Thank you, Major.” His voice was terse, clipped. Maybe Hoffman’s people will get closer to Paris, thought. The Europans would have to be a bit more careful right dropping nukes right around their capital, he thought. The front line might actually be the safest place to be right now. “Give General Hoffman my regards, and advise him to press on to Paris will all possible speed.”
Werner knew he should congratulate his army commander himself, but he just didn’t have it in him. He knew the angel of death would be calling on his forces soon, and he was waiting. Waiting to see who survived.
“Attention all units, attention all units.” All the com speakers crackled to life, a Highest Priority message coming through and overriding all other communications. “This is CEL detection station Gamma. We are tracking approximately 400 intermediate range missiles inbound for troop positions along the Europan front.”
Werner took a deep breath. At least the waiting would be over soon. The Europan launch sites were not that far away. He figured his people had 2 minutes, maybe 3 before the incoming missiles started dropping nukes on them. And less time before the atomic-armed artillery began dropping nuclear shells on his lines.
“Let’s find the closest thing to cover we can, boys.” The command vehicle was the safest place to be. Its shielding wouldn’t do much if a nuke landed too close, but it would offer some protection against radiation and minor blast damage. But most importantly, it was kilometers away from any headquarters or other priority target. “Over there, between those two rock outcrop…”
Werner saw the first flash and he turned away, putting his hands over his face. Fuck, he thought. The blast shield wasn’t down. “We’ve got to…”
Another wave of blinding light poured into the cabin, and a few second later, the blast wave shattered the heavy supposedly unbreakable glass of the forward viewport, sending razor sharp shards flying around the interior of the heavy vehicle.
Werner fell forward, trying to reach around to his back, groaning at the stabbing pain. He struggled to get up and check on the rest of the staff just as a third nuke detonated, this one even closer. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then the shockwave came, and it lifted the 40 ton vehicle, slamming it into the heavy rock outcropping like a child’s toy.
Axe stood on top of a mound of collapsed masonry, staring out over the rubble-strewn streets of the Manhattan Protected Zone. They’re going to have to change the name, he thought with a vicious scowl. It’s not very protected anymore. The elites who’d called this enclave home were mostly dead now, those who hadn’t managed to escape, at least.
Most of them hadn’t died easily. The Cogs of New York had been passive for a long time, generation after generation meekly accepting their position on society’s lowest rung. Caught between the oppressive government and the vicious gangs, they’d lived lives of fear and poverty for over a century. But now that had changed, and the anger and hatred, so long buried and kept in place by fear, erupted, and the Cogs went mad with rage and violence.
The mob turned into a wild animal, lashing out at all those who had oppressed them. The enraged Cogs stormed the government buildings, ignoring the losses as they threw themselves against the heavily-armed police. They dragged out the security forces who had gunned so many of them down, tearing them to shreds in the street. They chased the terrified middle classes and politicians alike, massacring them all in an orgy of bloodletting. Gang members were tortured to death by those they had victimized for so long, and the mangled corpses of the victims were everywhere.
It was vengeance for a century of suffering and oppression, and it was deadly and indiscriminant. The mob wanted blood. It wanted revenge, not justice, and it fell on anyone who reeked even faintly of privilege.
It had been a risk coming back to Manhattan, but Axe had to see for himself what was going on. He wore the rags of a Cog worker, and he carried a pistol he’d taken off a dead cop. He knew the mob would tear him to shreds if they realized he’d been one of the gang leaders, but be stumbled through the streets looking lost, like a Cog who had come into the Protected Zone with the mob and was just walking around.
He’d left the rest of his small group behind, in the mostly-abandoned areas that had once been called Queens. He’d told them to scavenge whatever food and equipment they could find and wait for him. He knew his few remaining men were loyal, but most of them were stupid too, and he couldn’t take the risk of bringing them into the Zone. One hint that he and his people were former gangers, and the mob would be on them in an instant. He wasn’t willing to risk one of them saying something foolish or giving way who they were. No, he thought, Tank and the others are good in a fight, but that was close to useless against 100,000 screaming Cogs worked up into a bloodlust.
