by Jay Allan
The enemy was taken entirely by surprise. The plan was beyond unorthodox…it was crazy. The intelligences directing the First Imperium expeditionary force were bewildered, and they hesitated…just as Marek had hoped. Only three landers were intercepted. The rest of the force made it safely to the ground.
The choice of landing zone was a surprise as well. The new arrivals didn’t land in an area already controlled by their forces. Marek set down 40 kilometers behind the enemy position and over 80 klicks from Gilson’s front line. He wasn’t there to feed a small reserve into the existing army – he was there to attack the First Imperium from behind. To relieve the pressure on Gilson and hopefully allow her to go on the offensive. It was risky to open a second line with less than 3,000 troops, but Marek was willing to gamble. He knew victory against this enemy required taking chances. They’d already defied the odds just reaching the planet. Now they were going to show these robots how to wage war.
“Who the hell are they?” Gilson stared at the monitor, a confused scowl on her face, trying to understand what was happening. She’d been surprised when her scanners detected the incoming landings…and stunned when the craft were ID’d as Martian Ares II landers. There hadn’t been a signal from the fleet, not the slightest indication that they’d returned to the system. Yet friendly troops had apparently landed. At least she presumed they were friendly – they were definitely launching attacks against the enemy. Even more inexplicable, they’d come down on the opposite side of the First Imperium army, almost 100 klicks from her positions. Their attacks were falling on the lightly defended enemy rear areas.
“Impossible to tell, general.” Kevin Morton was as mystified as his boss. He stared down at his workstation, feeling he must have missed something. But there was nothing…nothing but what they already knew. The landing craft were definitely Martian Confederation design, but there were no identification beacons at all. And definitely no indication of any kind of battle going on in space. “I have no idea who they are or how they got here. We can’t reach them on the com…the jamming’s too heavy and we don’t have a satellite to bounce off.”
Gilson stared at her own screen for a minute, though her eyes weren’t seeing anything. She wondered, could this force have run the enemy blockade? Was that even possible? If they had, who were they? Any force sent by Garret or Holm would have normal identification transponders. She paused a moment longer, than scowled and looked up, a determined expression on her face. “It doesn’t matter who they are. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. And this friend is wreaking havoc in the enemy rear areas.”
“Yes, general, but…”
“No buts, Kevin. That force is too small to hold out for long. They’re benefiting from surprise right now, but that won’t last. The enemy will eventually redeploy enough strength to crush them.” She paused again, but only for a few seconds. “Unless they’ve got something else to worry about.”
Morton stared back quietly, a concerned expression on his face. The battle had been raging for weeks, but things had slowed the last few days, the two sides settling into fortified lines. To Morton’s thinking, that was a good thing. The army had put up a great fight, but he and Gilson both knew they’d eventually lose the war of attrition. He figured anything that slowed the pace of events was in their favor. If they could hold out longer, maybe the fleet would return. Maybe they’d be reinforced.
Gilson’s mind worked differently. She wasn’t interested in buying useless time – she was looking for a way to win, even a longshot. She wanted victory, and if she couldn’t have it then death was the alternative…and if they were all to die choking on the bitter taste of defeat, what did it matter when?
Morton knew what Gilson was going to say, and he dreaded it. The battle on Garrison had been brutally waged, and the exhausted human forces needed time to rest and recover. Now he knew that lull was over…he could hear the words in his head before Gilson spoke them, and his shoulders slumped forward in resignation.
“Major Morton…” Her voice was strong, determined, defiant. “…it is time to end this. My orders to all units…attack!”
The intelligences directing the First Imperium army were stunned by Marek’s attack, and they reacted sluggishly to the new threat. The enemy actions were unorthodox, inexplicable. The new force was small, grossly inadequate to launch a major offensive…yet that is precisely what they had done.
