The Empire's Corps: Book 06 - To The Shores...

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Yes,” she admitted, curtly.

  She looked down at the reports from the city. They were hellishly confused; the garrison had some human intelligence sources on the ground, but not all of them were considered reliable, unsurprisingly. Intelligence sources could be subverted by the enemy, if they were detected. But if what they were saying was true, the local government and the rebels were battling it out for supremacy, with the population caught in the middle. She'd just have to wait and see who came out on top. Even if she hadn't been trying to extract her own forces from a trap, there was no way to know who was on what side.

  “And tell the helicopters to rearm as quickly as possible,” she added. Right now, they were the only mobile artillery they had. If they couldn't take out the enemy guns, or at least force them to waste time changing position, they would find it harder to withdraw in good order. “We need them back here.”

  “Understood,” Buckley said.

  ***

  “Incoming enemy tanks,” the CO reported. “Five of them.”

  Corporal Sharon Jones nodded as she took control of Hammer’s main gun. The giant Landshark tank normally gave her a comforting sense of invulnerability – and besides, it was the only combat arm open to females, at least outside the Marines. But now two tanks had been lost and a third had been badly damaged and ordered to make its own way back to the FOB. The sense of invulnerability was gone.

  “Weapons locked on target,” she reported. The enemy tanks were smaller, which didn't mean that they weren’t dangerous. Standard high-explosive or armour-piercing shells wouldn't be enough to break Landshark-grade armour, but plasma warheads would melt their way inside and reduce the crew to ash. “Ready to fire.”

  The CO smiled. “Fire,” he said.

  Sharon keyed a switch and the first shell launched from the main gun, whistling out to strike the enemy tank. The other tanks opened fire at the same moment, one of them scoring a direct hit on the Landshark, rocking the tank without doing any major damage. Her firing sequence continued unabated, striking the remaining four enemy tanks and leaving them nothing, but burning wreckage. She found herself hoping that the enemy crews had had time to bail out, although she knew that it was unlikely. Even if they had, they'd have to make their way off a battlefield where both sides were firing at everything that moved.

  “All targets destroyed,” she reported.

  “Pull us back,” the CO ordered the driver. “We’re being ordered to cover the infantry as they fall back.”

  “Aye, sir,” the driver said. Something struck the tank hard enough to shake it, but didn't break through the armour. A moment later, the vehicle lurched into life and started heading back towards the coastline. “We’re on our way.”

  ***

  The tankers were looking like drowned rats, Michael decided, as they finally reached the place where the Warriors were waiting for them. They looked so relieved that he decided not to point out that the Warriors weren't as heavily armoured as the Landshark tanks and that a single shell would be enough to reduce them to flaming debris. Instead, he watched as they were chivvied into the lead AFV and driven back towards the coastline.

  His earpiece buzzed. “Remain with the tanks for the moment,” a voice explained. “Then prepare to withdraw back to the FOB.”

  ***

  “That’s most of our engaged forces out of the battlefield,” Major Daniels reported. “The last of the tanks are pulling back now.”

  Jasmine sighed, relieved. The enemy guns were still trying to engage the retreating CEF, but their tanks seemed more inclined to stay back this time, rather than try to force the CEF to move faster. Maybe they thought they’d taken enough losses ... or maybe they intended to launch a new attack as soon as they regrouped. Part of her hoped so; a mobile battle would play to her strengths, rather than her weaknesses.

  “Good,” she said. “And the helicopters?”

  “Inbound, with full loads of ammunition,” Buckley reported. “They’re requesting permission to engage the enemy tanks.”

  “Denied,” Jasmine said. “Tell them to concentrate on the guns. I need them suppressed.”

  ***

  Andrew wasn't too surprised as he led the four-ship squadron of helicopters towards the enemy guns. The tanks made tempting targets, but he could understand why higher authority would want to exterminate the enemy guns first. Their drones were reporting that the enemy rate of fire was actually increasing, as if they knew that their targets were slowly slipping out of their grasp. He flipped on the targeting computer and examined the possible targets. There were far too many of them.

