They Shall Not Pass (The Empire's Corps Book 12)

by Christopher Nuttall

“And there are untouched towns and hamlets to the north,” Mark agreed. He suspected the enemy would have ordered them evacuated, as soon as the LZ became clear, but there was no way to be sure. They would have to be secured as soon as possible, if only to avoid becoming bogged down in urban combat before reaching Freedom City. “Push the advance forces forward, but make sure they have armoured and air support in place.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ferguson said. He paused. “As yet, we don’t have any of the helicopters in the air, but we've been launching drones over the past two hours. I request permission to start steering them to support the advance units.”

  Mark scowled. They could produce nearly unlimited quantities of bullets and other basic supplies, but replacing the drones would take a great deal longer. Hell, hardly anyone had anticipated needing drones before the war began. And while the drones flew so high they were impossible to see with the naked eye, an enemy with a MANPAD could easily pick one out and launch a missile that would blow it out of the sky.

  And they won’t leave them in place, either, he thought. There’s no way they can take the risk of allowing us to watch them.

  “Granted,” he said, reluctantly. Losing the drones was expensive - the beancounters would bitch and moan all the way to the bank - but better to expend a drone than a living man. “But try to keep them away from enemy fire if possible.”

  Ferguson nodded, his expression unreadable. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Right now, everything is proceeding as planned.”

  “Good,” Mark said.

  He turned his attention to the orbital map. The enemy forces would be lurking under the main body of the force shield, but if he was any judge, the land between the LZ and the outer edge of the force shield would be swarming with insurgents. Admiral Singh had made sure of it, just by convincing the local government that it was better to go down fighting rather than coming to an arrangement. And while he doubted the insurgents could stop him, he was sure they’d slow him down. It would be quite awkward to explain.

  Because the Admiral has no understanding of what it’s like to fight on the ground, he thought, darkly. She will expect speedy results when there are none to be found.

  He looked back at Ferguson. “How are we coping with the landing schedule?”

  “Proceeding as planned, so far,” Ferguson reported. “The lack of enemy interference has helped, sir.”

  Mark scowled. He would almost have preferred to see the enemy, even if incoming missiles or mortar rounds would have screwed up his timetable beyond repair. An enemy force that wasn’t visible was planning something, he knew from long experience. The locals knew their world far better than any of the invaders and had a cause, a good reason to put their lives on the line to defend their land. If they weren't attacking him, it meant they were planning something else. And it might explode in his face at the worst possible time.

  “Keep expanding the defence lines as we set up the FOB,” he ordered. The more he had on the ground, the more exposed he’d feel. If someone was watching the deployment from a safe distance, they’d be able to call in long-range fire or missile strikes as soon as there were enough targets to justify the expense. “And have those nearby hills swept as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ferguson said.

  And the Admiral will expect us to move at once, Mark thought. But if I sweep the area first, it will look like I’m doing something ...

  The plan wasn't much, he knew. It was a desperate dodge, one he’d used before the Empire had collapsed into ruins. Bureaucrats in military uniforms had been fooled; Admiral Singh, an experienced naval officer, might not be so easily tricked. But it was all he had.

  ***

  Lieutenant Ryan Osborne kept his rifle at the ready as the small platoon advanced across the farmland, watching carefully for any sign of enemy activity. The landscape was surprisingly familiar - he’d grown up on a farm before deciding he didn't want to spend the rest of his life staring at the back end of a mule - but that didn't mean it wasn't dangerous. He’d spent six months on Thule after he’d been commissioned, promoted to lieutenant after the previous officer had been killed in an IED blast; he knew just how dangerous countryside folk could be.

  And they have a better reason to fight than the city-folk, he thought, as they reached the remains of a farmhouse. The land is theirs.

  He sucked in his breath as he saw the burned-out ruins, his eyes flickering automatically to the crater where the KEW had struck before traversing to a pair of wooden barns that had - somehow - survived the blast. It bothered him, more than he cared to admit. The barns looked solid, but they should have been flattered by the shockwave. If they’d survived ... why? He motioned for half the platoon to remain behind, weapons at the ready, while he led the way towards the nearest barn, feeling sweat trickling down his back. The briefing had made it clear that the entire population was armed to the teeth, often with military-grade weapons. They might not have his force’s training and experience, but they certainly knew the terrain and where best to site their weapons for maximum effect.

  Up close, the barn was simple, little different from the structures he recalled from his homeworld. No prefabricated buildings for a farm so far from the capital! He felt a flicker of homesickness as he tested the door, watching carefully for unpleasant surprises; he used the tip of his rifle barrel to open the door, allowing him to step inside. One of his soldiers retched - the barn clearly hadn't been vented in a long time - as Ryan peered into the darkness. The barn was empty, save for piles of manure on the ground. No doubt the farmer had kept his pigs in the barn when they hadn't been roaming the fields.