He’d come to satisfy his curiosity in part, and also to scrounge up anything useful from the Protected Zone. The wastelands of Long Island had been abandoned for over a century, and there was very little useful to be found outside the city itself. The fall of the Protected Zone was an unmatched opportunity to plunder, though he realized he had arrived rather late to the party. The Cogs had lived in squalor and poverty for generations, but when they broke into the neighborhoods of their former masters, they proved to be skilled looters.
Axe was heading to Sector A, the elite enclave where the wealthiest and most powerful citizens of Manhattan had lived. He knew the rioting Cogs had worked the place over already, but he suspected there was still swag to be gained on the upper levels of the super-luxury buildings. The government had shut down the reactors, leaving most of the city without power, and it took a very determined looter to climb 300 flights of stairs to the top of a kilometer-high building. There was probably a lot of virgin territory up there, and those apartments up in the sky would be the homes of the most powerful Politicians and Magnates, filled with valuables he could only imagine.
There were probably residents still hiding on those upper floors too, locked up in their luxurious apartments, hoping against hope the government would crush the rebelling Cogs and save them. He gripped the pistol tightly in his hand and readjusted the sack he’d slung over his shoulder. He had half a dozen weapons in there, and some spare ammo too. He knew he might have some fighting to do, and he wanted to be ready.
He took a few more steps before he heard it. The sound of engines from above, approaching rapidly. Gunships. He swung his head back and forth, looking for someplace to take cover. He started toward a large building, rushing for the open hole where the main doorway had been.
“Here, this way.”
The voice came from behind, and he spun around. It was a Cog, an old man, filthy and disheveled, but wearing a cashmere overcoat that had cost its original owner more than its present wearer had earned in his entire life.
“Come,” he repeated. “To the tunnels. We’ll be safe in the tunnels.”
Axe hesitated, but just for an instant. Then he followed his instincts and ran toward the man. The Cog led him around the corner and pointed. “There, he said.”
There was a large hole in the pavement, and below Axe could see tunnels stretching off in both directions. Of course, he thought, the ancient train lines. There were subterranean tunnels stretching all over New York City, artifacts of an age when the city was vastly larger with a population 7 or 8 times what it had now. His gang had used some of the ancient tunnels in Brooklyn to store supplies and get from one place to another. They were deep in places. A perfect place to take cover.
He heard the sound of autocannon fire. The gunships were attacking, blasting down everyone in the streets. The old man motioned again, and he crouched down, carefully extending his leg into the hole. Axe moved over to the edge, looking down. There was a ladder, stretching down to the ground 6 or 7 meters below. It was a rickety looking
affair, but the sound of gunfire was getting closer, and Ace decided he didn’t have a better choice. He waited for the old man to climb down a couple meters, and he lowered his foot carefully onto one of the rungs and climbed down into the semi-darkness.
Warren walked slowly into the dark room. His agents had located the president almost immediately. It hadn’t been difficult. The entire government was operating under Stonewall protocols, and that meant everyone of significant importance was in the massive federal complex deep under the Virginia countryside. Oliver’s people had tried to get to him, but they’d been too timid to demand entry to his private quarters, fleeing in a panic when he cursed them and threw things at the door.
Warren’s agents were considerably less squeamish, and they had their orders. He suspected there would be repercussions from arresting the president’s guards, but he’d deal with that when it became a problem. With the way things were going, it didn’t even make his top ten list of concerns.
“President Oliver? Warren let the door close behind him, and he turned on the lights.
“What is it?” The voice was slurred, angry. Oliver was lying on the floor, one leg propped up on the sofa. He was wearing a suit, but the jacket had been discarded and the rest of it was stained and wrinkled.
Warren took a few steps forward then he recoiled at the reek that suddenly hit him. It was alcohol and vomit and days-old sweat. “It’s Ryan Warren, sir.” Dammit, Warren thought. He’s cracked completely.
“Warren?” Oliver growled. “I said I was…wasn’t to b…be disturbed.” He struggled to sit up, and he glared at Warren.