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

by Christopher Nuttall

  He swore as he saw the gunners start to lob shells into the second line of defences. It wasn't a bad tactic either, he had to admit; the blockhouses were weaker to the front, where there were firing slits, than they were up top. A shell that made it through the slit would do very real damage. As if the defenders had realised the danger, counter-battery fire rained down on the self-propelled guns. Three exploded, a fourth was picked up and tossed backwards by the force of the blast. The remaining two hurried back, changing position while lobbing shells randomly towards the defence lines. Emmanuel rather doubted they’d hit anything, but there were so many shells in the air that the odds were in favour of a handful hitting something vital.

  “We should get down,” Angel breathed, as a shell landed within the city. Emmanuel felt the skyscraper rock slightly underneath him. “They’re targeting the city.”

  “Maybe,” Emmanuel said. There were no more shells landing nearby, as far as he could tell; it was quite possible that the shell the enemy had fired had been a mischance. “But this is still the best place to be.”

  Angel glowered at him, then strode over to the wall and sat down, wrapping her arms around her legs. Emmanuel shook his head in tired amusement and returned his gaze to the fighting as it grew even more intense. It looked as through the defenders were pushing even harder ...

  But they can't do this indefinitely, he thought. How long can they keep it up?

  Deep inside, he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

  ***

  “They’ve kicked us out of sectors 4-13 to 4-15,” Gwendolyn reported. She sounded frustrated at not being able to get into the battle, even though Ed needed her in the command bunker. “They’re massing for a push at 3-14.”

  “Move reinforcements into position to relieve 3-14,” Ed ordered.

  He scowled as he studied the constantly-updating display. Thankfully, the enemy didn't seem to have achieved another breakthrough, although he knew it was just a matter of time. The sheer intensity of the assault was hitting the defenders hard, all along the line; it wouldn't be long before another fortification collapsed, allowing the attackers to surge forward. And when they did, he would have to split his reinforcements between two points of threatened weakness. Which one would the enemy turn into the main angle of attack?

  “They beat back the counterattack at 4-19,” an operator called. “They’re in possession of the blockhouses, sir.”

  Ed swore. That hadn't been long at all.

  “Reroute a reinforcement company to 3-18,” he ordered, coldly. “Let them hold the line a few hours longer.”

  His scowl deepened. Maintaining an intensive assault for so long - the battle had gone on for four hours and felt like it had gone on for days - was an impressive achievement, particularly given the battlefield limitations. And yet, they had to be running short on everything from manpower to ammunition stockpiles and tanks. Ed could recall campaigns where Landsharks hadn't been so much as scratched, but by his count the Wolves had lost over a hundred. They had to be running short.

  They couldn’t have brought that many to the battle, he told himself. Could they?

  He shook his head. Landsharks weren't designed for urban combat, unless one didn't give a shit about preserving the town and its population. Sending them into a network of fortified positions was about the worst possible use of the vehicles, although he had to admit there was a shortage of vehicles designed for such an assault. The Imperial Army had faced demands to put dozens of Landsharks in storage, simply because the planners had been unable to articulate why such heavy vehicles were necessary. Why were they necessary when KEWs could smash any enemy position from orbit, allowing the soldiers to take possession of blackened ruins?

  Because KEWs aren't always available, he thought, darkly. Admiral Singh had hit the shield several times, no doubt hoping to batter it down, but the shield had persistently refused to break. And now the Wolves are paying a price for their lack of imagination.

  “Reinforcements are moving up now,” Gwendolyn reported. She gave him a sharp look, then lowered her voice. “I don’t know how long our people can take this.”

  Ed nodded. Marines were trained to keep going, whatever happened, but the local militia hadn't had any such training. They’d done the best they could over the past two months, yet he was grimly aware that it wasn't enough. And realistically, the CEF hadn't had such intensive training either. They might break too.

  “Keep an eye on the situation,” he ordered. “It’s all we can do.”

  ***

  Mindy hastily sipped flavoured water from the canteen - it was primed with nutrients to keep her going - and then passed it to Trooper Halls and picked up her rifle. It felt as if they had been fighting for weeks, if not months; they hadn't had a chance to rest when they’d reached the next blockhouse and hastily slotted themselves into the defence lines. Her uniform was askew, she knew, but she was really too tired to care. All that mattered was that she could still fight.

  Her entire body felt weird, as if she had both passed the hump and yet could barely take one more step. She'd drunk too much, she thought; the energy drink could have unpleasant side effects if she drank too much of it. And yet, she somehow kept moving as the sound of enemy shellfire grew louder. Shells were smashing down on the bunker, warning her that it wouldn't be long before the Wolves attempted to break through the fortifications and cleanse the bunker of her and her comrades. The ground shook, time and time again, as the shellfire grew more intense. Some of the shells seemed to be targeted behind the complex ...

