In the end I simply shook my head with bewilderment. ‘Fucking hell.’
Even in the darkness of the forest, I could see the sergeant major’s teeth flash in a devilish grin. ‘My thoughts exactly.’
13
Camp Assault
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Like the lightning during a raging thunderstorm, the heavens continued to flash on the following night, though now with even greater frequency. Each flash was accompanied by a powerful thump that sounded almost thirty seconds afterwards, the thumps often coming together to form a drum beat, beating our advance through the shadows like the soldiers of an ancient army. The bombs were for us this time, as several of our warships turned their attention to the area around our objective, beginning the first phase of our attack before we even arrived.
We couldn’t drop bombs onto Trondheim, the barracks was conveniently attached onto a Russian commercial shuttle port on its northern side, protecting it from our target list. We could drop them around it, though. Rather than pounding the barracks itself, the purpose of the bombing was to isolate Helstrom’s Militia from potential re-enforcement, as well as destroying outlying defensive positions and “saturating” our approach routes. The last time I had received such a preparatory bombardment was prior to the offensive into Jersey City, when I was a young fresh-faced trooper.
Similar bombardments would be taking place all across the southern edge of the province, as a whole army of Boskers were mobilised by Einsatzgruppe-19 ready to take on the Militia. To further isolate the Militia from the regular Loyalist army, the Bosker offensive was perfectly timed with the beginning of the Union air campaign. Though we were yet to see any sign of it, the skies were swiftly filling with saucers and other unmanned ground attack aircraft, bombers and fighters, all directed to strike at the heart of the Loyalist military. The idea was to dislocate the two forces from one another, with one having to deal with an unprecedented guerrilla assault, and the other harried from the skies.
Occasionally I turned my head up to the light show above the forest canopy, watching the fireballs as they broke through the clouds and then arced across the sky, striking the ground less than a kilometre away. It was strange, despite bearing witness to such a massive display of the firepower being unleashed against the Loyalist regime, I felt little reassurance in knowing that our ships and aircraft were supporting us. The navy might have extended some mercy in assisting us, but we had no control over them. Not even Aleksi, who had planned and co-ordinated the attack with surprising speed, could control the will of our navy. A single change in some distant commander’s plan could redirect their bombs away from us and potentially scupper our mission in a heartbeat. I didn’t feel as though we were part of the war that had begun above our heads, but rather we were waging our own separate war within it. Our war wasn’t against Europa, or the Loyalists, it was against Helstrom and his Militia. It was against Bhasin.
We quickly formed up at our final rendezvous, a nondescript location within the forest almost a kilometre away from our objective. Having closed up into a tight triangular formation similar to that of our harbour, we waited for the time to move forward to our next forming up point, a further five hundred metres away. This point and our route from there to Trondheim were still being saturated by our bombs, destroying any potential sensory equipment or other defences that might spoil our final approach. At the same time, salvos were being dropped all around the barracks, making it impossible to predict what direction we would be coming from, even if the Militia did work out that we were preparing to attack.
‘That is fucking mental,’ Weatherall whispered, gaping up at the flickering canopy whilst we waited. The trees shook visibly, indicating the sheer power of every impact. Without our headsets, the explosions would probably have damaged our eardrums by now.
Several troopers spared Weatherall disdainful glances, knowing that he was one of the few troopers in our platoon that hadn’t seen a naval bombardment so close.
‘Don’t worry,’ Puppy assured him quietly. ‘Even we aren’t stupid enough to drop bombs on ourselves!’
‘Maybe we’re not . . .’ Wildgoose replied, ‘but the navy might be!’
‘Halt!’ somebody hissed on the other side of the triangle, and we all fell silent.
I looked over my shoulder to see an orange crosshair, marking a figure twenty metres away. The figure was stood with his arms held outward to indicate that he posed no threat. Just as the tight beam orders sent by EJOC and Aleksi had told us, a member of Einsatzgruppe-19 had arrived to provide us with equipment for our upcoming assault.
For a second, the figure was left standing, whilst numerous sets of eyes scanned him cautiously.
‘Advance to be identified,’ somebody ordered. It was the sergeant major, having moved across the inside of the triangle to see the newcomer for himself.
The figure advanced toward us, before being halted again less than ten metres away. I recognised his facemask respirator and visor, they were the same as those that Aleksi and his Boskers wore.
‘Romeo-Alpha,’ the sergeant major said.
‘India-November,’ the figure replied, completing the password that had been sent with our orders. Low-tech though it was, a verbal password removed the chance for any electronic trickery. RAIN . . . I didn’t know who had chosen the password, but thankfully it wasn’t raining.
‘Who are you?’ the sergeant major asked, still not taking any chances.
‘Van-Zyl,’ the figure responded. ‘Einsatzgruppe-19.’
‘How many with you?’
‘Four others,’ Van-Zyl said. ‘We bring you gifts.’
‘Close in.’
Responding to a wave from Van-Zyl, more figures materialised in the darkness, instantly marked by my targeting display. It was impossible for me to tell if any of the other figures were members of Einsatzgruppe-19, or if they were Boskers working for Van-Zyl, since all of them wore similar clothing and respirators. None of them appeared to be armed, presumably so they could move easily across the province without being noticed.
