by Jay Allan
Dutton nodded and walked toward a small credenza. “Yes, Lord Hassan. All of your terms.” He turned and glanced back at his guest. “You may have your Marine battalion…your face-saving victory.” His tone was businesslike, emotionless…to a random listener, he could have been trading away an outpost or 100 shipments of heavy elements instead of the lives of 700 Marines.
Hassan’s eyes darted to the wall behind Dutton. A tall man stood there, silently watching.
“You may speak freely.” Dutton had caught Hassan’s hesitation. “Please allow me to introduce my associate, Gavin Stark.” He paused while Stark stepped forward and extended a hand to the Caliphate lord. It was a presumptuous gesture for an underling, especially by the standards of highly structured Caliphate society. But Hassan held his anger. The deal was made, and he wasn’t going to risk it over a minor affront. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stark.” He simply nodded, ignoring Stark’s hand but excusing the insult as ignorance. He’d have been rather more offended if he’d known that Gavin Stark was an expert in Caliphate customs and culture. Stark had played a role in most of Alliance Intelligence’s recent ops, but he’d managed – at great effort - to maintain a low profile.
“The pleasure is mine Lord Hassan.” Stark offered his response in perfect Arabic.
Hassan nodded again, a bit deeper this time. “Your associate is to be commended, Mr. Dutton. His Arabic is flawless.” One wonders where he acquired such an accentless dialect. I suspect I would find his exploits…how shall I say, enlightening?
“No doubt you would,” Dutton said pleasantly, filling two crystal glasses with amber liquid as he did. “But surely, today is a day to celebrate peace, not seek to dig up old grievances? We have been adversaries for many years, my Lord, but today we are friends.”
Hassan glanced at Stark uncomfortably for a few more seconds, but then he turned to Dutton and smiled. “Of course you are right, Mr. Dutton.”
“Shall we drink to peace?” Dutton walked toward Hassan, holding out one of the glasses. “I know it is normally forbidden…” - He smiled at the nearly toothless nature of the Caliphate’s prohibition against alcohol, especially among the elite – “…but this is a very special drink for a momentous occasion.” He held his glass up to the light. “A pre-blight brandy.”
Hassan nodded as he took the glass. “Impressive.” He smiled at Dutton. “One hesitates to even guess at its value.” He swirled the snifter, holding it to his nose and inhaling. “So…to peace?”
“Indeed, Lord Hassan.” Dutton nodded as he held his glass aloft. “To peace.”
Dutton took a large swallow and gestured toward a small table with two chairs. “Please, Lord Hassan. Sit. Let us discuss a few minor details.”
Hassan looked back suspiciously. “What details? I thought the terms were agreed.”
“Indeed, they are.” Dutton gestured again and smiled as Hassan lowered himself into the proffered chair. It was buttery leather, overstuffed and extremely comfortable. “We just have some minor requests in how you deal with the Marines…and some assistance we’d like to offer.” He sat down softly.
“I must have those Marines, Mr. Dutton.” Hassan’s voice was guarded, a touch of concern creeping into his otherwise cheerful tone. “We must have something to satisfy the Caliph’s honor.” Or he is liable to start lopping off noble heads like mine, he thought but didn’t say.
“Indeed, Lord Hassan, you shall have them, as we agreed. It is a small price for the joys of peace.”
“Then what are these…details?”
Dutton exhaled softly. “We would like to help you.”
“Help us? How?” Hassan stared back, confused.
“We would like to assist you in defeating…in destroying…that force of Marines.”
Hassan just sat silently, a shocked look on his face and his eyes focused on Dutton’s.
“You must understand, Lord Hassan. We are willing to sacrifice these men and women to you, but such a course is not without…ah…difficulties on our end, as I am sure you can understand.” He paused, seeing comprehension begin to spark in Hassan’s eyes. “Our Marines tend to be somewhat more of a…hmmm, how shall I put it…discipline problem than your Janissaries. Unfortunately, it is frequently necessary to do more than simply give them orders. They often expect explanations as well.” There was distaste in Dutton’s voice, resentment from past adventures with the Marines. “And General Worthington is even more difficult to handle. If he knew we were sacrificing 700 of his Marines to you…”
“Yes, Mr. Dutton.” Hassan nodded. “I begin to understand.”
