by Jay Allan
Compton managed to focus. Lazenby was tall, well over two meters, and he was clad in a spotless white uniform. He had a medical insignia on one collar and a colonel’s eagle on the other. Compton tried to guess his age, but with rejuv treatments it was hard to tell. He decided to go with a well-preserved sixty, thought he figured anything from forty to eighty was possible.
“I’d introduce myself, though I suspect you already know a fair amount about me.” Compton’s throat was dry, his voice scratchy.”
“Indeed I do, admiral…though who doesn’t know about Fleet Admiral Terrance Compton?” Lazenby had a flamboyant, almost theatrical personality. He tended to make overstated, sweeping gestures when he spoke. “And for now, I’m going to insist this reunion be cut short. You have been in a medically-induced coma for a considerable period, and I’m afraid it is going to take a few days for your strength to come back.”
Compton glanced over at Garret then back to Lazenby. “I just need to catch up on the military situation. That shouldn’t ta…”
“And you will be able to do that very soon.” Lazenby’s manner changed, and his voice became firm, commanding. “But now you are going to rest.”
Compton looked back at Garret. “Augustus…”
“Don’t look at me, my friend. I’m with your doctor here 100%.” Garret smiled. “Get some rest. I’ll fill you in later.”
Compton looked as if he was going to argue, but he just sighed and let his head slip back onto the pillow. He was asleep in a few seconds.
Garret turned and walked out into the corridor, his grin slowly slipping away. Other than Compton’s recovery, there wasn’t much to smile about.
“Admiral Garret, it is good to see you again.” Vance extended a hand as he climbed out of the shuttle and saw the admiral standing alongside the docking bay. He was genuinely pleased to see Garret, but the admiral’s presence in the bay could mean only one thing. Bad news.
“And to see you, Roderick.” Garret smiled weakly…clearly he had something on his mind. “And it’s Augustus…we’ve discussed that before, have we not?” Garret’s tenuous smile briefly widened. “I know it’s a mouthful. A bit of a family curse, I’m afraid. Oldest boy in every generation as long as anyone can remember. No one’s sure why.”
Vance returned the smile. He’d always been a bit of a misanthrope, and he’d tended to keep his interpersonal relationships businesslike. But he had to admit to himself that he genuinely liked some of his Alliance colleagues. Garret, certainly, and Compton as well. And, of course, Erik Cain. Vance considered Cain a bit of a kindred spirit. The Marine general didn’t seem particularly fond of most people either. Like Vance, he’d give his all for the cause, and he’d do anything for the men and women serving under him. But his true inner circle, his real friends…they were a very small group.
“So Augustus…” Vance pulled his arm back after shaking hands with Garret. “…why don’t you tell me?”
“That obvious, is it?”
Vance smiled. “Well, I know I’m good company, but I suspect you could have waited until I got to your office…unless there was something important. And since I can hardly remember the last time I heard good news, I assume it’s bad.”
“Good guess.” Garret paused, but only for a second. “The enemy hit Garrison. We just got word yesterday.” Garret’s expression was serious, all traces of his earlier smile gone. “The naval battle’s still going on.” His eyes met Vance’s. “It’s not going well.”
“Admiral Hausser is in command at Garrison?” It sounded like a question, but Vance knew he was correct.
“Yes.” Garret’s face was non-descript, as if he was trying to decide what he thought of Hausser. “He’s a good officer, by all accounts.” His face showed his doubt. “But he’s never faced the First Imperium before.” Garret’s expression morphed into a frown. “I’d have rather put Erica West in command, but we’ve only got one Alliance task force there, and the CEL sent damned near their whole fleet.” He looked at Vance, a wry smile back on his lips. “This diplomacy may be the death of me. I can’t wait to ditch this supreme commander nonsense.” He turned and took a step. “Come on…let’s head back to my office while we talk.”
Vance returned the grin, turning to walk alongside Garret. “I understand your frustrations, admir…Augustus, but I must thank you for your considerations toward inter-power relations. I assure you, it was not easy to assemble the Grand Pact, and anything we can do to keep things running smoothly is helpful in maintaining it. And you were the only choice for the top command that made any sense.”
