Carefully, she drew out a line on the map. “We’re going to advance up the main road,” she added, “drawing their armoured forces into a trap and destroying them. That will not be easy.”
“Of course not,” Buckley warned. “That route is predictable.”
“But also without an alternative,” Jasmine agreed. The tanks could move off-road, but the trucks they needed for supplies couldn't. Clearing and holding the roads would be the first step towards advancing on the enemy capital. “Hold back a third of the Warriors; I want them in place to provide escorts for our trucks. We’ll try and set the rebels up to patrol the roads, but we cannot count on it. Drones are to remain alert for IED emplacement teams at all times.”
And good luck to us, she added, silently. It was often hard to tell if a person on the road was taking a dump or laying an IED for an unlucky vehicle. Sniper crews could deter them, but Jasmine had a feeling that a great many innocents were about to be caught up in the fighting and killed.
“All POWs are to be moved back to the camp, interrogated and then sent over the water,” Jasmine continued. She’d issued such orders already, but they needed to be restated. As the fighting wore on, even experienced units could lose sight of their orders – or, for that matter, why it was important to treat prisoners well. They still had several soldiers unaccounted for, leaving her to assume the worst. “I don’t want us to be responsible for a massacre.”
“The rebels don’t seem to care about the niceties,” Adamson pointed out, grimly. “We’ve already seen them tossing people out of their homes or ransacking their houses. What happens when they decide to break the agreement and start killing their enemies directly?”
Jasmine made a face. If they tried to intervene, the rebels might turn on them – and ensure that the Residency would be lost. But if they didn't, they would be forever tainted by their complicity in a massacre. She’d heard stories of Marine units that had been tainted, merely through clearing the way for the Imperial Army’s occupation battalions or newly-raised Civil Guard units, yet she’d never seen it directly.
“We try to stop them,” she said, finally.
She stared down at the map for a long moment, then looked up, moving her gaze from person to person. “You know what’s at stake,” she said, quietly. “If we fail to break through to the Residency, we will lose our CO and his escorts – and our chance to establish diplomatic relationships with the Wolfbane Sector. And, even if that wasn't a consideration, we will suffer a defeat that might damage the Commonwealth’s prestige. We must not lose. We will not lose.
“I intend to launch the offensive in three days from now,” she added. Even that, she knew, was pushing it. The enemy would have ample time to prepare for them – and keep pushing at the Residency. “By then, we have to be ready.”
She cleared her throat. “Dismissed!”
One by one, her officers left the room, leaving her alone with Alves. The reporter said nothing as she studied the map, trying to visualise the terrain. She knew from bitter experience that even the most comprehensive maps sometimes left out vital details, details that looked inconsequential to the officers at the rear, but terrifyingly important to the men and women on the front lines.
“It doesn't seem a very comprehensive plan,” Alves observed, breaking the silence. “There were more complex and detailed plans on the base back home.”
“No battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy,” Jasmine explained. She scowled in bitter memory. “Our last battle plan certainly didn't.”
She shook her head. “We’ll have to improvise, depending on what they throw at us,” she added. “If we tie ourselves too tightly to a specific plan, we'll run into trouble when we cannot adapt to something we didn't expect.”
“Like the rebels doing something stupid,” Alves said.
“Exactly,” Jasmine agreed. “The problem with rebel forces is that they tend to start fighting over who should take power after the last government is defeated, often before the government has actually been destroyed. And if they turn on us, it could get very nasty.”
She ran her hand through her hair, silently grateful that she'd found the time to have it pruned back to a Slaughterhouse haircut. It had been a shock, she recalled, to have her long hair sliced off in bare seconds, but long hair would have just got in the way. Besides, it took far too long to wash.
“You’ll handle it,” Alves said, calmly. “I have every faith in you.”
Jasmine laughed. “I’m glad someone does,” she said. The Colonel might have confided any doubts he had in his Command Sergeant, but who did she have to talk to? Buckley wouldn't have understood and she didn't know the other officers that well. “Right now, we’re trying to manage a balancing act. If we fall off ...”