  They’re trying to collapse the tunnels, she thought, tiredly. The tunnels were reinforced, but they weren't as strong as the fortifications. Collapsing them made sense, too; the enemy had to know that the hidden passageways were rigged to blow if the defenders lost control of the far end. It’ll keep us from counterattacking when they think they’ve secured the complex ...

  The blockhouse shook, again, as something exploded within the next room. Mindy barely had a second to dive for cover as the door burst, allowing the enemy to hurl two grenades into her compartment. The explosions were deafeningly loud; she heard several of her comrades screaming in pain. She landed badly, letting go of her rifle and sending it skittering across the floor; she rolled over, just in time to see one of the lights flicker and fail. An enemy soldier advanced into the compartment, followed by a second. Their guns were traversing the compartment, searching for targets.

  She knew she should lie still, pretending to be dead, but she had no idea how good their NVGs were. Her body temperature would remain constant, unlike those who had been caught in the blasts and killed. She picked herself up, yanked her ka-bar from her belt and hurled herself forward, stabbing the first soldier in the throat as he turned to face her. He staggered backwards as his comrade turned; Mindy shoved him into his comrade, trying to stab the second man. Too close to her to bring his rifle around, he shoved her hand aside and slammed into her, sending them both crashing to the floor. Mindy gasped in pain as her shoulder hit the concrete, her assailant landing on top of her with a grunt. She tried to muster the strength to fight back as he drew back his fist, intending to punch her lights out, but her body was aching too much. Her fingers touched the handle of a knife - his knife - as she twisted, barely avoiding a punch that would have crushed her throat. He shifted his weight, giving her a split-second opportunity to grab his blade and stab him with it.

  He grunted again as she drove the knife into his chest. His body shuddered, violently, then flopped down on top of her. Mindy could barely force herself to breath. Pushing him aside was beyond her. She heard shouts in the distance, followed by explosions ... she had no idea who was coming her way. Friends ... or foe?

  “Clear,” someone shouted.

  He burst into the room, rifle in hand. Mindy moaned, trying to attract attention. She was past caring if she was about to be rescued or taken prisoner ... if, of course, the Wolves were bothering to take prisoners. God alone knew what they’d
make of her, if they saw her in such a position. She tried not to think about some of the other things that could happen to a female soldier, caught by the enemy and rendered helpless ...

  ... It was hard to keep herself awake ... she struggled against the weight of the corpse, but she couldn't shift it. Blood - his blood - was staining her uniform and pooling around her. She’d been in worse places, she reminded herself. She didn't think she had the strength to throw up without choking herself.

  “Dear God,” a male voice said. It had an accent that was distantly Avalon. She felt a surge of relief that drained the last of her energy. “What happened?”

  Mindy tried to speak, but it required far too much effort. Her entire body sagged as she felt strong hands lifting the enemy soldier off her ...

  And then darkness rose up and claimed her for its own.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Indeed, one of the most dangerous officers faced during the battle was one who spent his entire career drugged out of his mind. His NCOs handled the unit and did quite a competent job of it. They actually held out for nearly twenty minutes before they were crushed by the CEF.

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

  “Here they come,” Buckley muttered.

  Jasmine nodded as she stood by the side of the road, watching as the truck emerged from the darkness. Night was slowly falling over Corinthian, but the thunderous sounds of battle from the south had hardly diminished. She was morbidly impressed that the Wolves had kept up the battle for so long, even though it posed a major threat to her and her platoon. But they had to be feeling the effects of fighting for so long. Chances were the forces at the rear were nowhere near as alert as they should be.

  She held up her hand, thumb extended, in the universal request for a pickup. They hadn't donned Wolfbane uniforms - they hadn't had any on hand - but marine battledress wasn't that different from standard-issue battledress. The gathering twilight would make it harder for watching eyes to pick out the differences, even if they were paying attention. This far from the front lines, it was unlikely the Wolves worried that much about infiltrators.

  And this is technically illegal, Jasmine thought, as the truck slowed to a halt. She’d been worried about accidentally stopping a troop transport, but it looked as though they’d managed to catch a supply truck. We could be shot for this.

  She snorted, inwardly. They’d be shot out of hand, the moment the Wolves discovered who and what they were. She forced herself to relax as the truck door slammed open, revealing a short balding man wearing a sergeant’s uniform. No, a supply sergeant’s uniform. She knew the type. He might call himself a sergeant, but he was no true sergeant. He was really nothing more than a beancounter in uniform.

  He glared at them indiscriminately. “What happened to your unit?”

  Jasmine glanced past him. There was a driver, but no one else. She walked forward and grabbed the sergeant, yanking him out of the vehicle and pushing him to the ground before he could draw his pistol or sound the alarm. Buckley hurried past her and covered the driver, who held his shaking hands in the air before being told to do anything of the sort. Jasmine couldn't help a flicker of contempt, as she drew her knife and held it to the sergeant’s throat. The Wolves she’d ambushed earlier had fought back like men, but these supply officers hadn't even tried to fight! And the sergeant had wet himself like a child.

