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

by Christopher Nuttall

She forced herself to keep her voice under control. “There’s six of us and nearly two hundred of them,” she added. “Even if we snipe at them, they’ll have the strength to come after us in force.”

  “They’ll also call for help,” Buckley pointed out, in a tone that was so calm and reasonable she just knew he was trying to manipulate her. “And that will bring more witnesses to the scene.”

  Jasmine thought about it as she returned her gaze to the scene below her. The soldiers were laughing and drinking, taunting the women as they prepared themselves for the coming nightmare. If their senior officers knew what had happened, Jasmine asked herself, would they do anything about it? Or would they join in? She’d met Civil Guard officers who had been fond of indulging themselves. They’d been more savage than their men!

  But the Wolves aren’t that bad, she thought. And if it triggers off a mutiny, it works in our favour.

  “Take aim,” she ordered, switching her rifle to single-shot. “And make sure you don’t waste a single bullet.”

  “Of course not,” Buckley agreed. “Supplies are in such short supply these days.”

  “Very funny,” Stewart snarled.

  Jasmine scowled as she sighted her weapon, targeting an officer who was smoking something that she rather suspected wasn't tobacco. In her experience, isolated farmers out in the boondocks tended to grow all sorts of things planetary governments disapproved of; he’d probably taken it from a farm and kept it to himself. He’d probably also taken a great deal of alcohol and passed it to his men. She couldn't think of any other explanation for the sheer quantities the men were consuming.

  “Fire,” she ordered.

  Her target dropped like a rock, the moment her bullet smashed into his head. Other officers fell, too careless or too drunk to remember the dangers of being obviously officers in plain view. Their men didn't show any reaction at first, then started to shoot madly towards the hillside as it dawned on them that they were being fired upon. Jasmine shook her head in disgust, wondering just what sort of punishment would be meted out to the survivors by their own superiors. Being drunk on duty - or stoned out of one’s mind - was enough to ensure a dishonourable discharge from the corps, if the drunkard wasn't immediately dispatched to a penal world.

  “Piss-poor shots,” Stewart muttered.

  “Bite your tongue,” Jasmine said. One of the marines must have hit something explosive, because a truck exploded into a fireball. “And keep hitting the bastards!”

  She swore as she heard the sound of three helicopters in the distance. Someone must have snapped off a distress call, even if they were too drunk to do anything else. Maybe there was a responsible officer amongst them ... she shook her head, dismissing the thought. A responsible officer would have shot one of his men to regain control, if necessary, rather than letting them make preparations for a drunken gang-rape. She snapped out a command, ordering the marines to pack up and run. There was nothing they could do for the girls below, she knew; there was certainly no way they could escape in time. She just hoped that whoever arrived on the scene was ready to take control.

  We did what we could, she thought, as they scattered into the undergrowth. HVMs were in short supply now, even though they’d stockpiled hundreds before the Wolves arrived. Hell, they were running short of bullets. All we can do now is pray.

  ***

  Mark was not given to brooding, as a general rule. He understood the realities of warfare and, although he would never have admitted it where spying ears might hear, he understood the realities of politics too. But it still shocked him to realise just how casually Admiral Singh was prepared to let thousands of men - thousands of additional men - die to cement her rule over Wolfbane. There was nothing that could be done for the men who had died in front of the blockhouses, yet the wounded and mutilated ... they could be saved! But to do that, they'd have to be sent home.

  And that would cause political problems, he thought, as he sat in his private office. She’s letting them die because it would threaten her position if she did otherwise.

  He studied the display, thoughtfully. The planning for the second offensive was well underway; the bunker-busters he’d designed were finally rolling out of the MEUs and being shipped down to the surface. Indeed, the defenders didn't seem to be fighting back with great enthusiasm. Were his bombardments so ineffective or were the defenders conserving ammunition? Mark had no idea just how long the Commonwealth had been plotting its stand on Corinthian, but he would have been surprised if they’d anticipated just how much ammunition would be consumed in a single day. He hadn't anticipated it either.