“Good.” Dutton turned toward Stark. “Gavin, perhaps you could provide Lord Hassan with the materials we prepared.”
“Certainly, Number Three.” Stark referred to Dutton by his Directorate designation, the closest thing to a rank system in the upper levels of Alliance Intelligence. He turned toward the Caliphate lord. “This data chip contains a complete order of battle, equipment manifest, and real time status reports as of two hours ago.” He slid the small, flat crystal across the table. “It also includes all of the tactical maps and plans we were able to obtain from General Worthington’s headquarters as well as the most recent intel from our satcom network around the planet.” Stark’s voice was emotionless, his expression utterly non-committal. “Those satcom assets will be deactivated in…” – he glanced at the chronometer on his wrist – “…exactly one hour and forty-seven minutes.”
“Well, Mr. Dutton…” – Hassan glanced over toward the frozen figure standing next to him – “…and Mr. Stark, I am impressed to say the least.” He reached out and took the chip in his hand. “This will all prove very useful, I am sure. Thank you, gentlemen.” He suppressed a small shiver. The data that Dutton’s protégé had provided would be extremely useful…but something about the man troubled him. There was a coldness there, almost a lack of humanity. Hassan had spent a lifetime plying his trade ruthlessly, but something about Gavin Stark was unsettling, even to his hardened sensibilities. Don’t be a fool, he thought, pushing back the strange thoughts…he’s just one of Dutton’s goons. But he still felt a coldness in his gut.
“No thanks are required.” Dutton responded. “Just use the information and rid us both of these troublesome Marines. I fear if the matter drags on too long, we all risk unpleasant blowback.” He raised his glass to his lips, draining the last of the precious liquid.
“I assure you, Mr. Dutton, we shall complete the operation as quickly as possible.” Hassan drank the last of his brandy and rose to leave.
“And, Lord Hassan?”
“Yes, Mr. Dutton?”
“As we discussed previously…” – Dutton’s face wore the same satisfied smile – “…no survivors please.”
Chapter 8
Battlegroup Persis HQ
Northern Continent
Planet Persis – Iota Persi II
Day Seven
“General Worthington, we’re getting a Priority One transmission notification from fleet command.” Captain Kell couldn’t hide the surprise in his voice. The fleet used Priority One communiques with great care. Whatever it was about, something big was up.
Worthington had been staring at the tactical map, his face contorted into a concerned frown. The Anvil units were well ahead of target, but contact with the Hammer force had been intermittent. The enemy was jamming them hard, and it looked like they were stopped in place by heavy enemy resistance, unable to move forward. They weren’t very far behind schedule – at least not yet - but Worthington was still worried. It took a lot of power to jam so effectively. Why would the enemy waste so many resources blocking routine communications? Especially when they were putting up such a weak fight against the Anvil forces. Colonel Samuels was trying to portray Anvil’s rapid advance as a brilliant assault by his troops, but Worthington could recognize a token defense when he saw it.
His head snapped around at Kell’s words. “Pipe it through as soon as it comes in, captain.”<
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What the hell, he thought…what could this be? Maybe fleet command had some intel on Hammer. Something had been eating at Worthington ever since Samuels reported his rapid advance. The Janissaries. Where were the Janissaries? He knew the elite Caliphate troops were somewhere on the planet, but he had no idea where. They were dodging the satellite surveillance, hidden in some wood or underground bunkers…somewhere they couldn’t be seen. Anvil hadn’t reported any contact with the enemy’s front line troops, and Worthington was sure they hadn’t encountered any. If they’d been up against Janissaries Samuels’ people would be fighting for every centimeter right now, not advancing 3 klicks a day. So where the hell were they?
Kell sat quietly, staring at the screen, waiting for the transmission to commence. A minute passed, maybe 90 seconds, then the board lit up. He hit a switch and nodded to Worthington. “On your line, sir.”