Alves surprised her by giving her a hug. Jasmine hesitated, feeling oddly unsure of what to do, then slowly returned the hug. His body was relatively fit and muscular, but not up to Marine standards. But then, so few were outside the special forces. She found her thoughts whirling around and around in shock. Loneliness seemed to be part of life for a female Marine; the men she met were either fellow Marines – and thus off-limits – or intimidated by her. After all, she was stronger than the average man ...
Did he want her? Did she want him?
“Thank you,” she said, finally. She couldn't afford the distraction. Not now. There would be time to explore a possible relationship when they were back on the starships, heading home. And then the Colonel would be there ... she could always talk to him, if nothing else. “I won’t let you down.”
Alves nodded – he seemed to understand, even though she hadn't said anything out loud – and then he withdrew, leaving her alone.
Shaking her head, she pushed her odd feelings aside and then reached for her terminal. She needed to update the Colonel and then return to the mainland. They had a war to plan.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hence, to some extent, an even more cynical definition of diplomacy – the art of saying ‘nice doggy’ while one prepares a big stick.
-Professor Leo Caesius. Diplomacy: The Lessons of the Past.
“I think we have a problem,” Villeneuve reported.
“Show me,” Edward ordered. The truck bombs had been an unpleasant innovation – and, if they kept coming, the Residency would rapidly become indefensible. “What now?”
“One of the drones is reporting that they’re bringing guns into the city,” Villeneuve said. “At least five medium-range pieces and a handful of mortars.”
Edward bit down an urge to swear. He'd known that it was likely, but ... he pushed the wishful thinking aside and looked down at the display, silently calculating ranges and trajectories in his head. It very much looked as if they were planning to start hurling shells into the complex from an absurdly short range.
“No sign of smart weapons,” he said, out loud. Even if the locals had had smart weapons, it didn't look as though their people would know how to use them. “They must be worried about accidentally bombarding the city themselves.”
“Almost certainly,” Villeneuve agreed. “But it isn't as if the complex is a small target.”
Edward ground his teeth in frustration. The Marines preferred to call on mobile firepower – assault helicopters or pinpoint strikes from orbit – rather than use any form of precision artillery. It was difficult to ensure that the targeting was precise, particularly when the front lines were far too close together. But even primitive targeting systems could be reasonably sure of dropping shells straight down into the complex, devastating his positions. And then the enemy forces would surge forward and obliterate the remains of the defenders.
“Order the mortar teams to prepare to take them out,” he ordered. It was definitely frustrating; the mortar crews could exterminate the gunners within range, but all the enemy would have to do was pull back and accept the risk of damaging their own city. “Once they’re in position, start dropping shells on their heads.”
He rea
ched for his mug of coffee and took a sip, feeling an odd sense of Déjà Vu. The coffee from the garrison was still good, unsurprisingly. It had been freeze-dried and then placed in stasis, just waiting for someone to come along and start drinking. Taking some of the packets to the capital had been almost second nature. It was stronger than anything available on Avalon.
The reports kept flowing in from the various outposts. His people were tired, even though he’d ordered a third of his force to catch some sleep. He didn't dare issue sleeping pills, not when they might have to be on their feet and fighting at any moment, so they were being kept awake by incessant sniping and explosions. Sooner or later, his people would be so tired that they would fall asleep on their feet.
Or maybe I will have to issue the pills anyway and damn the risk, he thought, coldly.
“They’re unlimbering now,” Flora reported. “The mortar crews are taking aim.”
Edward watched through the drones as the enemy gunnery crews set up. Artillerymen were among the strongest soldiers in the Imperial Army, capable of giving even the Marines a run for their money. It was a branch of the service that demanded both speed and precision as well as physical strength; looking at the enemy crews, Edward had a feeling that they hadn't been extensively drilled in preparing their weapons to fire. But then, it did make a certain kind of sense. The locals wouldn't have had much call for artillery when they were trying to suppress a revolt and their best crews had probably been diverted to the coast to block the CEF’s advance.