The new attackers had used their surprise to great effect, slicing deep into the support areas, isolating and annihilating the token forces left to garrison the First Imperium rear. Now the new forces were threatening the primary supply areas. They had become more than an annoyance…the menace to the supply depots threatened the entire army. The commanding intelligences finally responded, recognizing the grave threat to their logistics.
Units were directed north, sent against the new attackers. Reaper squadrons were repositioned, pulled out of the stationary lines to the south and sent north. All along the First Imperium line, combat units were withdrawn from the existing but static battle line and sent to defend the support areas.
Then it happened. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the forces in the south launched their own attack, cutting through the weakened and disrupted First Imperium lines. The intelligences hesitated again. This enemy defied all attempts at understanding; their actions were unpredictable, illogical. Some units were ordered to return to the old line, to face the enemy in the south. Others were sent northward.
These actions were too late. In the north, the enemy was overrunning the supply areas, destroying the army’s stockpiled ordnance. In the south the formerly beaten enemy units had abandoned their entrenchments, and they were slicing through the disordered First Imperium lines. Chaos spread throughout the battlefield. The intelligences studied the map, trying to develop a new strategy, but the situation was fluid, and their orders were too late. Their forces fought without fear, of course, but they failed to stop the enemy assaults.
None of this made sense. The battle had been won. The intelligences had analyzed everything, and they had determined that victory was assured. Now their plans were unraveling. They reviewed the incoming data and considered every option. They sent out orders, moving units from location to location, plugging breaches in the line. But none of it seemed to work. Slowly, reluctantly, they began to reach a stunning conclusion. They were losing the battle.
“I want that supply dump blown.” Marek could tell he was almost screaming, but he didn’t care. His forces had sliced deep into the First Imperium positions, and now they had reached the main supply areas. “Now, captain!”
“Yes, sir.” Josh Davies stood on the edge of the depot, his right foot perched on the twisted remains of an enemy battle robot. “We’ll have the charges in place in two minutes, general.”
“Make it 90 seconds, Captain Davies. We’ve got Reapers inbound.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll try.” Davies tension level rose. He hadn’t padded that 2 minute estimate, and he didn’t think they could make 90 seconds. He wasn’t even sure about the two minutes.
“Don’t try. Do.” Marek flipped the com to another line, cutting Davies off before he could respond. “Colonel Powell, how is your line holding?” The enemy counterattacks had intensified. Marek’s people had gotten lucky at first, and they’d sliced through the weak security units posted in the enemy’s rear. But now they were under increasingly heavy pressure, from Reapers as well as standard bots.
“We’re hanging on, sir.” Powell’s voice was labored, strained. “We beat back the normal robots, but they started hitting us with the big ones, the Reapers. We managed to push them back again, but if they throw many more at us I doubt we can hold.”
“Are you injured, colonel?” He could hear it in Powell’s voice.
Powell took a deep, difficult breath. “I got clipped, sir, but I’m OK. It’s nothing.” The sound of his breathing suggested it was considerably more than nothing.
Marek’s face twisted into a frown. In his Mari
ne armor he’d have gotten an alert immediately if one of his senior officers was hit. He’d have medical data in real time fed directly into his own information system. But his troops wore outdated Mark V armor, surplus material from before the Third Frontier War. Few colonies fielded any powered infantry in their militias and defense forces, and none – not even one as prosperous as Columbia – could afford state of the art Marine gear.
“Don’t bullshit me, colonel.” The Mark V armor didn’t have anything nearly as effective as the newest trauma control systems. “You sound like crap. Put Major Jindal in command and get back to the aid station. I want you at least partially patched up before you come back up.”
“But sir, I’m reall…”
“No arguments, colonel. That’s an order.” He snapped off the com. He knew Bill Powell, and the big ox would argue all day if he allowed it. He worked his way through his key commands, reviewing status reports and issuing orders. The enemy pressure was ramping up everywhere. His surprise advantage was gone. Whatever else he was going to accomplish, it had to be now.
“Captain Davies, what’s the status over there?” Marek wasn’t sure if he’d given the beleaguered engineer the full 90 seconds or not, and he didn’t care.