The party moved into the centre of our triangle, carrying bundles of equipment over their shoulders. I watched as the group placed down their wares, including three metal ladders and another three large sacks that appeared to be full of clothing.
‘None of this is very exciting,’ Van- Zyl admitted as Abs and the sergeant major inspected the equipment. ‘Three extendable civilian work ladders, courtesy of the local villages. Ignore the lack of green paint and they’re as good as any assault ladder. Then you have thirty cold weather coats. I’m told that’s more than enough, so just leave whatever you don’t want and I’ll have them taken away.’
The sergeant major pulled a coat out from one of the sacks, holding it aloft so he could inspect it. He nodded in satisfaction. ‘Good.’
Abs lifted his head as he addressed the platoon in a hiss. ‘2ics, close in and grab this kit!’
The Three Section 2ics moved into the centre of the triangle, where they quickly unpacked the sacks, counting the number of coats they needed. Once they were happy, they closed in work parties to distribute the new equipment to their men.
‘Griffiths, you’ll take the ladder,’ Puppy ordered whilst Myers handed out the coats to the rest of us.
‘Awesome,’ Griffiths replied sarcastically, making his way over to collect the ladder. It probably wasn’t heavy, but civilians didn’t design ladders with combat in mind, so it was likely to be awkward.
Whilst Griffiths quietly cursed at Puppy’s decision to make a mammoth gunner carry a ladder, Myers handed me my coat. I inspected this “new” piece of clothing that I was now expected to wear. Of course it wasn’t new at all, no newer than the battered ladder that lay at Griffith’s feet. It was a tired-looking old trench coat, designed to protect a Bosque civilian in the colder extremes of the Eden climate . . . that night, though, it would be my cloaking device.
Weatherall started to remove his daysack, but Puppy stopped him.
‘Leave all your kit on,’ the section 2ic ordered. ‘Wear the coat on top.’
Weatherall slung his trench coat over his back without removing his equipment. Once he had managed to get his arms into the sleeves, he took the appearance of a large hunchbacked man. To complete the look, he pulled the hood up over his helmet and respirator.
‘I look like a troll!’ Wildgoose commented as he pulled on his own trench coat.
‘I feel like a bell end,’ Myers moaned in turn, expressing his distaste for his new outfit.
‘Well, I didn’t want to say anything . . .’
Once we had dressed in the trench coats we really did look like a band of oddly shaped trolls, but the one thing we didn’t look like was Union troopers, not to a non-human eye anyway. Our orders from Aleksi told us that there were no human eyes guarding Trondheim.
The Militia barracks was defended by six sangars, each of them almost three storeys high. Four of the sangars were sited on the corners of the barracks itself, whilst a further two were located further east, on the outer edge of a tented camp where the civilian workforce was kept prisoner. Each of the six sangars was armed with a single automated gun on its roof, and all of those were linked together into a fully automated defence system. The human guard force, we had learned, rarely occupied the sangars. They were too frightened of our bombs to stray away from the main buildings, but content that the automated guns were more than enough to match any attack from the Boskers. They were right, to an extent, but that automated defence system was about to be put through its paces by a series of feints and smaller attacks, putting its target recognition and artificial intelligence to the test. Wearing the coats over our Union equipment, we no longer took the appearance of Union troopers, but strangely dressed Bosque civilians with an unusual gait.
Would the automated system see us as a potential threat? Of course it would. But faced with a greater perceived threat - a large-scale Bosker attack coming from the east whilst we approached from the south - it would give us lower priority and ignore us until it was too late. Our shabby old coats were more than just disguises, they were a low-tech solution to a high-tech problem.
‘Is this everything you need?’ Van-Zyl asked once the platoon finished putting on their coats.
Abs gave a thumbs up. ‘Bang on, mate. We’re ready for a night on the town!’
‘Ha!’ Van-Zyl smiled, then flicked his head up to the flickering canopy. ‘The disco has already started! Everything is in place. Let’s get this war going!’
Van-Zyl and the sergeant major shook hands, and then the small party took up their empty sacks and melted back into the darkness. For a moment, their orange crosshairs hung against the trees, then they too disappeared, leaving us alone once more.
‘It freaks me out working for that lot,’ Myers said after a moment.
I raised an eyebrow. ‘How so?’
‘They’re in control of everything. We’re just along for the ride.’
‘When were we ever in control?’ Griffiths asked. ‘We’ve been pawns on someone else’s chessboard since day one.’
‘Yeah,’ the young trooper agreed, ‘but it still feels weird knowing that they’re cutting around the place organising a whole army of Boskers we don’t know about.’
I pointed up to the heavens. ‘I’d be less worried about Einsatzgruppe-19, if I were you, and more worried about that lot up there . . .’
Myers followed my outstretched arm. He stared upward for some time, then sighed. ‘I guess it doesn’t matter anyway.’