  “They’ve started to spread the guns out a little,” Briggs commented. “And they’re advancing others forward too.”

  Andrew nodded and activated his microphone. “Charlie-two, follow us in and engage the active guns,” he ordered. “Charlie-three, Charlie-four; engage the moving guns.”

  Briggs keyed a series of switches. “Targets assigned, sir,” he reported. “Ready to engage.”

  “Fire,” Andrew ordered.

  The two helicopters swooped down on the enemy guns, firing as they came. Andrew saw enemy troops scattering as the missiles and shells rained down, feeling the elemental force of destruction that was about to break over their weapons. The level of enemy shellfire dropped rapidly as the guns were destroyed or abandoned, even if there wasn't such a spectacular explosion this time.

  They must have been running out of ammunition, he reasoned, as the helicopter clawed for sky after completing the sweep. There wasn't enough left to cause a real explosion.

  The threat receiver screamed a warning and he dumped flares automatically, swearing out loud as he saw a pair of missiles lancing up towards the helicopters. One of them was misdirected by the flares and exploded harmlessly below them, the other refused to be diverted and slammed into Charlie-two, punching through the armour and detonating inside. The helicopter exploded into a colossal fireball before her crew had a hope of escaping.

  “Charlie-two is gone,” Andrew reported, bleakly. A further spread of missiles were launched from the ground and he accelerated to escape them. The remaining two helicopters completed their own sweeps and rose to join his craft. “No survivors; I say again, no survivors.”

  “Understood, Charlie-one,” the CO said. “Ammunition status?”

  “Down to 20%,” Andrew informed him. Behind him, the second wave of missiles had lost their locks and headed down to the ground. Revengefully, he hoped they landed on enemy heads. Imperial Army equipment had safety features to prevent such accidents, but he doubted the locals would have bothered to enable them. “Do you wish us to reengage?”

  “Hold position and wait,” the CO ordered. “We’re pulling out the remainder of the infantry now.”

  Andrew scowled. There was no escaping the simple fact that they’d lost. The enemy had given the CEF a bloody nose and forced it to retreat in disorder. And if they failed to break through to the capital, Colonel Stalker and his men were likely to be slaughtered out of hand.

  He shook his head. That was not going to happen.

  But, as God was his witness, he didn't know what they could do about it.

  ***

  The IED was nothing more than a tiny packet of explosive, a motion sensor and a timer primed to activate the IED five minutes after it was placed under a stone. Michael carefully concealed it, pushed the activation switch and then moved away as rapidly as possible. He’d learned during the Cracker War just how unreliable IEDs could be, even the ones built with military-grade technology.

  “That should delay them a little,” he muttered. The rest of the squad was emplacing their own IEDs, knowing that even one explosion would deter the enemy from giving chase with enthusiasm. Unless, of course, the enemy soldiers were being followed by men with guns, who would shoot anyone who tried to slow down. “Sergeant?”

  “All emplaced,” the Sergeant reported, as they left the makeshift minefields behind. “The Warriors are waiting fo
r us behind the next hill.”

  Michael allowed himself a sigh of relief as they rounded the hill and saw the AFVs. The noise of fighting was dying away, although he could still hear the thunderous crash-crash-crash of Landshark main guns as they engaged enemy vehicles at long range. He sagged as he clambered into the AFV and sat down on the bench, forcing himself to remain upright as the vehicle roared into life and took them away from the battlefield. It was funny how he managed to keep going while he was outside, but collapsed the moment he felt safe.

  And those tankers felt safe too, he reminded himself, sternly. He didn't have a Landshark protecting him from the battlefield, even now. You should know that you won’t be safe until the war comes to an end.

  ***

  “That’s the remainder of the infantry pulled out,” Buckley reported. He sounded as tired as Jasmine felt. “The tanks are still providing covering fire.”

