by Jay Allan
He waited, listening to his own breath and waiting for the attack to begin. Each second dragged out for an eternity, and it seemed like he’d been waiting forever when he heard the ships roar by. It sounded and felt like they were directly overhead, and in their wake came the explosions. It started with a few, out in the field, less than 500 meters from his position. Then the intensity increased, hundreds of bombs landing all along the enemy lines. He imagined the cluster bombs tearing apart the enemy formations, cutting the attackers down by the hundreds.
He knew he should stay low, but he couldn’t resist taking a look for himself. He stared out at a vision of hell itself, a roiling smoke filled nightmare of death and destruction. There were a few hundred of the enemy still standing, mostly those closest to his position, but the rest of the field was gone, engulfed by the flames.
“Up, now. All of you.” He opened fire on the closest group of enemy survivors. They were stunned, trapped between his line and the fires. But he’d be damned if any of them were going to get away. “Fire. Kill the sons of bitches before they get a chance to run.”
It only took a minute for his people to wipe out the trapped enemy troopers, and another two or three for the hellfire on the field to begin to dissipate. Callahan stood and looked out over the blackened and blasted plain. The enemy forces were shattered, at least two thirds of their numbers down, the rest reeling in retreat.
He felt a rush of elation, but it cooled quickly when he saw the columns of smoke rising in the distance to the south. Two of the attack ships had been unable to pull out of their low altitude attack runs, and they crashed a few kilometers to the south. Those crews had saved his people; they had salvaged the entire invasion, but they had paid for it too. He was still staring when his com unit crackled back to life.
“Attention Marines, this is General Gilson, inbound with the second wave. We estimate landing in one-eight minutes.”
The cheering was even louder this time, and Marines were holding their rifles in the air and waving their arms. Callahan smiled and took a deep breath, but his eyes were still staring back off to the south, toward those towers of thick, black smoke. The next Marine he heard talking shit about the navy was going to get a hell of a beating.
“All units, you heard General Gilson.” It was General Heath, and his voice was edged with steel. “All units are to advance and clear the enemy from the field.” He paused for an instant. “It’s time to expand the LZ.”
Chapter 10
Front Lines
120 kilometers east of Paris
French Zone, Europa Federalis
The light was hazy, cutting in and out. Werner tried to focus, but he couldn’t shake himself out of the heavy daze. He was confused, his mind fuzzy, disconnected. He was lying on his side, and he became aware of pain in his legs, his back. He tried to sit up, but he couldn’t manage it. Then he realized a heavy support had fallen on him, pinning him to the side of his overturned vehicle.
He could hear sounds. They were coming from different directions, but he couldn’t place them. He could feel pulling, sense someone tugging at him. His body moved, and a wave of pain took him. He cried out and the pressure stopped. He looked up again. He could see everything around him a little better, and his mind began to clear. It was his men, his escort. They were leaning over him, trying to get him out of his stricken vehicle.
Yes, he remembered slowly. The command vehicle. The explosions. The last shockwave had slammed into the big truck, smashing it into one of the rock outcroppings. He turned his head slowly, looking around, his vision coming back, gradually at first then more quickly.
He could see the truck had been badly damaged, and there was debris everywhere. The driver was still sitting in his seat, and Werner could tell the man was dead, even with his still-fuzzy vision. His head was turned at a grotesque angle, and there was blood covering his entire upper body.
“General…” He heard the voices. They seemed soft at first, far away. “…General Werner…” He tried to concentrate, and he could hear the sounds, closer, louder. “…sir, can you answer?”
“Status?” His voice was raw, and the word scraped its way coarsely from his parched throat. His memory was coming back, and he wanted to know what had happened to his army.
He felt something on his lips, something cool, wet. “Here, sir. Drink. At least a little.” He felt the water on his mouth, pouring down the side of his face, his neck. He tried swallowing, hard, painfully. The water slid down his throat. The coolness felt good, driving back the pain a little.