“We just finished, sir.” Davies coughed loudly, clearing his throat. “The unit’s pulling back now. We can detonate in about a minute, sir.”
“Do it.” Marek’s response was immediate. “As soon as you have everyone out of the blast radius, blow the damned thing.” His forces were still too far from Gilson’s to communicate through the heavy enemy jamming, but he couldn’t think of anything more useful to her than blowing the supplies.
“Yes, sir.”
Marek glanced down at his display. It was a lot harder to read than the visor projection systems the Marines had, but it still gave him a decent plot of the overall battlefield. His section, at least. His impromptu invasion force wasn’t plugged into the Marine network, so his system couldn’t draw on any of their surveillance. Normally, a Marine general’s tracking system could pull data from any assets on the field – satellites, drones, visors of any of the troops in the line. Anything that wasn’t being actively jammed fed data to the commanding officers. But Marek had to make do with what he had.
He was focused on his plotting screen when he heard the blast. It was nearly deafening, even with his armor sealed. He turned and looked at the hillside, watching a huge plume of smoke and fire rising high into the atmosphere, expanding, taking on the familiar mushroom shape. His first thought was for his troopers…that Davies had gotten his people far enough back. That concern was quickly resolved when the engineer captain checked in a few seconds later.
His second thought was more satisfying, and he felt his face twist into a bloodthirsty scowl. “Let’s see how you fight without ammunition, you bastards.”
The intelligences directing the fleet in the Alpha Corvi system checked and rechecked their calculations. Their conclusions seemed illogical, but they were accurate nonetheless. The ground forces were in disarray, most of their supplies destroyed. The projections were clear. They were going to be defeated.
The fleet lacked adequate supplies and reinforcements to change that outcome. All excess units and supply had been diverted to the primary attack force in Delta Leonis. The conclusion was inescapable. The ground battle would soon be lost, and there was nothing that could be done to prevent that.
The intelligences considered the next action for the fleet. There was no enemy force in the system at present, no threat to the warships themselves. But this enemy was unpredictable…that had been demonstrated multiple times now. Perhaps there was a large battlefleet lurking just behind the warp gate. Perhaps there was some sort of trap in the works. There was no way to know.
The fleet was expendable, of course, but only if there was prospect of compensating gain. Here, there was none. The planet could not be occupied without more ground forces. A nuclear bombardment would be unlikely to eradicate the enemy presence…and the fleet was low on heavy nuclear warheads anyway. Risking the loss of so many fleet units for no apparent gain was illogical.
The intelligences conferred and considered, carefully reviewing all of the data. At last they issued orders to the ships of the fleet. For the first time in the war a First Imperium battlefleet fired its thrusters…and retreated.
Chapter 29
Theta 7 System
Orbiting Planet Samvar
“The Line”
The admiral’s conference room on Bunker Hill was gleaming, every surface new. The crews at the Wolf 359 shipyards had worked around the clock for eight months, and Terrance Compton’s flagship was as good as new. The admiral wasn’t sure he’d characterize himself quite the same way, but the staff at Armstrong Medical had pronounced him fully healed several months before Bunker Hill returned to the line.
He’d missed out on the action at Sandoval and Garrison, but he was ready when the call came to drive the enemy from Samvar’s system. It hadn’t taken much of a fight – the First Imperium fleet withdrew after a perfunctory missile exchange. The Samvar force had been the smallest of the three invasion fleets, and with the defeats at Sandoval and Garrison, the enemy decided not to fight it out over Samvar.
Compton sighed softly, still not sure he truly believed it. The First Imperium forces had been turned back at all three Line worlds. The heart of human space was safe…for now. Compton knew that situation was profoundly temporary, as did Garret and Holm and Cain. None of them could imagine the enemy wouldn’t be back, and they knew it would be worse the second time. The First Imperium had underestimated humanity, but no one could even guess at how massive an entity it was or what gargantuan forces it could muster given time. There was joy over the victories, but it was sharply tempered by the high cost and the realization that all victory had bought was a respite.