“Worthington here.”
“General Worthington, Admiral Clement here. I have news.” Clement was the fleet commander…and marginally Worthington’s superior. “Let me get right to the point. The war is over.”
Worthington rarely allowed himself to be surprised, but this time he sat silently, struggling for words.
“Yes, you heard me, Charles.” Clement had a reputation for being nearly as irascible as Worthington, but now he couldn’t keep the cheer from his voice. “It’s over, my friend. It’s over.”
“I can’t believe it.” Not a very military thing to say, he thought, but it was all he had. The news was so overwhelming, so sudden…it just didn’t seem right. He couldn’t get his mind wrapped around the idea. “I didn’t know there were even negotiations going on.” It was all he could think to add.
“Neither did I. Not until this morning. Apparently, the whole thing was very hush hush. They just signed the treaty yesterday. We got word from Commnet a few minutes ago. But it’s over.”
Worthington just stared out across the HQ quad. “My God…” He just sat silently for another few seconds, his mouth wide open, trying to think of something to say. Finally: “So, do you have orders for me?”
“I do. The communique had directives for both of us.” The cheerfulness in Clement’s tone continued, but Worthington thought he heard something else…a passing doubt of some kind, perhaps. He’d known Clement for decades, and he was sure there was something uncomfortable in his friend’s voice. “All forces are to stand down immediately and hold position pending further instructions.”
Worthington smiled. “That’s an order I will carry out with great pleasure.” He paused, feeling a sudden wave of discomfort, despite his joy. It all seemed too sudden…too good to be true. “Assuming, of course, our adversaries have received their corresponding orders,” he added. He damned well wasn’t going to order his people to stop shooting until the enemy did. Worthington had a reputation for aggression, but in truth, he was thrilled at the prospect of peace. As long as everything was on the up and up.
“They have.” Clement’s voice was back to its cheerful tone, whatever doubts that had momentarily surfaced re-submerged. “I have confirmed it with Admiral Sulieman.”
Worthington let out a long sigh. Ten years of war. A decade of non-stop fighting that saw the Alliance driven to the brink of total defeat only to claw its way back, one bloody campaign at a time, to victory. At least he assumed it was a victory. He hadn’t seen the documents yet. For all he knew, the politicians had bargained away the advantage his men and women had fought and died to attain. But that wasn’t likely. The politicians cared less for the suffering of their soldiers than they should, but they were greedy for the gains their warriors could obtain for them. He was sure Alliance Gov had wrung every advantage to be gotten from the enemy.
“There’s more, Charles.” There was a hitch in Clement’s voice, the discomfort returning to his tone again despite his best efforts to suppress it. “We’ll be commencing the evac of all ground forces on the planet within 24 hours…and that means you need to get your people ready ASAP.” Another uncomfortable pause then: “We are to be completely off-world in 72 hours.”
Worthington felt a renewed jolt of concern. “Complete evac in three days? What the hell is the rush?” There was a flash of inquisitive anger in his tone, though it wasn’t directed at Clement. The admiral was a good man, one who had Worthington’s complete respect. Clement was just a messenger, one who sounded like he had his own concerns about the whole thing. But Worthington was still getting angry. He and Clement were in joint command of the whole operation, and it was starting to sound like they were getting incomplete information. He paused, running his mind over his entire OB. Three days was a very short period to withdraw a force the size of Battlegroup Persis. It was almost unprecedented. He was as excited as anyone at the prospect of peace, but the urgency of the withdrawal worried him. It didn’t make sense. There had to be something he didn’t know.
“I know it’s fast, Charles.” Clement ignored Worthington’s angry tone…he knew it hadn’t been intended for him. “But those are our orders, and they are explicit.” He paused then added, “There’s no point in us second-guessing. Both of us have full plates getting your people offworld in three days.”
