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

by Christopher Nuttall

  They braced themselves for trouble as they climbed out onto the roof – it was an ideal position for an enemy observer – but the rooftop proved deserted. Blake checked for hidden surprised, then lay on his belly and peered northwards through his scope. An enemy force was massing ahead of them, half-hidden by the buildings.

  “Bingo,” he said, as he unslung his rifle and peered through the scope. Beside him, Watson did the same. “They’re well within range. See how many officers you can spot.”

  A Marine Corps sniper with proper equipment could pick off enemy personnel at over three kilometres, but even an average Marine made a pretty effective sniper. Blake studied the enemy formation, silently noting the officers and a handful of black-clad personnel who seemed to be supervising operations. Insanely, the locals seemed to have issued the brightest-coloured uniforms to their officers. And their men were saluting them. Didn't they know that salutes were unwise in a combat zone?

  Blake smirked to himself. It was about the only time when an officer saluted enlisted men first.

  “I make fifteen officers,” Watson said, finally. “You?”

  “Fourteen,” Blake said, wondering who he’d missed. He switched his rifle to single-shot, then took aim. “Fire.”

  He squeezed the trigger. One of the enemy officers spun around and fell to the ground. He didn't waste time complementing himself; he switched the rifle to the next target and picked him off before they could react. The remaining officers were scattering rapidly; Blake tracked them with his scope and fired at them, one by one. Several escaped death, but a number were wounded or killed. Beside him, Watson did the same.

  “Don’t worry about the enlisted men,” Blake ordered, as the enemy force scattered. It wouldn't take them long to regroup and try to flush the snipers out. “Let’s go.”

  He crawled back to the hatchway, dropped down into the building and led the way down the stairs. In the distance, he could hear the sound of shooting, although he wasn't sure what they thought they were engaging. It was unlikely that they’d even be sure where they’d been hiding; the rifles released no betraying spark of light, nothing that would draw the enemy right to them. Perhaps someone had panicked and ordered his men to open fire at random. It would certainly seem a logical explanation.

  “First set of targets engaged,” he reported, activating his communicator. “Enemy very upset.”

  He closed the channel without waiting for a response, then concentrated on leading the way back through the rubble. There were plenty of other places they could use as sniper perches and it would definitely discourage the enemy from advancing too rapidly. If nothing else, it should buy the Residency some additional time.

  ***

  “They wiped out one enemy force’s officers,” Villeneuve reported. “Look at them scattering.”

  Edward grinned, savagely. There was little more terrifying than the sniper in modern warfare, particularly one who had the drop on you. Watching their officers mown down by unseen forces would have destroyed the enlisted men’s morale – unless, of course, they hated their officers as much as they should. But even if they didn't, it would be hard for their officers to control their men if they had to remain under cover. He’d seen exercises on the Slaughterhouse where a pair of snipers had stalled an advancing armoured division for hours.

  “Tell them to recon the west when they check in again,” he ordered. “I don’t like the sight of that enemy force massing there.”

  ***

  “Useless incompetent fool,” the Prince roared. “What were you thinking?”

  Sivaganga watched with some cold amusement as the officer – the sole survivor of a company of the Prince’s personal troops – fell to his knees. He’d been marched back to the Prince’s palace as soon as the news had come in; a dozen officers killed and more wounded ... and an entire company coming apart at the seams. Rumour had rapidly turned it into a thousand officers killed ...

  “They should have stayed inside the Residency,” the officer stammered, finally. “I ...”

  “Take him away,” the Prince ordered. The officer was still protesting as he was dragged away. “Their new tactics are very worrying, but we shall prevail.”

  Sivaganga didn't doubt it. As irritating as it was to lose officers, the enemy force had to be running short of supplies. And besides, they were the Prince’s officers. Losing them weakened his position.

  “We need to reconsider our position,” the Prince said. “The current tactics are not working.”

  It was hard for Sivaganga to keep the surprise off his face. The Prince was not known for rethinking his plans, not when admitting that he might have been wrong weakened his position. But perhaps losing so many of his officers – and executing one more, which would cause others to start considering their position – had taught him a salutary lesson. Besides, he was far from an idiot, even if he was a hothead.

  “I want to bring up some of the heavy guns,” the Prince said. “We will bombard the Residency into rubble.”

  Sivaganga hesitated, trying to choose the best argument to lose. “My Prince,” he said, finally, “the gunners are not that accurate. We may do more damage to the city than to the Residency.”

  “I want this finished now,” the Prince hissed. “We know from our captive that the enemy force will stop its advance if the Residency is overrun.”

  That was ... odd, Sivaganga realised. Had the failure to actually win quickly convinced the Prince that he and his fellow hotheads might have bitten off more than they could chew? Or had he decided to abandon the aim of destroying the enemy force on the ground in favour of throwing everything at the Residency? If the enemy did reach the capital, the Residency’s defenders would be in place to attack the Prince’s forces from behind.

