The Prince smiled, cruelly. “Then destroy them,” he ordered. “Let the offensive begin.”
***
“Incoming sniper fire,” Coleman reported. “They’re aiming at the troops on the roof.”
Edward scowled. “Order the mortars to open fire,” he ordered. “And then tell the Marines to counter-snipe as best as possible.”
Even underground, he heard the dull sound of the mortars as they opened fire. It was dangerously close range, but there was no choice. One shell slammed into the side of a building and detonated inside, wiping out the enemy position. Others were less fortunate; they plunged down around their targets or didn’t inflict enough damage to take out the snipers. Even so, the level of incoming fire began to slack off rapidly. Having the buildings reduced to rubble around them had to be more than a little distracting.
“We only have a limited supply of mortar shells,” Flora warned. “If we keep firing at this rate, we’ll burn through them within minutes.”
“Hold fire,” Edward said, slowly. Most of the buildings were collapsing into rubble, clearly ill-prepared to stand up to modern weapons. A handful had been reduced to a framework; the walls were still standing, but the interior had been utterly destroyed. Flames licked through the rubble, forcing the enemy troops to fall back. “Let's see if that puts them off further advances.”
“It hasn't,” Villeneuve commented. On the display, enemy troops were advancing forward. “What are they doing?”
Edward had to smile at the note of disbelief in his subordinate’s voice. The enemy troops seemed to be almost dancing, rather than inching forward while using every patch of cover they could find. It wasn't as if they were short of potential cover either; the destroyed or damaged buildings were solid enough to protect them from incoming fire. It took him a moment to realise what he was looking at and when he did, he laughed out loud. The enemy weren't throwing hardened soldiers against him, but pampered units more suited to display and pageantry rather than fighting.
But that makes sense, he told himself, as his men braced for the onslaught. They will have to move their most experienced troops to the west to prevent the CEF from breaking through and rescuing us.
“Household troops,” he said derisively, remembering some of the private armies various Grand Senators had raised to protect their interests. They’d looked good ... and their military value had been almost non-existent. The only such troops he remembered being of any value had been local defence forces created and operated by corporations and they’d largely been staffed by military vets. “They’re sending household troops against us.”
He sobered, quickly. It wasn't that funny. Every one of those men could soak up a bullet – and he only had a limited supply. Maybe some bright spark on the other side had decided to use the fancy troops to soften him up, then send in the more experienced soldiers once Edward and his men had been weakened. It suggested a level of callousness that even the Civil Guard’s worst officers would have found hard to match, but he had to admit that it did make a certain kind of sense.
“Remind the troops to watch their bullet consumption,” he ordered, looking over at his officers warningly. “We don't have bullets to spare.”
***
Private Tomas Leloir stared in disbelief from his perch on the Residency roof as the enemy troops came into view. They looked like something out of a bygone age, bright splashes of colour against the rubble and bloodshed the first round of fighting had left in its wake. There was certainly no attempt to hide themselves against the background ... but then, they couldn't have hidden themselves. They didn't even have anything reassembling urban combat BDUs.
Fighting the Crackers was harder than this, he thought, remembering the tales the old sweats had told him, back in basic training. His sole experience consisted of bandit-hunting missions, none of which had found a single bandit – or anything more exciting than wild animals and a handful of former Crackers living out in the countryside. But none of the simulated combat zones he’d fought in during training had been anything like this.
“Take aim,” the Lieutenant barked, from his position. His voice was unflinching, as if he cared little for the bloodshed the rioters had left in their wake. “Prepare to engage.”
There was a dull sound, echoing out over the city. It took Tomas a moment to realise that it was the sound of drums, beating out a four-beat pattern. On cue, the enemy soldiers lifted their rifles and started to run towards the gates, half of them providing covering fire while the other half were advancing. It would have been impressive, Tomas decided, if they had actually had some cover. As it were, they were merely making themselves targets. He wasn't even sure what they thought they were shooting at. Firing rifles at walls didn't actually wear them down, at least not outside bad combat simulations.
“Fire,” the Lieutenant snapped.
Tomas squeezed the trigger and had the satisfaction of seeing his target – a gaudily-dressed enemy soldier who had been firing towards the buildings – drop to the ground, dead. He moved rapidly to the next target, then the next, picking them off one by one. The Knights were rapidly winnowing out the opposition, even though the enemy showed no lack of courage. They just kept coming.
“Squad two, load grenades,” the Lieutenant ordered. “Aim for clumps of enemy soldiers.”
Tomas sucked in his breath as he picked up the grenade launcher and clicked a switch, bringing the weapon to life. The enemy seemed to have forgotten their dance; they were just charging at the gates, howling strange words in a language Tomas didn't recognise. He took aim and fired, watching grimly as the grenade detonated inside a mass of soldiers, blowing them into bloody chunks. Other grenades wiped out other chunks of soldiers, breaking their discipline. They turned and fled back to the safety of their lines.
“Hold fire,” the Lieutenant commanded. “Hold fire, I say.”