Garret nodded. “Our good friend Erik Cain would call me a damned fool for such considerations.”
Vance had to stifle a small laugh. “Erik is an extraordinary Marine…and quite a character. But he’s certainly no diplomat…and he’d be the last one to claim otherwise.”
The HQ building was only a few steps from Vance’s ship…Garret had directed the shuttle to the priority landing pad. They covered the distance quickly, and in just a minute or two they were walking into a large conference room…the same place they’d had their strategy sessions during the initial stages of the First Imperium invasion. This time, the massive chamber was almost empty, the prior cast now scattered, on assignments or in the hospital…or dead. There was a lone figure sitting quietly, reading data from a small ‘pad.
“Elias…always a pleasure to see you.” Vance spoke first as he walked into the room. He tended to be formal in his demeanor, using titles and surnames far more frequently than first names…even with close associates. But his Alliance friends were looser and more relaxed in their conduct, especially when it was just the senior personnel present. Vance made an effort to conform…to “loosen up” as Garret had so delicately put it. He was getting used to it, but it wasn’t always easy. He’d been raised in a very strict household; he’d called his father, “sir” until the day the old man died.
“Roderick.” Elias smiled and nodded a greeting. “I hope your trip wasn’t too uncomfortable. Those ships of yours are a technological marvel, but they’re hard on the body. My aging one, at least.”
“And mine.” Roderick smiled, walking to one of the chairs. “They’ve come in handy, but I’m afraid I’ve been bruised from head to toe since this whole thing began.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. Garret was doing the same at the head of the table.
“We’ve got some updates from Garrison, gentlemen.” Holm’s eyes were moving from his ‘pad first to Garret then to Vance. They could tell from his tone the news wasn’t good. “I’m afraid Admiral Hausser has been badly defeated and, it appears, killed in action. Fourth Fleet is attempting to withdraw to Moonstone, but it appears a significant number of units are deep in-system, cut off from the warp gate. “The Konig Friederich has been destroyed.”
Garret looked out impassively. The CEL flagship, he thought…and their top admiral. The pain in this conflict was rapidly spreading beyond just the Alliance forces. “What else do we know?”
Holm’s eyes flicked down to the ‘pad again. “Admiral Yoshiru has taken command, but it appears Mikasa is with the trapped fleet units. We don’t have any data on who is commanding the withdrawing vessels or how many ships are trapped with Admiral Yoshiru.”
Vance sat quietly, listening to the unfolding disaster, but saying nothing. This was the province of the military, and two of the most gifted warriors in history were sitting in the room with him.
“Do we have any confirmations on fleet units that have transited?” Garret was starting to get very worried about losses. Fourth Fleet had 7 capital ships. It looked like they were going to lose at least two, and maybe more. They couldn’t afford that kind of attrition.
“Negative.” Holm was still glancing down. The stream of information coming through on his ‘pad was continuing, but it was frustratingly incomplete. “I’m not sure anything has transited yet.”
Garret stared across the table, his mind lost, wondering how bad the losses were going
to be. Finally, he glanced at Vance and back at Holm. “Well, I guess it’s General Gilson’s show on Garrison now.”
Holm nodded silently.
Chapter 15
Hobson’s Ridge
Planet Garrison
Alpha Corvi III
“The Line”
“We’ve got Reapers breaking through in sector 9.” Captain John Horace shouted into the com. He was trying to stay in control, but his lines were caving in all around him. He could feel the fear, the panic starting to build, but he pushed back hard against it. “We can’t hold them. Half the battalion is down, and the rest are falling back.” There were too many of them…and the Reapers were just too damned hard to bring down.
“Hold your position, Horace.” It was Major Timmons. Horace’s mind raced – what happened to the colonel? “I’ve got three companies of panzergrenadiers on their way to reinforce you.” There was a pause, only a few seconds, and then, “ETA ten minutes.”