  “If you lie to me, I will know about it,” she growled, as she frisked the sergeant and secured his hands behind his back with a plastic tie. “Where are you going?”

  “The gunnery position,” the man stammered. “I ... please don’t kill me!”

  Jasmine resisted - barely - the urge to simply cut his throat. She’d been through three different Conduct After Capture courses - and she’d been captured, once upon a time - and she’d done better than this overweight blob of lard. And she’d even hit a Drill Instructor - one of the few times when a recruit could hit a Drill Instructor - when he'd tried to convince her that the scenario was over and she’d passed! Instead, she gagged him with duct tape, bound his legs and dumped him by the side of the road. His superiors would deal with him afterwards.

  “Get the others into the truck,” she ordered, as she scrambled up into the driver’s seat. “We need to move quickly.”

  She started the engine as soon as the remaining marines were in the truck, then drove off down the road. Thankfully, there were no changes from the trucks she recalled; the Wolves, it seemed, had simply continued to duplicate pre-collapse vehicles rather than improving on them in any way. She understood the logic behind it - the Marine Corps used very basic technology too - but it still surprised her. But then, it made life easier during wartime.

  Buckley leaned forward. “Get in, bust some heads, get out again?”

  “Yep,” Jasmine said. Driving right into an enemy position took nerve, but they were already inside the security perimeter. Unless the guards were very alert, they’d be reassured by the simple fact that she was driving a Wolfbane truck. She’d walked through tougher security procedures before the exile to Avalon. “And we take out as many of their guns as possible.”

  “Got a lot of shells in the back,” Stewart said. “I can rig these to explode, if you’ll let me.”

  “Damn right,” Jasmine said. “But don’t detonate them until we’re ready.”

  “Of course not,” Stewart said. “That would be embarrassing.”

  “But funny,” Buckley countered.

  They must be desperate, Jasmine thought, giving Buckley a rude gesture. The Imperial Army had always shipped ammunition in heavily-guarded convoys ... but then, it had been so inefficient that entire outposts had run out of ammunition before they could be resupplied. Unfortunately, the Wolves seemed to be a little bit smarter. And their ammunition expenditure must be far higher than they expected.

  She felt cold ice gnawing at her heart, despite her words, as they approached the enemy position. It was larger than she’d expected, surrounded by barbed wire and a handful of armed guards. Dozens of guns sat within the wire, belching hundreds of shells towards Freedom City. Their fire wouldn't be very accurate - there were several gun models she’d never seen outside training simulations - but it hardly mattered. Forcing the defenders to keep their heads down was just as important as scoring hits.

  “Very rapid rate of fire,” Buckley noted. “Their gun barrels must be red hot.”

  “It won’t matter,” Stewart said. “They can just cast a new one on the MEUs. Any industrial node could churn out hundreds of guns and thousands of shells within a week.”

  “If they had the right programming,” Jasmine agreed. “Keep your heads down, now. We don’t want them to see more than two people.”

  She tensed as they rolled up in front of the gate. If the enemy was on the alert, they’d check anyone who wanted to enter the complex. There was no way either she or Buckley could pass for the supply sergeant and his driver. But the demand for shells was so high that the guards just glanced at the paper she’d found in the glove compartment, then opened the gate and waved them through the wire. Jasmine’s lips twisted in bitter amusement, remembering the report she’d written after doing something similar on Han. This bunch were about to get something worse than a bad report.

  The complex included a handful of MPs, who seemed to be directing operations, as well as the gunners themselves. She reminded herself not to get into a fist-fight with the gunners - they tended to be stronger than many infantrymen - and parked the truck where the MPs indicated. Her gaze swept the complex, searching for signs of prospective trouble, but it looked as though there were neither barracks nor heavy weapons emplacements in view. It puzzled her for a moment, then she realised that the gunners would probably be bussed away from the complex when they went off duty. No doubt they felt they needed their sleep.

  “Go,” she whispered.

  She kicked open the door and jumped out, firing automatically as she moved her rifle from target to target.
The MPs hadn't been particularly alert, she realised; they weren't even wearing body armour. She heard more gunshots cracking out as the other six piled out, picking off the enemy gunners and guards. A handful of enemy soldiers drew their weapons and returned fire, but it was already far too late. Her platoon swept them away before they could muster a coordinated resistance.

  They searched the complex quickly as Stewart returned to the truck and moved it into position next to the heavy guns. There was little of value, although they scooped up hard drives and computer terminals in case intelligence officers could deduce something useful from whatever scraps of data they contained. The gunnery commander had apparently been fond of a woman back home, she noted; his makeshift office had dozens of photographs of the same girl hanging everywhere. And to think it would be just a temporary office ...