  He stepped forward, inspecting the ground carefully. He’d been a farmer, after all; he knew all the tricks. Hiding money and supplies from the taxman was practically second nature; farmers all over the galaxy believed, often with reason, that the intruders wouldn't go poking through animal shit just to check there was no hidden basement underneath the barn. He would have been surprised if the basement had survived the KEW strike, but the barn itself had survived ...

  Nothing, he thought. He made a mental note to report the barn as a possible barracks, once it was cleaned and vented, then led the way back outside. Nothing worth mentioning at all.

  They inspected the second barn, but found nothing more than a handful of pieces of equipment and a tractor. He checked the tractor, wondering if it could be pressed into service, only to discover that someone had removed a number of components from the engine, along with the fuel. There was no fuel dump within the farm, as far as he could tell; no doubt the farmers had had a communal supply, somewhere nearby. It wasn't as if the tractors required vast amounts of fuel. But it would probably have been blown up or removed by now.

  “Lieutenant,” Sergeant Hove said, as the platoon reformed. “We found a body.”

  Ryan nodded and allowed Hove to lead him to the corpse. It was a middle-aged man, arms muscular and hands calloused from working the farm. A piece of flying debris had struck him in the back, killing him instantly. Or at least Ryan hoped it had been instant. He was quite happy to watch insurgent shitheads die slowly and painfully, but the farmer before him could easily have been his father. A strong and stern man, with limited book-learning but a great deal of common sense and experience ...

  He wanted to take the time to bury the man, but there was no time. “Did you see any traces of anyone else?”

  “No, sir,” Hove said.

  “They must have left his body here,” Ryan said. Someone had clearly had a plan, although he was surprised the other farmers hadn't buried the body before departing. The thought of eventually giving oneself back to the soil was a tempting one, for farmers. “They’re probably in the hills.”

  He looked up, gritting his teeth. The hills would make excellent territory for insurgents, particularly ones composed of farmers who knew how to shoot and move quietly. If it was up to him, he would have ordered the hills burned to the ground, but that decision was well above his pay grade. Instead
, he tapped his radio, reporting on the surviving farm and the dead body. Someone would bury the corpse eventually, he was sure, or burn it to ash with a plasma grenade. Corpses littering the landscape were sure vectors for disease.

  A low humming sound echoed over the landscape as they resumed their probing, a pair of Landshark tanks advancing forward in support. Ryan scowled in disapproval at how they churned up the land beneath their treads, knocking over fences and smashing through cornfields with gay abandon, but he had to admit he was glad to see them. His body armour was very limited, he knew through experience, while the tanks were practically invulnerable to anything an insurgent force might reasonably have at its disposal. If they ran into an enemy position, he might just let the tanks charge forward while his men brought up the rear.

  “No enemy in sight,” he heard one of his men muttering. “Where are they?”

  Ryan scowled, inwardly. They had all fought on Thule. They knew, all too well, that a rifle could be lurking behind every blade of grass. There were places where patrolling soldiers knew they would be ambushed, where the enemy could move unseen before opening fire from concealed positions and then retreating in the face of the inevitable bombardment. To be allowed to move openly, without being fired upon ... it felt unnatural. Part of him almost wished the enemy would get on with it.

  I’ll have to watch them, he reminded himself.

  It was a bitter thought. He cared nothing for the insurgents, but his superiors would be unimpressed if his men committed an atrocity against seemingly-innocent civilians. It wasn't easy to convince men hundreds of miles from the front that there was no such thing as an innocent civilian, that civilians were guilty - at the very least - of allowing the insurgents to move freely amongst them, unopposed. He knew it wasn't fair - he’d seen the punishments the insurgents had meted out to anyone who showed even a hint of collaborationist tendencies - but he found it hard to care. He’d seen too many good men killed, directly or indirectly, by civilians.

  “They’re hiding under their shield,” he snapped. That too was a bitter thought. He wasn't used to operating without air cover, let alone the ability to call down orbital fire on any target that proved too stubborn for his men. “We’ll be coming to grips with them soon enough.”

  ***

  “It looks like the enemy has been evacuating the region,” Mark said, grimly. “There have been no engagements, Admiral, and the only bodies we’ve found are men and women who were killed by the KEW strikes.”

  Admiral Singh’s mouth thinned. “They knew where we would be landing?”

  “They probably tracked the orbital drop,” Mark said. Given the KEW strikes, it would take a very stupid enemy not to guess they were about to be on the front lines. Bombarding farmhouses would have been pointless petty spite otherwise. “Even if they didn't, Admiral, there's no way to hide the endless stream of shuttles.”

  Admiral Singh looked displeased, but she didn't bother to argue. “I assume your forces are ready to deploy further?”

  “We’re just sweeping the surrounding countryside now,” Mark said. Hadn't Admiral Singh promised him complete control? “Once we have our forces built up, we will be ready to take the offensive into the nearest towns and hamlets. That will allow us to seize roads leading directly to the capital.”

  “Move fast,” Admiral Singh ordered. “Are there any other problems?”

