Jasmine knew the punchline, but played along anyway. “You can fit more than ten marines into a shuttle.”
“Yes, but they didn't have any more marines,” Buckley said. “So they had to make up the difference with some of the locals ...”
“And then the MPs came along to bitch about you stinking up the shuttle,” Stewart said, dryly. “I recall the rest of the story.”
“There’s another convoy coming,” Jasmine said, sharply. “Grab your weapons.”
“Finally,” Buckley said. “I thought we were going to be lying here all day!”
Jasmine ignored him as she studied the oncoming convoy. It was larger, thirty trucks escorted by six AFVs. One of the trucks was uncovered, allowing her to see a number of soldiers sitting in neat rows. They were laughing and joking, from what she could see, although she suspected there was a worried edge to it. The easy part of the war was now over; they knew as well as she did. Their next step would be to attack the defence lines directly.
“They’re sending heavy weapons too,” Stewart muttered. “You want to hit them instead?”
“No,” Jasmine muttered back. Four of the trucks were towing artillery pieces - they looked like standard-issue howitzers - but she was more interested in the soldiers. They were the ones who would be using the weapons, after all. “Put a missile into the lead AFV, then target the trucks.”
“Understood,” Stewart said.
“Pass the word,” Jasmine ordered. “We hit them hard, then fall back.”
She sucked in her breath as the enemy convoy came closer. The AFVs were a problem, even though they were following the road rather than travelling cross-country. Their heavy machine guns could make mincemeat of her position, even if their sensors couldn't track the marines; they could certainly call in helicopters, if necessary, to provide covering fire. She eyed the visible soldiers for a long moment, then silently calculated the best time to hit the convoy. Too close and they might be caught if - when - the enemy counterattacked; too far and the enemy wouldn't be badly hurt. It was just a matter of timing ...
“Fire,” she snapped.
Stewart launched the antitank missile, aimed directly at the first AFV. Its guns began to traverse with striking speed, but there was no hope of stopping the missile before it slammed into the vehicle’s side, punched through the armour and exploded inside. The crew had no chance to escape before the fireball blew their vehicle aside. Jasmine barely noticed, too busy hosing down the trucks with machine gun fire. The other AFVs were turning, their weapons already blazing fire; one was struck by another missile and destroyed, a second managed to evade a third missile through skill and luck.
“Go,” she ordered, as bullets started to crack through the air above them. She thought she could hear a helicopter in the distance. “I think we’ve outstayed our welcome.”
***
Ryan had been half-asleep when the attack began, dreaming of a girl he’d met in the officer’s brothel who had been more than just a quick lay. She'd been friendly and chatty and even though he knew it was all an act, he couldn't help being drawn to it. The remembrance that there was more to life than long hours of boredom, punctuated with moments of sheer terror, was worth any price. Indeed, he had already made plans to see her during his next period of leave ...
And then the truck ground to a halt as explosions shook the vehicle and bullets started cracking through the canopy.
“Get out,” he barked, jumping to his feet and shoving the door open. His men were sitting ducks as long as they were in the truck; he snatched up his rifle, dived out of the door and hastily glanced around for cover. “Get out now!”
He cursed as he hit the ground, crawling away from the truck before it was too late. There was damn-all in sight, save for a hillside that seemed to have been turned into a firing position. An AFV was burning brightly, flames billowing up towards the sky; he hoped, desperately, that the ammunition wouldn't start cooking off before he and his men were well away from the vehicle. Two more were driving towards the hillside, their guns blazing as they swept the area with fire. Ryan rather doubted they were hitting anything - it certainly didn't look as if they were doing more than firing at random - but at least it would give the troops time to get organised. He glanced towards the lead truck and swore when he realised that it had been badly riddled with bullets. It was increasingly unlikely that Captain Casey, the convoy commander, had survived.
Bastards must have targeted him deliberately, Ryan thought. The entire convoy had ground to a halt, the surviving drivers concentrating on evacuating their vehicles rather than moving onwards. But then, who knew what lay ahead of them? This whole area was supposed to be safe! Now what?
Training took over. “Form up on me,” he bellowed. Lieutenant Tammy was nowhere in sight, either dead or wounded. That made him the senior surviving officer, as far as he could tell. No one had ever won a medal by waiting for the official confirmation that he was in charge before taking action. “Sergeant Rackham, take the second assault squad. I’ll take the first!”
His eyes swept over the soldiers as they were hastily organised into two groups. A handful hadn't thought to grab their weapons before escaping the trucks; they’d have to stay behind, hoping desperately that the enemy hadn't planned anything more elaborate than a quick ambush. If they had, dozens of soldiers were probably about to die. He looked towards the AFVs as another explosion echoed out over the hillside and cursed, again, as one of them rolled over an emplaced mine and was flipped over by the blast. The crew would be safe, he was sure, but the vehicle itself would be out of action until it could be repaired.