  “Then you will have to explain the damage to your father,” Sivaganga said, after a long moment. If the Prince felt strong enough to stand against the Rajah ... at best, there would be a coup. At worst, there would be a civil war at the worst possible moment. The rebellion and the off-worlders would rapidly take advantage of any civil strife.

  “My father will understand,” the Prince hissed. He looked over at one of his officers. “Have the guns brought into the city!”

  “Yes, My Prince,” the officer said.

  Sivaganga swallowed. There was no way, he realised, that this was going to end well. And yet he found himself swinging between two extremes. The off-worlders were going to be squashed like bugs ... or the off-worlders would be able to hold out long enough to be rescued by their fellows. If the former, he knew that opposing the Prince would be pointless; if the latter ... well, they had bitten off more than they could chew.

  But he knew that he didn't dare oppose the Prince openly.

  All he could do was wait and pray that the Prince was right.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sam’s manic appearance is amusing on the cartoon set; in real life, it can be terrifying. A nation following the ‘speak loud/big stick’ policy will rapidly discover that its neighbours are arming to the teeth and preparing defensive alliances to prevent future expansion.

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

  Ekachraka sat in the middle of the park and tried, very hard, not to show his fear. His wife, two sons and three daughters sat near him, guarded by oddly-dressed off-world troopers and a handful of rebels. They were untouchables, the powerless and the despised, but they held weapons ... and the glances they kept sending the women were far from friendly. It was hard to wrap his head around the fact that his world had turned upside down, that untouchables had thrown off their divinely appointed place and turned into rebels, but he couldn't avoid it, any more than he could avoid the consequences. He was no longer in control of his own fate.

  He’d heard the rumours, even through the higher castes had ignored them. When untouchables rebelled, they became monsters; looting, raping and burning at will. The thought of his wife and daughters being violated was horrifying, as was t
he certainty that the untouchables would murder his son in front of his eyes, just to prevent him from growing up and avenging his family’s disgrace. There was nothing he could do to save them, either. The one move by some of the young men to fight had ended with a quick burst of gunfire which had literally ripped their bodies apart. After that, they’d known that resistance was futile.

  One of the off-world vehicles moved forward, a gray-clad man standing on top of the vehicle and pressing something against his lips. Ekachraka couldn't help noticing how disgustingly healthy he was, even though everyone knew that off-worlders lived in pigsties and ate their own excrement for food. He certainly didn't seem cowed by the prisoners, or by the rebels.

  “Attention,” the off-worlder said. “We require men to drive trucks. If you can drive a truck, we will take your families into protective custody as long as necessary. Should you die in our service, we will see that they are set up elsewhere and protected from those who would seek to do them harm. If you are interested, raise your hands.”

  Ekachraka hesitated. He could drive a truck, at least as long as it was of standard design. But did he dare leave his wife and children in their custody? He looked over at his wife and saw the fear in her eyes, the fear she was trying hide from the children. She knew as well as he did that the untouchables would turn on them, eventually. They hated the upper castes ... in a sudden burst of understanding, he realised that they’d felt as helpless to protect themselves and their families as he did now.

  He held up a hand. Several dozen others, including some he knew, joined him.

  “Good,” the off-worlder said. He pointed to a set of buildings that had formally belonged to the local government. “If you will stand up and take your families into the first building, we will process you as quickly as possible.”

  Ekachraka pulled himself to his feet and started to walk towards the building. If there were only limited spaces, he didn't want to miss out. Behind him, his wife followed him with the children. He could hear her praying silently under her breath. Quietly, he joined her as they reached the entrance. If the gods refused to provide ...

  ***

  Jasmine had never seen a group of more wretched men and women in her life, even during the arrest of the Old Council on Avalon. There, the councillors had been guilty of trying to build their own little kingdom, ensuring that civil unrest would continue to rage over Avalon. It was hard to feel sorry for them. But here, the men and women in the park had merely been born to the middle-level castes. Their only crime had been being born.

  But it wouldn't save them, she thought, numbly. The reports of scores being settled kept flowing in from the soldiers patrolling the edge of the city. Yin’s fighters seemed to be honouring their bargain, but other untouchables had clearly decided to loot, rape and kill ... and, in some places, evict their former masters from their homes. Even those who had merely been made homeless were unlikely to know how to survive, certainly not with the world turned upside down. She had no doubt that the government would take full advantage of the reports of atrocities and use them to stiffen resistance further towards the capital city.

  The reporter looked over at her. “Do you think that they can really drive?”

  “I hope so,” Jasmine said. One thing about the Empire that had always amused her was a bloody-minded insistence on standardisation. Components could be cannibalised and slotted into a very different machine; vehicles, no matter how different, had the same basic driving system. If the locals could drive their own vehicles, they could probably drive trucks removed from the garrison’s stores. “And if they can't, we'll know about it very quickly.”

  Alves frowned, watching a little girl who was staring at the soldiers with wide frightened eyes. “And if they can't?”

  “We’ll see,” Jasmine said. It went against the grain to threaten their families or to put them outside the camp. “There are other things they can do for us – or for the city. Help clean up the mess, for a start.”