  “We will need more supplies,” Mark said. “Can we send to Wolfbane for additional forces and pieces of equipment?”

  Admiral Singh’s expression darkened. “It will take time,” she said. “Can you not take the city with what you have on hand?”

  “I don’t know,” Mark admitted. He didn't really blame her for being annoyed. By any reasonable standard, they’d come loaded for bear. But they hadn't taken the force shield into account. “I would prefer to have too much firepower than too little.”

  “Send your request,” Admiral Singh ordered, finally. “And push the offensive forward as fast as possible. The enemy must be crushed and broken.”

  “Yes, Admiral,” Mark said. “It shall be done.”

  He assumed she thought he could just point his tanks at the enemy and crush all resistance under their treads. It sounded good, but it would be suicide in practice. There was no point in trying to argue with her, but he’d keep advancing forward carefully anyway. Thrusting forward too fast might result in disaster.

  “Good,” Admiral Singh said. “I want to be in Landing City by the end of the week.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  There would, of course, have been brutal revenge afterwards. But the prospect of future punishment did not deter the locals from attacking the diplomats. They too were unable to comprehend the sheer power of the outsiders.

  - Professor Leo Caesius. The Role of Randomness In War.

  “They’re quite efficient,” Command Sergeant Gwendolyn Patterson observed. “I’m not sure we would do so well, under the same circumstances.”

  It was galling, but Ed had to agree with her. The Wolves were landing their shuttles and unloading them at an astonishing rate, suggesting either a high degree of pre-planning or considerable experience. A Marine Corps regiment might be able to match their speed, but he rather doubted an Imperial Army unit could have done anything along the same lines in twice the time. Admittedly, no one was trying to impede their activities, yet it was still alarming. The Wolves might be ready to advance forward long before he’d expected to meet them.

  “No one has done anything like this for centuries,” he said. “But they probably had plans in place to land at the spaceports and take control of Freedom City.”

  He shrugged, watching the microburst feed from the handful of sensors that had survived the enemy’s sweep of the hillsides. The sensors themselves were extremely difficult to find - he recalled ducking them during a training exercise at OCS - but unmistakable once they were found. There was no doubt that the Wolves knew they were under observation. A wise commander would assume that he hadn't managed to find all of the sensors, even though he’d had the hills searched thoroughly. It was what he would have done.

  “Lieutenant Pearson ran the calculations,” Gwendolyn added. “Assuming the Wolves continue to deploy at their current rate, they will be ready to take the offensive in less than a week.”

  Ed nodded in agreement. The Wolves had picked the best of several possible LZs; they were far enough from civilisation to make it harder to slow them down, yet close enough to civilisation not to need to spend weeks hacking their way through difficult terrain. Unless he missed his guess, the enemy commander would start expanding his line of control over the next couple of days, fanning down towards the nearest inhabited settlements. The risk of running into insurgents was balanced by the need to keep insurgents as far from his LZ as possible.

  “So we have to stop them,” Danielle said. The President gave him a sharp look. “Can’t you hit them now?”

  “They need to commit themselves first,” Ed said. “And then we can hurt them.”

  Privately, he agreed with her. Training and experience both argued that their best chance to score a decisive blow was now, while the Wolves were unloading their troops. But hitting the enemy too hard before they were overcommitted might just cause them to cut their losses ... he’d gone over it, time and time again, but Danielle was clearly having problems coping with the thought of leaving an enemy force untouched, even though it was looming over her capital city. Realistically, it was hard to blame her. Corinthian had too many problems right now, even without a full-scale invasion.

  “We do have raiders in place,” Gwendolyn pointed out. “Give us a couple of days, then we can start pricking at them.”

  “Or someone else will start taking pot-shots at the bastards,” Hampton snapped. “You know half the farmers in the area refused to leave?”

  Ed nodded. Practically, the Wolves would expect a certain amount of armed resistance in any case. There was no way to keep the farmers from sniping at the Wol
ves whenever they had a chance, just as they’d sniped at Admiral Singh’s troopers and imperial taxmen. He just didn't know the threshold between Admiral Singh’s decision to carry on, whatever the cost, and a decision to cut her losses and withdraw. How badly did she have to be hurt to stop her?

  “I think Admiral Singh will ignore minor losses,” he said. “The real question is just how she plans to keep her forces supplied.”

  He scowled as he studied the shuttle timetable. The Wolves had to be pushing their gear to the limit, but it was working out for them. Their speed at unloading a set of orbital freighters, without a transhipment facility, was quite remarkable. And, behind them, a pair of starships that had to be copycat MEUs. Given just how many warships Admiral Singh had clustered around the MEUs, it was clear that she was aware of their importance. He ran through the calculations in his head, not liking the results. Admiral Singh should have no difficulty keeping her forces supplied with bullets and ration packs until the fighting came to an end.

  But she has to be short of heavier equipment, he thought, grimly. Taking out even one or two of those Landsharks won’t do her any good.