“Sergeant, take the right fork,” he ordered. He could see two helicopters on the way, but he didn't dare delay any longer. “I’ll take the left - go!”
He led his squad forward, feeling sweat prickling down his back as they advanced past the ruined AFV. They’d learned to be careful when giving chase in the last few days. The enemy seemed to have an unlimited supply of mines and diabolical ingenuity when it came to placing them in awkward positions. He’d seen too many men carried off, their legs missing, after they put their foot down on top of a mine. The damnable bastards were trying to wound his soldiers, rather than kill them outright. Rumour had it that hospital beds were already overflowing back at the FOB.
Should just start conscripting the local civilians to help, he thought. The helicopters swooped overhead, heading towards where the enemies had to be. They’ll have good reasons to assist ...
He swore as a missile lanced up from the ground, striking one of the helicopters and blowing it into flaming debris which showered down on the ground. The other helicopter opened fire, strafing the enemy position with missiles and machine gun fire. Ryan held up a hand, calling a halt, then cursed as one of his soldiers toppled to the ground. There was a sniper, perhaps more than one, lurking nearby. He realised his own mistake a second later and jumped forward, hastily shifting position. Giving orders openly marked him as an officer - and officers were invariably targeted by snipers.
The force advanced forward, slowly, towards the flaming remains of an enemy position. Ryan hadn't expected much, but there was nothing to be seen but shattered trees and debris. If there had been any enemy troops caught within the bombardment, there was nothing left of them. It wasn't encouraging. He briefly considered probing further, then dismissed the thought. There was too much risk of running into another ambush - or a MANPAD.
“Sir,” Sergeant Rackham said. “I picked up a message from FOB Three. They’re dispatching a force to escort us the rest of the way.”
“Understood,” Ryan said. “The sooner they get here, the better.”
He took one last look at the mangled remains of dozens of trees, then turned and led the way back to the convoy. The enemy had struck them a blow and - probably - escaped. He tried to tell himself that they’d hit an enemy soldier or two, but he couldn't even begin to convince himself. There was just no way to be sure.
And this will d
elay us still further, he thought, darkly. Damn it.
***
“I’m sorry,” Stewart said. “He’s gone.”
Jasmine winced. Rifleman Gavin Jalil had been a good man, but he’d taken four bullets to the back during the escape and no one, not even a marine, could survive such trauma. His implants had kept him alive for a short period - and done what they could to make his final moments more comfortable - but now he was dead. She couldn't help wondering if his armour had actually made matters worse, before realising it hardly mattered. There had been far too much trauma.
“Fuck it,” she said. “Just ... fuck it!”
She fought down a surge of bitter grief and anger. Losing someone - anyone - was never easy, but Jalil was a marine. How many of the original Stalkers were still alive? Eighty-four marines had been exiled to Avalon; fifty-six, by her count, were still on active duty. Jalil was completely irreplaceable until they re-established the Slaughterhouse or set up something along the same lines.
“Put him in the bag,” she said. She wanted to take his body back to the city, then back to Avalon, but she knew it was impossible. “We’ll bury him nearby and come back for him afterwards.”
She bent down and removed the Rifleman’s Tab - and one half of his dog tags - then nodded to Stewart. He wrapped a bag around the body while the other marines used entrenching tools to dig a foxhole-like grave. It would suffice, Jasmine told herself, as she made a careful note of its location. Jalil would be recovered after the war and given a proper burial, in line with his will.
I’m sorry, she thought, honouring her comrade with a moment of silence. Jalil had been a good man, just like everyone else who’d graduated from the Slaughterhouse. She’d liked him. And he’d had a girl on Avalon. She would never see her lover again. You deserved better.
In the distance, she could hear the sound of thunder.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Indeed, the question of just who was in command was often decisive in battle. An officer who ran, after encountering an enemy that actually fought, would often be followed by the remainder of his men. The NCOs would often be unable to rally the men, if indeed they tried. Some units barely brushed up against an enemy before disintegrating into a rabble.
- Professor Leo Caesius. The Role of Randomness In War.
“They’re coming,” Ed said, quietly.
Danielle gave him a sharp look. “Are you sure?”
“Unless they’re posturing,” Ed said. It was possible, but he rather doubted it. Time worked in their favour, not Admiral Singh’s. Barring an accident with the shield, the Wolves simply had to take the city or keep the planet under guard indefinitely. “They're assembling too many forces in place to be doing anything, but planning an assault.”
He scowled as he studied the reports. Hundreds of tanks and other vehicles, thousands of soldiers ... massing in what were self-evidently jump-off positions. And, behind them, hundreds upon hundreds of guns, ranging from long-range artillery pieces to vehicle-mounted heavy mortars. He wondered, absently, just how much ammunition the Wolves had brought along, if their MEUs couldn't keep up with the demand. Firing off thousands of shells, in the certain knowledge that most of them would be intercepted before they hit their targets, would be immensely costly.
But we’re ready, he told himself. As ready as we’re ever going to be.