“Status,” he repeated, his voice clearer and louder this time.
“Unknown, General.” It was a different voice. Werner looked up and saw an officer looking down at him, a familiar one. “They hit us hard, sir.” Potsdorf stared at 1st Army Group’s commander in chief, his faced caked in filth and his shoulder covered with a rough bandage, half soaked through with blood. The aide took a deep, painful breath. “We’ve got to get you to the field hospital, sir.”
Werner felt some strength returning, and he pulled himself up. “No. I need to get an idea of the overall situation first.” He looked down at the chunk of metal lying across his legs. “Get this off me.” He could tell his legs weren’t severely injured. His back hurt like fire though, and he could feel the slickness of blood everywhere. He reached around and ran his hand over his back. When he pulled it back it was wet, red. “Just get my doctor in here. I need these cuts on my back fused or stitched up.” He still felt weak, lightheaded. He could see from the slick redness all around that he’d lost a lot of blood.
“I’m sorry, sir. Doctor Hoffen is dead. He was crushed by the command vehicle.” Potsdorf was waving as he spoke, directing several soldiers to move the structural support off Werner’s legs.
Werner closed his eyes for a second. Just like that, he thought. I’m in one place, Hoffen is a few meters away. I end up with cuts and bruises and he is crushed by 40 tons of armored vehicle. He knew wars were won by men and tactics, and materiel too, but sometimes he was still stunned by the random nature of it all. One man stands on a line and survives a battle, the solider next to him is torn to pieces by enemy fire. It doesn’t matter that both are veterans, equally skilled at combat. Fortune still smiles on one and smites the other.
“Mmmmmpph.” Werner felt a sudden wave of pain as three soldiers struggled to pull the heavy chunk of steel from his legs. The three men picked it up and moved it to the side, letting it fall again with a loud crash.
“Are you OK, sir?” Potsdorf was alarmed at the outburst, but he looked down and was immediately relieved when he saw Werner moving his legs. “You really need some rest, sir.”
“Rest, Potsdorf?” Werner was almost amused at the suggestion, proof that a touch of levity, however brief, could make its way into any situation. “Do you really think I have the time to rest right now? That any of us do?” The battered general pulled himself up, sitting on a chunk of metal that had once been a workstation. “Now, I need somebody to stitch up my back before I bleed to death, and I don’t care who does it.” His eyes settled on his aide. “You, Potsdorf. You do it.”
Potsdorf looked like he might panic for an instant, but he nodded and reached to his side, pulling a small first aid kit from his belt. The doctor would have used the fuser, which was a quicker and better solution, but all his instruments were under the command truck, crushed as flat as their owner.
Potsdorf moved around behind Werner, slowly pulling off the general’s jacket. His shirt was soaked through with blood, plastered to his skin. Potsdorf took a small pair of scissors and gently cut the back of the garment. He barely held back a gasp when he saw Werner’s back. There was a single deep gash right between the shoulder blades, where a big shard had hit him. It was surrounded by at least a dozen other cuts, less deep but still gushing blood.
“Sir, I don’t have any anesthetic or painkillers…” His voice was tentative, uncertain.
“Potsdorf, we just got nuked. There are
almost certainly hundreds of thousands dead out there. We don’t even know if we still have an army.” He started to turn to look back toward the aide, but a wave of pain changed his mind. “Do you really think some stitches are going to be more than I can handle?”
“OK, sir.” The aide still didn’t sound very confident, but he picked up a pair of forceps and started pulling shards of glass from his commander’s back. Werner twitched once or twice, but he didn’t say a word about the pain.
“I need some coms,” he said, his voice tight as Potsdorf sewed up his wounds. “Who is still in action out there?”
“Steiner is trying to set up the portable comlink, sir.” The aide spoke slowly, his mind focused on Werner’s back. “It was damaged, but he thinks he might be able to manage a temporary fix.”