  Jasmine smiled. The enemy didn't seem to have realised just how far the Landshark could shoot, certainly not when the tanks were paired with invisible drones flying high over the battlefield. A handful of stunningly precise shots had deterred pursuit by anything larger than infantry – and the IEDs had kept them from pushing too closely – but she knew that the enemy knew that they had won. They’d taken on the CEF and forced it to retreat with its tail between its legs.

  Colonel Stalker will not be happy, she thought, numbly. She felt exhausted, even though she hadn't been fighting personally. But being out in the field would have been preferable to watching her failure unfold on the display screens. Over a hundred soldiers – perhaps more – had been killed, because of her. And a handful more were unaccounted for. She'd failed them all.

  Enough, she told herself. There was still no time for self-pity. You have a job to do.

  “Keep pulling us back until we reach base,” she ordered. Once they broke contact completely, they could relax and regroup – and prepare for future operations. “The long-range guns on the garrison can provide us with cover.”

  If nothing else, she added to herself, it will give us time to think of what to do next.

  ***

  Private Mathew Polk felt himself moving in and out of consciousness, unsure of just what had happened to him. They’d been advancing against the enemy; he was sure of that, if nothing else. And then his vehicle had been hit, he’d fallen, and then .. his memory failed him. He forced himself to sit upright and gasped in pain as he realised that his leg was broken. And the rest of his body hurt so badly that he was convinced that there were other broken bones.

  Concussion, he thought. No wonder his thoughts were spinning through his head. You can't think straight.

  He looked around, hoping to see someone coming to rescue him, but there was nothing in view apart from a burning AFV. The entire squad might be dead, he realised, or they might have thought that he was dead. They might have abandoned him ... he opened his throat, intending to cry out, then stopped as hazy figures came into view. One look was all it needed to tell him that they weren't friendly. He started to reach for his pistol – his rifle was nowhere to be seen – but his hand refused to obey orders. And then they were on him, barking orders in a language he didn't understand.

  They rolled him over, ignoring his cries of pain, and bound his hands and feet firmly together. A moment later, two of them hauled him up and carried him to the east, away from the rest of the CEF. Who knew what they would do to him? None of the rumours suggested that the locals would follow any of the POW treatment conventions the Knights had been trained to uphold. Everything they did to their fellow locals was horrifying enough.

  He started to struggle, desperately, but it was already too late. One of them slapped him on the head with a club and he blacked out into darkness.

  Chapter Sixteen

  This doesn’t just involve the two countries who signed the original treaty. A nation that shows bad faith to one nation will be suspected of being prepared to do the same to other nations.

  -Professor Leo Caesius. Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past.

  Flora stared in disbelief. “They’re leaving?”

  Edward shook his head. The mob might be falling back, but it was clear from the drones that a large force of local soldiers was entering the city. It was hard to tell – their uniforms made it hard for him to take them seriously – yet it seemed as through the mob was scared of them. And yet mobs weren't known for being scared until they were lashed back into their component individuals ...

  “I don’t think so,” he said, grimly. “I think they’re about to start round two.”

  He’d seen bodies piled high on Han, but this was almost worse. Hundreds of bodies lay in the street outside the walls, trampled flat by the mob after they’d fallen to the ground. Blood soaked the ground, flowing down towards the walls. The handful of remaining rioters stared at the walls as if they were coming out of a trance, then started to make their way away from the Residency. Edward watched them go, hoping that they’d learned a lesson from the slaughter. And to think that most of the dead had been killed by their very own mob.

  “Almost certainly,” Villeneuve agreed. He pointed to one of the consoles. “There’s a small force of infantry approaching from the north. Somehow, I don’t think they’re here for our protection.”