Danielle frowned. “How many people are going to die?”
“Too many,” Ed said. “But most of them will be on their side.”
“You could be wrong,” Danielle pointed out.
“The conventional wisdom is that you need a three-to-one superiority at the point of contact to guarantee success,” Ed said. In truth, it was impossible to be sure just how the odds were truly stacked. “In this case, the conventional wisdom is deeply insufficient. We have a very solid position; they have very little room to be clever. They’ll be advancing on us over their own dead bodies.”
He looked down at the map, wondering just what his counterpart was thinking. A handful of prisoners - the Wolves seemed to like using their penal battalions to probe defences - had named their ultimate superior as General Mark Haverford, but they hadn't known enough to allow Ed to locate the man’s pre-Collapse file. There were dozens of men with that name listed among the millions of soldiers and spacers who’d served the Empire. Hell, he might not have been a serving soldier at all, merely someone who’d put on the uniform after the collapse and somehow worked his way up to power. It had been six years, more or less, since Wolfbane had slipped out of Earth’s grasp. A great deal could have happened in that time.
“They have a lot of bodies,” Danielle pointed out, dryly.
“They won’t take enough ground to bury their dead,” Ed said. “Not this time, anyway.”
Danielle frowned. “What would you do? In their shoes, I mean. What would you do if you were presented with the same problem?”
Ed considered it. “Try to wear the defenders down,” he said, after a moment. “But time is pressing, really. They don’t have the time to grind us down without exposing themselves.”
He considered it for a long moment. Just what was Singh thinking? And Haverford? It was hard to get a sense of his opponent’s personality, but so far the man hadn't made many mistakes - if any. Losing a shuttle or two had to be annoying, yet he’d recovered neatly and even benefited from the experience. A calculating mind, perhaps; one smart enough to see opportunity and cunning enough to think outside the box. And yet, there were few options left. The Wolves had a blunt choice between attacking the city in force or pulling back and conceding a draw.
Or waiting for the shield to fail, he thought. But can they afford to wait that long?
***
“Everything is in place, sir,” Ferguson said.
Mark glanced at the time. Local dawn was breaking over the city, but he doubted the defenders would be half-asleep. Dawn had been seen as an ideal time to attack for so long that just about every military force worthy of the name was careful not to allow someone to catch them on the hop. And, unlike a mobile force, the defenders of the city had plenty of manpower. Half of them could be asleep while the other half manned the ramparts.
We haven’t done anything like this for centuries, he thought. No matter what happened, victory was going to come at a very high price. And if we lose ...
He pushed the thought aside. Admiral Singh’s patience was at an end. He hadn't been told directly that he was on the verge of being relieved, but he had enough experience to read it between the lines. His successor wouldn't hesitate to order the attack, piling on the infantry and tanks heedless of their losses. He couldn't allow that to happen, not after he’d worked so hard to minimise casualties. The only thing he could do was send the command.
“Contact all units,” he ordered. “We will proceed as planned.”
He took a long breath. “The offensive starts at 0900.”
And may God have mercy on our souls, he added, silently.
***
Mindy felt a chill running through her as she peered towards the enemy positions, two kilometres from the outer edge of the defence line. The warning from higher-up had been clear, too clear; the sound of engines echoing in the dawn merely underlined the simple fact that they were about to be attacked. She checked her rifle, again and again, as the sun slowly rose higher in the sky. It was hard to escape the sense that she was about to be tested to the limit.
“The sounds are growing louder,” Cornwallis said. Mindy gave him a sidelong glance. He sounded as nervous as she felt, even though he was a veteran of Thule and Piker’s Peak. His experience was far greater than hers. “I think this is it!”
A flicker of flame billowed out in the distance, great tongues of fire licking up towards the sky. Mindy stared at it, confused. Had someone hit the enemy rear and destroyed their ammunition stockpiles? And then it struck her, as she heard the sounds of shells falling towards their targets. The enemy had opened fire! She glanced up, just in time to s
ee flashes in the sky as shells were intercepted by laser stations and destroyed ...
And then the ground shook as the surviving shells slammed into the fortifications. Mindy braced herself, hearing the sound of something crashing to the ground, but it looked as though the fortifications had survived intact. She glanced up at the overhang, then relaxed slightly as there was no sign of it coming down on their heads. More and more shells crashed down, the noise deafening despite the implants in her ears. She had the nasty feeling that an unprotected civilian would have been deafened within seconds, if she’d been far too close to the explosions. The noise was growing louder and louder. She gritted her teeth as she forced herself to watch for incoming threats. In the distance, she could see missiles lancing out towards the city, ducking and weaving to avoid point defence.
“They’re dumb shells,” someone said.
“Of course they are,” Sergeant Rackham said. He didn’t sound nervous at all. “The bastards just want to make us keep our heads down. They’re not going to waste expensive guided shells on us.”
They Shall Not Pass (The Empire's Corps Book 12) Page 25