Worthington snorted loudly. “Full plate doesn’t describe it. I’m not even sure it can be done.” The anger slipped away as his mind focused on the practical concerns of moving almost 8,000 fully armored Marines and their equipment off planet in less than three days. Even in the best case scenario, he’d be destroying most of his equipment so he could focus on just embarking his people. “How soon can you get a wave of boats down here?”
It was Clement’s turn to let out a long sigh. “Can you be ready in three hours?” he blurted out suddenly. “I think I can get a partial wave down by then.”
“Sure, three hours is good.” A tiny smile crossed Worthington’s lips. Three hours was a damned short time to have anything ready, but he wasn’t about to let the navy show him up. If Clement could get boats down in five minutes, he’d have Marines ready to embark in four. “I’ll send up the wounded first.”
“Then let’s get to it.” Clement’s tone was businesslike, but the concern was there too, creeping back in. The admiral was as uneasy as Worthington. “Let’s do this right, Charles. Meticulous. By the book. And let’s keep our eyes open.”
“I’m with you, Tom. All the way. Worthington out.”
He turned to face Kell. “Start working on an evac plan, lieutenant, beginning with the field hospitals. I want the wounded ready to evac in 2 hours 45 minutes.” He hesitated for a few seconds. “But first, get me a line to Lord Samash.” Samash was the enemy ground forces commander, Worthington’s Caliphate counterpart. “We have a ceasefire to declare, and it’s going to take two of us to make it work.” He wanted to be happy when he said it, but the worry was still there, eating away at him.
Chapter 9
AS Belleau Wood
Mid-Level Orbit
Planet Persis – Iota Persi II
Day Nine
“All ground troops are off the surface now, sir.” Kell was reading reports on his ‘pad as he followed Worthington through the hatch of the shuttle and onto the gray plasti-steel of Belleau Wood’s landing deck. “That is with the exception of Force Hammer, of course.” He glanced down and read for a few seconds before continuing. “The first wave of transports is scheduled to depart in 30 minutes to begin their evac, sir.”
Worthington stepped through the hatch and walked across the landing bay toward the armory, his heavy steel boots clanging loudly on the deck. His initial euphoria at the prospect of peace had faded, overwhelmed first by unfocused concern…and later by a growing anger. “This is the most fucked up evacuation plan I’ve ever seen.” He’d been stonewalled ever since he heard about the peace treaty, and he was fed up with it. “Who the hell planned this clusterfuck, anyway? Force Hammer should have been the first troops evac’d…not the last. Why the hell is Alliance Gov telling me how I can withdraw my Marines?” He turned
and looked back toward Kell, the aide instinctively backing away from Worthington’s withering glare.
Kell took a deep breath. He knew Worthington was close to one of his rages. The general was a virtual force of nature, especially when his almost uncontrollable temper kicked in. Kell had won the respect of the entire Corps by lasting so long as Worthington’s aide, and he’d done it largely by knowing when to stand aside and let a storm blow itself out. The Marines loved their fiery general, but preferably from a safe distance. Charles Worthington could tear down a veteran sergeant in half a minute, without taking his attention away from whatever other tasks occupied him. He’d done it many times, though fewer than the stories would suggest. It was the legend as much as the reality that inspired his warriors and intimidated his enemies. It served his purposes, and he did what he could to feed the legend. His men and women would follow him into places they wouldn’t dare tread if they’d known he was a mere mortal.
“Well, sir, I can’t speak to the prioritizations, but at least most of the force has been evac’d.” Kell agreed with Worthington to an extent…he didn’t see why the embarkation was such a rush job, and he couldn’t understand the high command’s interference in routine details. But they had successfully pulled most of their forces off the planet, and they’d done it in just over two days. In a few more hours, when the Hammer troops were back aboard their transports, it would be finished. The fight for Persis would be done…the war would be over. “The Hammer forces are much closer to the Caliphate capital. Perhaps that has something to do with the specified embarkation plan.” He realized it didn’t make much sense as he listened to it come out of his mouth, but it was all he had to offer. He really had no idea why Alliance Gov had provided such detailed orders for the withdrawal, but then it wasn’t the first time he’d been at a loss to explain the dictates of the Alliance’s political masters.