“Take them out,” he ordered.
The mortar crews opened fire, launching shells into the enemy city. Edward watched, as dispassionately as he could, as five of six enemy guns were destroyed in thunderous explosions, one going up so violently that it was clear that they’d stockpiled shells beside the guns for ease of access. The sixth enemy gun launched a shell back towards the complex – Edward braced himself instinctively – before it too was taken out. A moment later, the ground rocked violently.
“It came down in the middle courtyard,” Villeneuve reported. “They smashed a lot of their statues, sir.”
They’d been lucky, Edward knew. A few metres in either direction and either the Commonwealth or Wolfbane would have lost a dozen men. Or ... they might have taken out part of the wall. But hopefully they’d discouraged the enemy from using guns ...
A second explosion rocked the complex a moment later. “Sir, they’re moving up small mortars,” Villeneuve explained. “It’s going to be hard to take them all out without burning through our ammunition.”
Edward nodded. The Mark-VII Mortar was several hundred years old; it might have been designed for the Imperial Army, but he wasn't surprised that thousands of the weapons had leaked into the hands of local defence forces. It was one of the simplest pieces of equipment in use, even though it couldn't shoot very heavy shells. Most of the makeshift barricades would protect his men, but a lucky shot or two might be incredibly devastating.
“Warn everyone to brace for incoming fire,” he said, as a third shell soared over the complex and came down on the wrong side. He found himself hoping that the enemy gunnery crew would be executed for incompetence; there had been nothing wrong with how quickly they’d primed the gun, merely with their aim. And he’d been pretty lousy when he’d first picked up and fired a gun too. “Lieutenant Coleman?”
Coleman stepped forward. “Sir?”
“Put together a team of snipers,” he ordered. The enemy had tried to sweep for snipers, but they’d been driven back by a handful of mortar shells and improvised IEDs. “Not you, not this time. I want them to engage the mortar crews before they can set up and open fire.”
He scowled down at the tracking display. So far, the enemy crews were firing one or two shots, then moving rapidly to another position. It suggested that they hadn't quite realised that the defenders didn't have unlimited shells to waste, not an uncommon belief among soldiers who hadn't been taught anything about logistics. But once they did realise the truth, they’d start setting up permanently and hammer the complex into rubble. It couldn't be tolerated.
“Yes, sir,” Coleman said. He looked irked at being barred from the mission, but Edward had something else in mind for him later in the night. “I’ll volunteer a pair of Marines for the operation right away.”
***
Leo shivered as something struck the ground and exploded not too far away from the basement. The building quivered, dust drifting down from the ceiling, before the rumbles slowly faded away. Another explosion followed a moment later, a dull crash that seemed to reverberate through the ground. He thought he heard a whistle before a third explosion added to the chaos.
He reached out and took Fiona’s hand in his, feeling her entire body trembling. She hadn't woken up until shortly after dawn; she hadn't had any time to come to grips with the reality that they were under siege. The last thing she remembered was the desperate flight back to the Residency, where she’d been sedated. And she wasn't coping with the sudden change in her circumstances very well. If it hadn't been for her, Leo wasn't sure that he would have coped very well too.
“It’s awful,” Fiona said. “When are they going to stop?”
“Once they kill us all,” Leo said, his words underlined by another explosion. He couldn't help wondering just how long the Residency could stand up to the bombardment. The walls seemed solid, but they weren't made of hullmetal. “They want us all dead.”
Fiona looked as if she wanted to cry. Leo reached out for her and pulled her close, despite the faint smell clinging to her body – and his too, he had to admit. There were no bathtubs available for use, even if they’d had the water. The medics had washed them down with a gel they’d sworn would kill all the bugs, but it hadn't done much for the stench. Only the grim awareness that it was likely to get worse before it got better kept him from saying anything out loud. Besides, he had the distant feeling that the Marines wouldn't appreciate whining.