  “Look for signs of heavy weapons,” Edward ordered. He wouldn't have cared to unleash heavy weapons inside his own capital city, but it was clear that the local government didn't really care about their own people. They didn't even seem to be evacuating the nearest buildings, let alone setting up refugee camps or protection zones. The drones were picking up scenes of horror as fleeing refugees ran right into the mob. “Or are they just planning to run at the gates.”

  He gritted his teeth as the enemy soldiers paused, taking cover beyond the Residency’s walls. There was no sign of anything heavier than submachine guns, but it might not matter. It was quite possible that the enemy would just keep forcing their soldiers forwards until the defenders of the Residency ran out of ammunition, then overrun the walls and tear the defenders apart. Other troops appeared, heading towards the Wolfbane side of the Residency Complex. It looked as through the enemy intended to assault from both directions at once.

  Clever, Edward acknowledged. It wasn't how he would have carried out the assault, but given the limitations of local forces they might not have a choice. If they attack us at two or more points at once, it forces us to spread our defences thin and limits our reserves.

  “We have a mortar crew or two,” Flora offered, after speaking to her subordinates. “We could drop a handful of shells on their heads.”

  Edward considered it briefly, then shook his head. “Wait until they start coming towards the walls,” he said, flatly. “The longer we have to prepare our defences, the better.”

  He looked down at the live feeds from inside the Residency, feeling a flicker of pride at how well the Knights were coping with the unexpected fight. There was no panic; instead, the soldiers were setting up barricades, tripwires and other hidden surprises that would allow them to sell their lives dearly. Edward had no illusions about how long they’d last once the walls fell, but at least the locals would pay a high cost for their treachery. And they’d pay a higher one when the starships returned.

  “Picking up movement in the surrounding buildings,” Coleman reported, breaking into Edward’s thoughts. “I think they’re moving sniper crews into position.”

  Edward looked over at Flora. “Tell the mortar crews to target those buildings,” he ordered, emotionlessly. They didn't dare let snipers start firing into the complex, or the defence would rapidly crumble. Edward doubted that the local snipers were up to Marine standards, but under the circumstances it hardly mattered. All they’d have to do was force his people to stay under cover, allowing the enemy infantry to storm the walls. “They’re to fire at my command.”

  Flora nodded and started issuing orders.

  “We may have to push out our defence line,” Villeneu
ve suggested. “Right now, we’re pinned down in the complex.”

  On the face of it, Edward knew, he was right. The walls were solid, but they had their limitations – and there were just too many places for the enemy troops to take up position and open fire into the complex. But he didn't have the manpower to seize and hold much in the way of additional territory, no matter what advantages he would derive from doing it. There was a good chance that it would shorten the fighting.

  “We’ll try and knock the buildings down first,” he decided, finally. “General?”

  Flora looked up. “The mortar crews are taking up position now,” she informed him. “But they were unable to guarantee how much damage they could do to the buildings.”

  “Tell them to take their best shot,” Edward said. There were other alternatives, but they’d mean exposing his Marines to the enemy forces. “And to fire on my command.”

  ***

  The Prince’s crony commanders looked impressive, Sivaganga had to admit. They were dressed in the finest robes, carrying swords and rifles as if they were born to the military life – which, in a sense, they had been. Each of them came from the very highest levels of the warrior caste, direct descendents of intermingling between the ruling caste and the warrior caste. Some of them could even trace their descent all the way back to the Rajah’s ancestors, although Sivaganga had his doubts. If the Rajah had had so many bastard children, he would never have had time for ruling.

  But would they suffice to lead the fight against the off-worlders?

  He had his doubts about that too, although he wasn't fool enough to express them to the Prince. These were the men who had been completely incapable of destroying the rebellion, or overwhelming the Imperial Garrison, or even keeping the untouchables under control without resorting to mass slaughter. Maybe their forces weren't quite up to scratch, but it was a poor workman who blamed his tools. They spent more time posturing and carrying out military exercises than they did actually fighting.

  “My Prince,” the lead general said. “Our forces are in position to sweep the interlopers off the face of the planet.”