Werner stared at the ground while Potsdorf finished his attempt at first aid. He needed coms more than anything. He had to find out what was going on with his armies. He was out of the net, and he figured they’d be looking for him, if there was anyone left to look, that is. For all he knew, no one was on the net. He tried to imagine the nightmare out there, the apocalyptic hell covering the entire battlefield. How many of his people were dead? How many were straggling around, wounded, sick from radiation, trying to find their way to an aid station? How many of the survivors would still be alive in a day? A week?
He clenched his fists. He had to get on the com and find out what had happened to his armies.
“More reports from the Europan-CEL front, Number…excuse me, Mr. President.” The agent nodded respectfully to Warren.
“Yes, go on.” Warren didn’t really care what they called him. Besides, whatever else he was, he was still Number One. He had no intention of trusting anyone else with control of Alliance Intelligence, whether he was president or not. He knew just how deadly a tool the agency was, even in its shrunken, post-Gavin Stark incarnation.
He’d taken the office of the presidency simply because if offered some semblance of continuity for public consumption. The official story was simple. Warren had assumed the interim presidency after Oliver’s untimely and tragic death following surgery for a long time genetic illness. It was at least moderately believable, and it had only required a few additional liquidations, Oliver’s doctor among them, of course.
Convincing the generals and admirals, and a few other key personnel, to go along with his assumption of power had been easier than he’d expected. Most of them were more concerned with whether they’d be alive in a week than worrying about their own ambitions. Warren was amused at the dousing effect fear had on the lust for power. He felt it himself. He’d tried to give Oliver every chance, but the man had lost control, and it wasn’t a time to be tolerant of weak leadership. After a lifetime of craving power for its own sake, he’d ended up taking it out of fear. Fear of what would happen if the mentally broken Oliver continued to lead the Alliance.
He stared down at the ‘pad, reading the latest dispatches. The Europans had responded in kind to the CEL’s nuclear attack. By all accounts, the entire battlefield was a nuclear and chemical hell, and there was little hard data on what formations were still in the field, if any.
“This is where we’re going to lose the war,” he whispered softly, mostly to himself. The Alliance and the PRC might be able to defeat the Caliphate and the CAC, and hold the South Americans at bay while doing it, but if the CEL was destroyed, Warren knew he’d have Europa Federalis and the Russian-Indian Confederacy on his ass too.
He sighed. He didn’t know what, if anything, had survived from Werner’s victorious armies. But even if the brilliant general managed to push forward through the maelstrom and seize Paris, it was very unlikely he’d have enough strength left turn around and salvage the situation on the CEL’s eastern front. Taking out Europa Federalis would be helpful, but the CEL was exhausted after its death struggle with its longtime enemy, too prostrate to mount a prolonged defense against the growing Russian-Indian armies. Worse, he’d been hearing unconfirmed rumors that a Caliphate army was forming up for an invasion of the CEL from the south.
The world was on the brink of an unmitigated disaster already, but Werner couldn’t think of anything to do but escalate further. The CEL was going to have to go nuclear on its eastern front as well, and the Alliance was going to have to help. The list of potential repercussions was sobering, but he couldn’t come up with another plan that didn’t ultimately lead to total defeat.
He looked up at the agent standing next to him. “Send a Priority One flash communication to Admiral Vellinghausen. He is to prepare for a tactical nuclear bombardment of targets along the CEL-RIC front.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” The agent showed no emotion, not even the slightest break in his stone cold expression at an order that meant, at the very least, millions would die.
My God, Warren thought. Gavin Stark really did recruit and train an army of sociopaths. He wondered if he was any different – or just another of Stark’s prototype human monsters, a man incapable of caring about the misery and death he unleashed on others. He’d done his share of terrible things in the service of Alliance Intelligence, and he’d never been unduly troubled by guilt or remorse. But things were different now. The fate of the entire world was at stake, and Warren was feeling uncertainties he’d never before experienced. Is this guilt, he wondered?