The sergeants took up the cry as an uneasy calm descended on the Residency. Tomas fought down the urge to squeeze off another handful of shots at the enemy’s retreating backs, but he knew that it wouldn't amuse his superiors. Instead, he took a breath ... and was surprised to find out that he was sweating inside his BDUs. A glance at his wristcom told him that the entire engagement had lasted less than five minutes. It felt as if it had lasted for hours.
“Good work,” the Lieutenant said. “Check weapons, then remain on alert. There will be another assault soon.”
“Take the opportunity to have a drink,” the sergeant added. “God knows when you will have time to drink again.”
Tomas nodded. In the distance, he could hear the sound of drums growing louder.
“They’re using them to coordinate their fighters,” the sergeant explained, when he asked. “It isn't anything like as flexible as radios, but they probably know that using radios means identifying their superior officers to us. Besides, most of their troops probably think that radios are magic.”
It seemed like hours before the next enemy force came into view. Tomas studied it through his sights, rapidly concluding that they'd learned nothing from the first engagement. Once again, they were dancing as they came forward ... although he was sure that he picked up flickers of hesitation as they saw the bodies left behind by the first onslaught. Behind them, there were dark-clad men holding – of all things – whips, lashing out at any of the enemy troopers who didn't move forward fast enough. He stared in disbelief; basic training on Avalon had been hard, but he’d never heard of anyone being whipped into combat before. It wasn't as if Avalon needed conscripts when there were more volunteers for the Knights than they could take.
“That isn't uncommon in primitive societies,” the sergeant growled, as mutters of disbelief ran up and down the line of soldiers. “The leaders don’t trust their own people to press the offensive unless there’s a gun held to their backs.”
Tomas rolled his eyes. Unless he was missing something, none of the dark-clad men carried anything apart from whips. The soldiers they were forcing forward ha
d loaded weapons; surely, they could just spin around and take the bastards out, then proceed to attack the dunderheaded superiors who had forced them into an unequal fight. But he remembered some of his training and shivered.
Some people are broken into unthinking servitude, he recalled one of the Drill Instructors saying, years ago. They’d been talking about the comparative merits of different military forces. They’re never allowed a chance to realise their own strength.
“Squad one; take aim at the leaders,” the Lieutenant said, calmly. “Everyone else, take aim at the incoming troops.”
The drumbeat changed. A moment later, the enemy soldiers charged forward, chased by the men with whips. Tomas took aim at one of them and fired, then watched as the man spun around and collapsed to the ground. He switched aim to a second and then a third, sending them both into the next world. A fourth narrowly avoided death through a stroke of luck that sent him tripping over and falling on his face as a bullet cracked through where his head had been a moment previously.
And, again, the enemy troops seemed to take a number of losses and then fall back.
“Good work,” the Lieutenant said, again.
Tomas looked down at his rifle and wondered just how long the bullets would last. But it wasn't a question he dared ask aloud.
***
“They’re massing for another run,” Villeneuve reported.
Edward scowled, shaking his head in disbelief. The enemy commander had to be incompetent – or completely unconcerned about his troops. If the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result every time, the enemy CO definitely qualified. But maybe there was method in his madness. Every attack they repelled drained their strength still further.
“The mortars could drop HE on their positions,” Flora said. “It might dissuade them from massing so close to our lines.”
“Make it so,” Edward ordered. It would be harder to hit the enemy as they were protected by the surrounding buildings, but having mortar shells crashing down anywhere near them would be a nasty fright. He just hoped that it would be enough to force the locals to panic. “And then move out the reserves and replace the troops on the roof.”
“Aye, sir,” Villeneuve responded.
“We could take a team out under cover of darkness,” Coleman suggested. “Give them a whole series of unpleasant surprises.”
“We’ll see what happens when night falls,” Edward said, firmly. 1st Platoon was too important to be risked lightly, not when its Marines were the only real snipers his force had to deploy against the enemy. “But you’re right. It might be a very good idea.”
“Talk to the servants,” Flora added. “They might know something useful.”
“I’d better talk to the CEF first,” Edward said. He had his doubts about the guards and servants; indeed, he suspected that the best course of action would simply be to expel them. “And then we might be able to decide what to do next.”
Chapter Seventeen
Looking at the third requirement, there are strict limits on the possible, based on the strength (and internal politics) of the nations involved. A nation with limited military power (such as Kuwait, in 1991) cannot hope to stand up to a much stronger outside force. Nor, for that matter, could China or Russia realistically hope to prevent the American invasion of Iraq in 2003.
-Professor Leo Caesius. Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past.
Jasmine didn't spare herself. Mistakes were one thing, she’d been taught at the Slaughterhouse, but false reporting was a great deal worse. Her instructors had backed up their statements with a list of historical examples of disasters caused by someone trying to conceal their own failures or hide from the truth. Besides, Colonel Stalker needed to know precisely what was going on.
“I lost one hundred and thirteen soldiers,” she finished, after a brutal examination of the disaster and the reasons for it. “And four more remain unaccounted for, sir.”
“Understood,” Colonel Stalker said. She was surprised that he didn't order her immediate relief on the spot. “And the FOB?”