  The rebels, at least, understood the urgency of removing the dead bodies. Mass graves had been dug outside the city, with work crews moving to pick up the corpses and transport them to the graves. It was cold and impersonal, but there was little choice. Besides, there was almost no hope of reuniting the bodies with their living relatives. Some of them had been smashed so badly that they were almost unrecognisable, while others had been mutilated to the point that they’d made hardened Marines sick.

  Alves turned to follow her as she led the way back towards the Warrior. Coming to the city had been a risk – it was quite possible that there were still enemy holdouts in the buildings - but she’d wanted to see it for herself. And it gave her a chance to catch up with her subordinates and reassure herself that they were ready to go back on the offensive. Once they’d set up the POW camp and armed the rebels, they could start moving back towards the city. This time, she promised herself, it would be different.

  “Jasmine,” he said, very quietly, “do you think we can win?”

  Jasmine tensed, despite herself. It was the same question that had been bothering her, ever since the CEF had been slapped back by the local defenders. Even now, with the rebels adding to their manpower, she had her doubts. The locals had more experience with their weapons than the rebels. Some of the more complex weapons required weeks or months of training before they could be deployed successfully.

  “I think that we can,” she said, finally. It was important to show confidence. “What about yourself?”

  “I wish I knew,” Alves admitted. “The rebels aren't quite what we want, are they?”

  Jasmine snorted. “Are they ever?”

  ***

  “We’ve secured two islands several miles off the coastline,” General Joseph Raphael informed her, two hours later. “One of them will take the women and children; the other will take local upper-class aristocrats who refuse to work with us. The former will receive proper food and medical care; the latter will receive nothing but ration bars.”

  Jasmine nodded. The rebels had wanted to enslave the prisoners, but she’d pointed out that they didn't really have the manpower to guard them, certainly not when they began their offensive. Instead, those who refused to join the rebellion would be safe, if not entirely comfortable, on a prison island. Ration bars would keep them alive long enough for the war to be won and a more permanent solution to be devised.

  “The waters around the islands are not safe,” the General added. He sounded rather amused at the thought, although it had helped safeguard his garrison until relief had finally arrived. “If they manage to swim all ten miles to the coastline, surviving waves and dangerous critters ... well, bully for them.”

  “Good,” Jasmine said, shortly. She turned her gaze to the intelligence officer. “What do we know about the enemy positions?”

  “Most of their armoured forces have held position here,” Colonel Cindy Macintyre explained, tapping the map. “You’ll notice that position is just outside bombardment range from the garrison. They have been trying to slip infantry through the defences and engage us and the rebels, but so far we’ve managed to keep them from doing any serious damage. Drone overflights report that they have been concentrating on establishing defensive lines blocking roads, knocking down bridges and other tricks intended to slow us down.”

  Jasmine had expected that, but it was still annoying. The Landshark tanks – and even the Warriors – could move underwater, if necessary. Blowing up bridges wouldn't do more than slow them down. But the other vehicles – and her infantry – would need bridges to get across the rivers, at least in large numbers. They’d need to bring bridging equipment along with them.

  “In addition, they have been preparing numerous small towns and cities to serve as defensive strongpoints,” Cindy continued, smoothly. “This one in particular” – she tapped a city situated between two mountain peaks – “is going to be a meatgrinder. There’s no way to avoid it without making a wide circuit through the countryside that will add severa
l more weeks to our operation. The enemy seems to know it too; they’ve been distributing weapons, sealing up the gates and rounding up untouchables who might otherwise serve as a fifth column.”

  Her lips thinned. “And they’ve also been telling their population horror stories about what they can expect if we capture their homes,” she added. “We can expect most of the population to fight to the end.”

  “Wonderful,” Buckley commented, sardonically. “A whole planet convinced that we’re going to rampage through their homes.”

  Jasmine tapped the table for silence, then looked over at Major Bruno Adamson, CO of the 4th Avalon Infantry Battalion. “How are the rebels coping with the weapons we gave them?”

  “Reasonably well, at least with the simple weapons,” Adamson said. “Most of them are functionally illiterate; I doubt they can really master anything more complex than an antitank rocket launcher, but it isn't as if we were going to supply more advanced weapons anyway.”

  Alves leaned forward. “Why not?”

  “It can take weeks – if not months – to learn how to operate a tank,” Adamson pointed out, dryly. He’d been one of the officers who hadn't approved of having a reporter underfoot at all times. “And besides, we might end up having those weapons pointed back at us.”

  “A possibility,” Jasmine agreed, when Alves looked shocked. “We don't know how the revolution is going to develop in the future. They may become as deeply xenophobic as the current government, or they might decide they want to massacre the upper-castes completely and turn on us when we object.”

  She tapped the map, drawing their attention back to the display. “I want our big guns moved over here,” she ordered, tapping the ground near the rapidly-expanding FOB. “That should give us some additional range to hammer their positions, once the fighting begins. In the meantime, move our transport helicopters to the FOB; I want to use them to insert stormtroopers behind enemy lines.”