Horace took a deep breath. Ten minutes, he thought…it might as well be a year. “Ok, 7th battalion, we’ve got friendlies inbound. We need to hold for ten minutes.” He was struggling to sound calm. He was as scared shitless by these things as anybody in the battalion, but his troops were hanging on by a thread, and the last thing they needed was him sounding anything less than 100% in control. “Everybody grab the best cover you can, and fire everything you’ve got.”
Horace had commanded the battalion for 20 minutes, the fourth officer to hold the posting since morning. Major Klein was dead…he wasn’t sure about Pinter and Vine…they may have made it to a field hospital. Whether they were alive or dead, they were out of action, and that left 7th battalion in the hands of its junior captain.
Horace clicked a reload into his mag-rifle and made his was forward. The battalion was going to need every bit of firepower they could scrape up if they were going to hold out. The enemy fire was thick as he made his way to the front. He crouched down, staying low as he moved slowly toward the line. The battalion was pinned down behind a small lip at the top of the ridge. They’d had a better position 300 meters farther forward, but they hadn’t managed to hold it. The enemy hit them in force, and they had to fall back. That’s where Captain Pinter got hit…and Vine a few minutes later.
There were dead Marines everywhere. There were a lot of wounded, too, but most of them were still in the firing line. His people were clinging to the tiny ridge, firing their weapons with grim resolve. They’d beaten back the first two enemy assaults against the new position, but now the Reapers were coming.
He crouched behind the lip, bringing his rifle to bear. It was nearly impossible to take out a Reaper with a mag-rifle…it took a SAW at least, and usually more. But there were regular bots advancing too, and a perfect shot could hurt one of them.
“Captain Horace, I’ve got air support approaching your sector, inbound and hot. ETA one minute.” It was Major Timmons again, and he cut the line before Horace could acknowledge. It was starting to look like Timmons had inherited the brigade and, if that was the case, he had more problems to deal with than just 7th Battalion.
Horace was grateful for the air; he knew resources were stretched thin right now. He looked out over the field and exhaled hard. Maybe we can hold out after all. He checked his scanners, and he saw the approaching aircraft already. It looked like two fighter-bombers coming in from the west, parallel to the enemy line. The humans had air superiority of a sort, but it was only because the First Imperium forces didn’t seem to field aircraft. They could shoot them down, though, and their accuracy made running ground support missions the closest thing to suicide this side of putting your head in a noose. Still, the flyers were ready to go in wherever they were needed. General Gilson would run out of planes and pilots eventually, but Horace was glad she still had at least two to spare.
The planes dove madly for the enemy position, and the Reapers redirected their fire, filling the sky with hypersonic projectiles. One of the planes was hit almost immediately. It lost a wing and cartwheeled for a few seconds before crashing into the ground behind enemy lines. Horace closed his eyes for a few seconds, not wanting to look at the rising plume of smoke and flame.
The second craft veered off wildly, dodging the heaviest fire as it angled down to launch its attack. Damn, that’s one hell of a pilot, Horace thought. He had nothing but respect and admiration for the crews of those planes. That flyer was playing Russian Roulette with four barrels loaded, just to take the pressure off his people. Horace watched the bomber level off about 500 meters from the ground and loose its payload. The plasma bombardment system was one of the most effective new weapons to reach the front lines from Colonel Sparks’ labs, and it made the bombing runs worth the risk at almost any casualty rate.
Horace stared at the field in front of him as the massive clouds of superheated plasma erupted all along the edge of the enemy’s advance. His visor darkened automatically to save his eyes from the blinding white light, but he couldn’t stop watching. The enemy bots caught within the expanding plasmas were destroyed, vaporized or blown to bits. Even the Reapers were consumed in the maelstrom, falling prone as their hulking bodies melted and disappeared.