The ground shook again, violently. Leo heard a crash in the distance, followed by a female voice swearing creatively. He hugged his wife closely, wondering if the next second would be the end. Instead, an unearthly silence fell over the complex, as if the universe was holding its breath. Fiona looked up at him, hope in her eyes. He didn't have the heart to admit that the enemy were probably reloading their weapons and preparing to fire again.
There was a tap on the door, which opened a moment later to reveal the medic. Leo couldn't help noticing that blood had stained her white tunic, suggesting that there wasn't even water for the medics to clean themselves. It risked contamination, he knew, remembering some of Mindy’s survivalist textbooks she’d been forced to read during Basic Training. Dirty hands spread diseases, if he recalled correctly. But there was no alternative.
“You’re awake,” she said, marching over to Fiona. Up close, her nametag read ZOE. “How are you feeling?”
Fiona touched the side of her head. “Thick-headed,” she said, after a moment’s thought. “I want to sleep and yet I can't sleep.”
“That’s a side-effect from the sedative,” Zoe said, briskly. “Normally we would have flushed it from your system before you awoke, but we have a shortage of countervailing agents right now and it was decided that it would be better to let you sleep. Anything else?”
“No,” Fiona said.
“You did pick up some bumps and bruises from your adventure,” Zoe informed her. “But you should be fine. Your body may not have registered them because of the sedative; I’m afraid we had to give you a military-grade drug and ...”
“Thank you,” Fiona said, hastily. Another shell shook the building and she looked around, nervously. “What are we going to do now?”
“I was told that you intended to study medicine,” Zoe said. “There are quite a few people in the infirmary who require some loving care. And it would take your mind off the bombardment outside.”
Leo gave his wife a reassuring look. “It would be something to do,” he said. “The al
ternative is just waiting here to see what happens.”
Fiona swallowed, then stood up. Her legs were shaking, Leo realised, as he followed her to his feet. Even though she’d been in Camelot when the Crackers launched their final bid for victory, she hadn't been in the thick of the fighting. She was now ... and it didn't agree with her. Leo couldn't help wondering how all the Marines were so calm when death was a mere whisker away.
“This way,” Zoe said, leading them through the door and down a short flight of stairs. “There are twelve injured personnel here, including two of the maids. Three more have been wounded, but refused to step off the firing line.”
Leo took in the scene before him and winced. Blankets had been laid out on the ground, each one providing some padding for the wounded soldiers. Several mattresses had been dragged down from the bedrooms and laid on the floor, but they seemed to be badly stained with blood and effectively useless. The soldiers looked to have been bandaged up, but it was a far cry from the clean and tidy hospital on Avalon, or even the Doctor’s office on Earth. It was easy to believe that disease would spread through the complex and strike down the wounded soldiers.
One of the maids had lost a leg, he saw ... and felt his stomach rebel at the sight. If he’d had something to eat, he knew he would have thrown it up at the sight of the makeshift bandage covering the bloody stump. Her back was brutally scarred, he saw as he looked away from her leg, as if someone had taken a whip to her. Given how lower-caste people were treated on the cursed world, it was easy to imagine that had been precisely what had happened. The other maid had a bandage wrapped around her upper arm, but she seemed to have no problem in moving. She’d gotten off lightly.
Fiona paled and stumbled backwards. Leo felt a flicker of sympathy; this was the reality that most of the Empire’s citizens had never seen. The Core Worlds had been safe for a very long time, at least for the law-abiding citizens who didn't rock the boat or ask inconvenient questions. They never really grasped just how bad it could become ... even those who watched snuff movies and other horrific entertainments intended to cater to the very worst of human impulses had rarely seen suffering on such a scale.
The Empire's Corps: Book 06 - To The Shores... Page 21