“Secure,” Jasmine replied. “The enemy underestimated the power of the garrison’s guns, sir; they bombarded the enemy forces out of existence. Our one true success.”
She winced at the thought. The CEF, for all of its power, had been saved by a tiny force the Empire had abandoned as it pulled out of the sector. It was more than a little humiliating, all the more so as the enemy commander had out-thought her. They were just lucky that they hadn't had to withdraw back along the causeway, or they would almost certainly have been obliterated by the enemy forces. As it was, they were holding a line on the very edge of the garrison’s range.
“We're holding out here,” the Colonel stated, “but we cannot hold out indefinitely. Sooner or later, they will wear us down.”
Jasmine nodded, looking down at the display. Her drones were slowly parsing out the enemy’s positions – and she had to admit that they were formidable. She simply didn't have the manpower to secure her supply lines as she advanced towards the capital city, even if she’d had the mobile firepower to outflank the enemy defence lines. Alone, the CEF could do nothing, but watch helplessly as its ultimate commander and his escort fought bravely, but futilely. They needed help.
She took a breath. “Colonel, I’d like to approach the rebels and ask for assistance.”
The Colonel didn't object. He’d probably had the same thought, she realised, even though the rebels might not be able to provide mobile firepower. But they could help with suppressing resistance and guarding the supply lines ... couldn’t they? And it wasn't as if Jasmine couldn't reward them richly for their service. Perhaps they could overthrow the local government and help the rebels set up a replacement. Maybe even one that wouldn’t slaughter all of the higher castes and replace them with a tyranny that would be almost as bad.
But it isn't our problem right now, she told herself. Our problem is saving our people.
“Make contact, if you can,” Colonel Stalker consented. “Tell them that they can have the garrison’s remaining supplies after we leave, along with the food-production vats and suchlike. Tell the garrison to start putting them together now, in fact. It won’t take long to produce the first batch.”
“Yes, sir,” Jasmine acknowledged. She had a feeling that the rebels would be in touch, now that the CEF had openly engaged the local government’s forces. If nothing else, they were in a stronger bargaining position. “But we also need to work out how to get supplies to you.”
She’d contemplated the problem, but come up with nothing. Perhaps a shuttle could drop supplies from very high attitude, yet it would be chancy; they might accidentally wind up supplying the enemy instead. There was no way to be sure, not when they didn’t dare fly too low. The MANPADs that had taken out one of her helicopters might well be able to damage or kill a shuttle.
“I don’t believe that is possible without taking considerable risks,” the Colonel said. He shook his head. “You are to concentrate on breaking through their lines and reaching us.”
Jasmine felt her heart sink. She’d hoped that the Colonel, who had over a decade of experience in the Marines, would be able to think of a solution. But he didn't have one either.
“Yes, sir,” she said, simply.
“And if we are overwhelmed, you are to pull back and hold the garrison until the ships arrive,” the Colonel added, firmly. “I do not want you to throw away the CEF trying to change what cannot be changed. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Jasmine said, again. He’d said it before, as if he knew just what she was thinking. But she wouldn't abandon him as long as there was even the slightest chance that they could save his life and that of everyone else trapped in the Residency. “I understand.”
“Good,” the Colonel said.
Somehow, Jasmine wasn't surprised when Yin arrived, two hours later.
***
“I shall be blunt,” Yin open
ed, in his oddly-accented voice. “You need our help and we need yours.”
“That is correct,” Jasmine agreed. Yin seemed to be more determined to bargain, now that he had something to bargain with. “What do you want in exchange for assisting us?”
“We want your assistance with overthrowing the government,” Yin answered her. “We want weapons, supplies and training ... and recognition as the legitimate government.”
“Agreed,” Jasmine said, curtly. She had no patience for bargaining; besides, she would have to hand over weapons and supplies in order to build up the rebels and turn them into a proper fighting force. No one outside the planet’s atmosphere really cared who ruled Lakshmibai in any case. “In exchange, we need to move rapidly against the local government.”
Yin gave her a long considering look. She realised, in a flash of irritation, that her sudden agreement might have worried him. He’d probably been expecting a long bargaining session, particularly if he hadn't realised just how strong a position he held. But what he’d asked for, she’d thought, was the bare minimum he needed. The rebels had to be on their last legs.
“You are willing to give us all that?” He asked, finally. “Just like that?”
“There are weapons and supplies – even food – in the garrison,” Jasmine explained. “Handing them over to you would be a simple matter. I do have one condition, however. There are to be no reprisals against captured prisoners.”
“I see,” Yin said. His eyes bored into her face, as if he expected an underhand motive for her demand. “And why do you want that?”
Jasmine remembered the fall of Admiral Singh’s government and shuddered. “Because if you start slaughtering prisoners, the remainder will refuse to surrender,” she explained, patiently. She had a feeling that appealing to idealism would be a mistake. Idealism rarely lasted long in an insurgency war, certainly not as the hostile power bent all its efforts towards destroying the insurgency, root and branch. “In the long run, you can send the higher castes to their own island and leave them there to fend for themselves.”
The Empire's Corps: Book 06 - To The Shores... Page 16