The plane arced up, climbing rapidly, trying to escape. The pilot was obviously a veteran, and he almost made it…but the fire from the enemy second line was too heavy, and a stream of hypervelocity rounds shredded the tail of his aircraft. The stricken bomber tumbled end over end and plummeted to the ground. Horace was watching on his scanner, and he felt a sick feeling in his gut. They were suffering thousands of casualties on Garrison, but the thought of that courageous pilot dying was particularly hard for him to take. He was watching on his scanner, and he saw that the pilot managed to eject. Maybe he’ll make it, Horace thought, grasping. He tried to draw comfort from that faint hope, but he could see the escape pod coming down in the middle of the enemy position.
“Attention all personnel.” He was speaking on the battalion-wide com. “This is Captain Horace. Those pilots just went in there to buy us a respite, and now we’re going to pay them back.” He was breathing heavily, deeply inhaling the oxygen-rich mixture his suit circulated. “We’re taking back the forward position before the enemy reorganizes. The battalion will advance on my mark.” He flipped off the com. “Jonesy, give me a stim.” He was feeling growing fatigue, and he needed to be 100% right now.
“Yes, captain.” The AI obeyed immediately, and Horace felt a prick in his arm, followed by a feeling of new strength spreading through his body. The heaviness in his limbs was relieved, and the dull headache was pushed back.
He flipped the com back on and gripped his mag rifle. “7th Battalion…attack!” He leapt over the small lip and ran toward the heavier rock outcropping ahead. It was a better position, one he was determined to hold this time, especially once he was reinforced. He focused on his stride - running in armor required some concentration, at least if you didn’t want to end up taking high leaps and getting blown to bits by enemy fire. He’d covered half the distance before he glanced at his display to see who was following. He sighed and almost stopped right where he was, but he kept his head and ran the rest of the way to the ridge.
“Let’s go 7th Battalion. Move your asses!” He was pissed, and it came through in his tone. The battalion was all strung out from the forward ridge back to the original position. Half his people had hesitated and moved grudgingly, late. All along the line, platoon sergeants and junior officers were haranguing them onward. Horace knew the battalion was almost spent, but he’d never seen a veteran Marine formation attack so raggedly. These things are really getting into their heads, he thought grimly. “At least none of them broke,” he muttered to himself. “Yet.”
Heinrich Shultz moved swiftly over the blasted terrain. The fighting had been heavy, and the ground was torn to shreds. There were huge craters all around, half-filled from the high water table. A heavy tactical nuke had hit a klick north, and all the trees and vegetation were gone, blasted away
by the shockwave.
The Marines had been in a vicious fight here, and there were bodies everywhere. Shultz could only take a wild guess, but he figured 7th Battalion had lost half its strength. His Panzergrenadiers were here to reinforce the Marines. The enemy was attacking hard, but the position was vital, and his orders were to hold at all costs. If the First Imperium forces broke through here it would compromise the lines to the north and south. The human forces would have to pull back at least 20 klicks, and the whole defense of the Gregor Valley would be in jeopardy.
Shultz had a rump battalion, 3 companies of Panzergrenadiers. The Central European League’s armored infantry didn’t have much experience fighting either alongside or against the Alliance Marines, but the two formations had a strong respect for each other. The CEL had spent most of the last century waging its own private war with the French-dominated Europa Federalis, and Shultz’s troops were veterans of those battles. But his people knew the history of the Alliance Marines, and they greatly respected their new allies.
The League division landed just before the enemy fleet arrived and blockaded the planet, and they were assigned as a general reserve. Generalmajor Baer had been upset at being positioned to the rear, but his complaints quickly became superfluous. The enemy hit the Alliance lines hard, and the reserves were already being committed. His troops started moving to the front lines almost immediately.
Shultz could see the Marines on his display. They were moving forward. Attacking! He smiled. The Marines were living up to their reputation, and Shultz was damned if the panzergrenadiers would do less. “3rd battalion…forward at the double. Advance and support the Marine units at the ridge.”
The CEL troops swarmed up and over the secondary position, the one the Marines had just left. The steel gray armor of the panzergrenadiers was a bit sleeker than the Alliance suits, and they moved quickly across the broken ground.