My face hardened as I regarded the younger trooper. Just like me, he was struggling to cope with a world filled with misery and death, a world to which he contributed whether he liked it or not. He had killed innocent civilians just as I had. He had seen his friends brutally disfigured, and he had killed his enemies with the same ruthlessness as me. I remembered him sawing through a Guardsman’s throat with his bayonet one dark rainy night, the blood flowing freely down his arm. Time and time again I had mistaken his mood swings for bad attitude, when they were really cries for help from a young man who had seen and done too much.
‘No,’ I said after a while. ‘I guess it doesn’t matter.’
‘Just don’t let me get captured.’
The grim reality of Myers’ request hit me like a hammer. Better to die by a comrade’s dart than by Helstrom’s knife.
‘I won’t.’ I promised.
Griffiths looked at me, then grinned wickedly, his teeth glowing under the light from the continuing bombardment. ‘Don’t worry, if the time comes I’ll kill him.’
‘No chance, mate!’ Puppy hissed, having heard the offer from the other end of the section line. ‘I’ve had to put up with that belter since we landed on this planet! If anyone gets to kill him, it should be me!’
‘Piss off, Puppy,’ Myers replied, irritated that his dark moment should be spoilt by humour.
Wildgoose chuckled. ‘We’ll have to draw straws or something . . .’
The rare moment of dark humour lifted everyone’s spirits slightly, as the section began to discuss who should get the privilege of putting Myers out of his misery. Even Myers finally smiled.
‘Alright, you lot!’ the sergeant major finally snapped as the conversation rose in volume. ‘Show some battlefield discipline and shut up!’
We instantly fell silent.
Ten minutes later, and exactly thirty minutes prior to H-Hour, the sound of the nearby bombardment changed. The explosions were just as frequent, but they were now much quieter and coming from different directions. Our ships had completed their saturation of our approach route and had switched fire in order to allow us to move in safely.
‘Fire support group,’ the sergeant major called. ‘Close in!’
Wildgoose and Griffiths stood up and made their way to the centre of the triangle, along with several other troopers from across the three sections. Forming a six-man team composed entirely of snipers and mammoth gunners, our pre-planned, self-generated fire support group would be our only intimate protection during our assault, tasked with destroying the automated gun that defended our platoon’s objective, the sangar guarding Trondheim’s south-eastern corner.
Once they had been given their final brief by the sergeant major, they marched off into the trees, led by Wildgoose. I watched them go, silently wishing them luck. If they failed, our mission was likely to fail as well.
The message passed for us to prepare to move, and we all instinctively checked our pouches, making sure that all our kit was stowed correctly beneath our new coats. Then we moved off into the dark, headed toward where our bombs had been dropping less than a minute before.
The word “saturated” didn’t really do our bombs justice. The forest around our FUP hadn’t been saturated, it had been utterly obliterated. Instead of the usual trees and undergrowth, all we found was a cratered moonscape spiked with jagged, blackened stumps and scattered with fallen logs. A smoky haze hung over the craters, strobing white and orange as the bombardment continued elsewhere.
We snaked through small valleys and re-entrants in single file, using whatever low ground was available to keep out of line of sight to Trondheim and its sangars. The barracks was now less than five hundred metres away, and though most of its external sensory equipment would have been knocked out by our bombs, the lack of visual cover usually provided by the forest made our advance just as treacherous, even in the dark.
The Militia occupying the base would be on high alert, praying that they would be spared from the bombs raining down around them, whilst expecting some form of ground assault to follow. Maybe they expected dropships to fall from the heavens, marking the beginning of our ground campaign. Word would have got out by now that the entire French relief force had arrived to seize the Europa province. The Union no longer needed to keep its plan a secret, quite the opposite. It would want for the people of the embattled province to know what was coming, and make up their own minds whether they wanted regime change the easy way, or the h
ard way.
Occasionally a trooper would stumble on one of the logs that littered the floor, or slip on wet soil no longer held firm by vegetation. Every time somebody tripped my heart would jump, as I expected the noise to give us away to some nearby enemy lurking in the shadows. Nothing happened, though. Though they would be on alert, the Militia were far too frightened to venture away from the safety of their barracks and the slave camp attached to it. Now they were the ones who were fixed on a defensive position, unable to manoeuvre, and we were the ones that were infiltrating ready to attack.
We sited our FUP within a slight depression, spreading out and using the craters to provide ourselves cover as we formed into a ragged T-shaped formation. I positioned my section at the top of the T, facing north toward Trondheim, whilst the other two sections formed up behind us to create the base of the T. Unlike the small triangular formation we had used in the thick forest foliage, our T was much larger, with each trooper leaving a gap of five metres or more between him and his comrades. The threat of becoming confused or separated in the dark was now far lower than the threat from missiles or opportunistic attacks, so we adjusted our positioning accordingly.
The sergeant major sited himself and his signaller within a crater close to the forward edge of the FUP. With a two-fingered tap against his upper arm followed by a pat against his helmet, he signalled for the section commanders to close in for a final brief.
I left my section behind and made my way across to the sergeant major, joining the other commanders as we crowded around him at the bottom of his crater. I squatted on my haunches, using my rifle to help me balance. The rocks and stones exposed by the bomb’s impact still glowed slightly, suggesting that to sit or kneel was probably unwise.
RECCE II (The Union Series Book 5) Page 25