The hatch slid open, and Augustus Garret walked in. He moved slowly, his shoulders hunched forward. “It’s good to have you back, old friend.” Garret’s tone was casual, but there was real feeling behind it. He’d carried an enormous load as supreme commander, and Terrence Compton was like a brother, possibly the only person he could truly share his burden with.
“It’s good to be back, Augustus.” My God, Compton thought…he looks exhausted…he looks old. Garret’s face was lined with deep crevices that hadn’t been there a few years earlier, and his formerly salt and pepper hair had turned almost entirely gray. Augustus Garret had shouldered more responsibility than any man in human history. Nothing less than the fate of mankind had hinged on his military ability. “Or should I call you Supreme Commander?” Compton gave his friend a wry smile.
Garret frowned. “Don’t you dare.” He plopped down hard into one of the chairs. “I can’t wait to give this godforsaken job back.”
“We’re lucky you had it, my friend. Can you imagine if we’d been under the orders of some CAC political lapdog?” Compton’s face was sour, like he’d tasted something bad.
“Why Admiral Compton, you are speaking of our allies.” Garret smiled. He didn’t look like he had a full laugh in him, but he was definitely amused.
“I’m fine with the real soldiers.” Compton grinned himself. “It’s the political appointees I can’t abide. Somehow we managed to escape that in the Alliance.”
Garret grinned again, darkly this time. “I wouldn’t say we’ve escaped it.” Garret and the military had been through more than one run in with Alliance Intelligence and their political masters. He could see Compton about to respond, but he beat him to it. “I know. Whatever problems we’ve had, at least we can depend on each other.”
They were interrupted by the door sliding open again. Six Marines walked in, clad in five neatly pressed and one slightly disheveled set of fatigues. Elias Holm led the group and he paused and looked toward Compton and Garret. “Augustus, Terrance…it’s good to see you both again.” Garret’s companions nodded.
“And you, Elias. It’s always a pleasure to have
our Marine friends onboard.” Garret paused, his eyes fixed on Cain. He spoke more slowly, and his voice became somber. “I’m sorry about Kyle Warren. I’m afraid I didn’t know him very well, but he died a hero.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. It was the right thing for Garret to say, but they’d all been through so much blood, so much death…the aura of heroism was getting thin with them all, and with Cain especially. Warren was a hero, Cain thought, but he was also just as dead as any of the cowards executed in the hanger. Did it matter? Was one better off than the other?
“Thank you, admiral.” Cain broke the silence. “It means a lot for you to say that.” Cain wasn’t sure what he believed about heroes, but he knew Garret meant well.
“For the love of God, Erik…don’t admiral me and I won’t general you. Ok? We’ve all got more shiny junk on our uniforms than we can handle. No ship crew or fresh-faced corporals to impress here.”
Cain smiled. “You’ve got a deal, adm…Augustus.” He walked slowly toward the table, his arm bound tightly to his chest by an expertly wrapped sling. Sarah had worked on his arm herself. That is, after he told her he was wounded, which wasn’t until well after the battle was over. She scolded him and threatened to amputate the thing and regenerate it if he didn’t follow her instructions to the letter. The arm was a mess, but she managed to repair everything.
Compton noticed Isaac Merrick standing in the rear of the group, wearing a crisp new set of Marine fatigues, a single platinum star on each collar. “So they finally taught you the secret handshake, Isaac?”
Merrick tried to suppress a laugh. “Yes, it was General Holm’s doing.” He glanced over at Erik. “Though I think General Cain had something to do with it.” Isaac Merrick was the first outsider admitted to the Marine Corps in over a century. A younger Cain would have thought the idea outrageous, but now that circumstance had forced thousands of half-trained, substandard recruits into the field units, he couldn’t abide shutting out a true hero…and a faithful friend. Holm had agreed completely, signing the commission the day Cain brought it to him.