“Advise him he will have a target list within four hours.” Guilt or no, he was too far in now. The Alliance was in too deep to pull back. There could only be victory in this war, or total and utter defeat, and Warren would rather die in the ashes than be dragged before the Caliph or Li An in shackles. “And get me Chancellor Schmidt immediately.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” The agent nodded and turned around, hurrying out of the office to carry out his orders.
Warren took a deep breath, looking around the room. Oliver’s tastes were much flashier than his own, and hated just about everything the former president had selected, from his enormous desk to the various bits and pieces that lay on the shelves and tables around the room. He wondered what it would be like to assume the presidency during a different time, one when redecorating an office was a priority.
The com buzzed. “Mr. President, we have Chancellor Schmidt on the line.” Warren’s finger paused over the flashing button. It was time to convince the head of the CEL to launch most of the rest of his nuclear arsenal at the invading Russian armies. The bombs in the west had blasted and poisoned lands in Europa Federalis, but in the east the fighting was all on CEL territory. The civilians who would become collateral damage were citizens of the CEL. The industry and infrastructure destroyed would be the CEL’s.
Warren knew Schmidt was under enormous stress, the chancellor’s situation even more desperate than the one he was facing. But it was the only way, the only chance to avoid a road that led to almost certain defeat. Even if it left the CEL prostrate, its own armies virtually destroyed.
“Mr. Chancellor, I have a proposal to discuss with you.”
Axe moved through the tunnels slowly, carefully. He had a portable light – he’d killed to get it – but he had no idea how much power it had left, and he was being cautious. He was fairly certain the tunnel led into the heart of Sector A. His people had used it before, to make special deliveries to the elite zone. There were a number of substances the elites craved, items that were illegal and unobtainable through legitimate channels.
For a price, the gangs had offered whatever the privileged and powerful desired. Axe’s people had delivered various narcotics through these tunnels, as well as attractive Cog women, sold as sex slaves and written off as random victims of street violence. They’d even brought in a steady stream of young Cog men for a specific client, a Senator who’d fancied himself a gifted martial artist and who treated himself from time to time to the spectacle of beating drugged opponents to death in his own private arena.
Axe had willingly participated in sordid business of this sort for the gang, first as a junior member, w
illing to do anything to escape the miserable existence of a Cog factory worker, and later as he climbed through the ranks, eventually becoming the leader.
As he rose to the top, he became increasingly aware of the perverse relationship between the gangs and the government. At first, he’d view Alliance Gov as the enemy, and he hated and despised the police who occasionally launched reprisals against the gangs. But later he learned that the gangs were actually allied with the government. The violence in the ghettoes, and the atmosphere of constant fear it propagated, kept the Cogs beaten down, too focused on their daily struggle to survive to even think about rebelling against the government.
The gangs served other purposes as well, keeping the privileged Political Classes well supplied with luxuries and perversions the government thought were best kept in the shadows.
The gang leaders themselves made a devil’s bargain, promising enough random violence to keep the Cogs down while also sacrificing a tithe of their own low level members to police action. The young Axe, a junior gang member making risky runs into the Protected Zone, had viewed the police as the hated enemy, but when he advanced up the chain of command, he came to realize they were all part of an elaborate charade, one that existed solely to support Alliance Gov’s control of every aspect of life and society.
Axe had moved up through the gang a step at a time, and at each level he had done what was expected of him, killing without question, dragging helpless captives to their fates as the playthings of the wealthy Politicians. He’d done what he had to do, to escape the factories and to stay alive. But now he felt remorse, and he questioned the foulness of the system he had served.
He was a violent creature, he knew, dangerous and feral. He’d just killed a man for his flashlight. But he didn’t think he could go back to the old system, coolly sacrificing his own people to the hated police while serving his masters at Alliance Gov. Whatever he did going forward, he swore to himself it would be genuine. Never again would he serve Alliance Gov, nor would he ever again betray those he led, men and women who swore loyalty to him.