  We could win this battle, he told himself. But it could cost us the war.

  His intercom bleeped. “General, this is Ferguson,” a voice said. “I have a vitally important report to make to you.”

  Mark scowled in irritation. He’d planned to reassign Ferguson, but he needed a skilled officer working underneath him. And yet, he had no doubt that Ferguson would betray him if all hell broke loose. He wouldn't want to hitch his star too closely to Mark’s when there was a very real risk of losing everything. If Mark took the blame for the disaster, everyone close to him would suffer too.

  “Come in,” he said. “This had better be important.”

  He looked up as the younger man stepped into the compartment. At least Ferguson should be able to tell what was important. Mark had handled uniformed bureaucrats who thought a missing computer or a shortage of paper clips was a rather more serious problem than countless dead or wounded men. One of the few advantages of working for Admiral Singh, rather than Governor Brown, was the freedom to expel uniformed bureaucrats from the chain of command. He’d used it ruthlessly on Thule.

  “It is, sir,” Ferguson said. “There’s been an ... incident.”

  “An incident,” Mark repeated. Ferguson should know to be blunter. Bad news didn't smell any better if it was wrapped up in flattery and butt-kissing. “Explain. Now.”

  Ferguson looked hesitant, as if he wasn't quite sure what had happened. “Captain Rask took a couple of companies on a search and destroy mission,” he said. “They stumbled across a small town we had previously ignored ...”

  Mark nodded impatiently. He had a bad feeling about this. “And ...?”

  “They came under intensive sniper fire,” Ferguson said. “Lieutenant Pella, the senior survivor, called for support. The reinforcements discovered that the companies had burned the town to the ground, massacred the male population and were on the verge of raping the female population when they were interrupted.”

  Mark stared at him. He'd known that discipline was a problem, he’d known that far too many units had been shattered by the fighting and their survivors parcelled out to other units, but a mass gang-rape? How badly had the companies been affected by the fighting? He struggled to recall the details ... hadn't Captain Rask been promoted for surviving the assault on the blockhouses? He’d been so desperate for heroes that he’d jumped the man up a level and given him a company command. What had happened out there?

  “Colonel Travis has assumed command of the scene,” Ferguson said. “He reports that Lieutenant Pella has been placed under arrest, along with the surviving common soldiers, but he’s not sure how to proceed from there.”

  “... Fuck,” Mark said.

  He tapped his terminal, bringing up the records. Captain Rask’s two companies had been put together from the remains of a dozen other units. None of the officers had worked together before, very few of the soldiers had fought together before ... and instead of a long period of training to smooth out the rough edges, they’d been thrown into a search and destroy mission in the midst of enemy territory. Captain Rask had either lost control or enthusiastically ordered the destruction of a town, followed by mass slaughter and rape. The bastard was far too lucky that a sniper had picked him off.

  And I can't show any weakness, he thought, bitterly. Normally, isolated breaches of discipline would be handled by the MPs, but there were too many d
iscontented - if not mutinous - men involved. Hatred of the locals was spreading, just as it had on Thule ... but none of the units on Thule had been forced into a meatgrinder. If I show weakness, discipline becomes a joke and we'll disintegrate.

  He took a breath. “Order Colonel Travis to have the prisoners shipped here, under guard,” he said. “They are to speak to no one until I have had a chance to deal with Lieutenant Pella personally. I want them isolated from everyone else.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ferguson said. “Do you want them assigned to a penal unit?”

  “It’s a bit bigger than that now,” Mark said. On Thule, it would have been easy. The men would have been assigned to a penal unit so fast their heads would spin. But on Corinthian ... he wasn't quite sure how to proceed. The locals might well already know what had happened. “Have them kept in isolation. I’ll need to speak to the Admiral before taking any steps.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ferguson said.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Each type would ensure a different outcome, but there is no way to know which type would actually take command. Controlling one’s enemy to the point where the right officers take commands is impossible.

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

  Ryan lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

  He wasn't sure what he’d expected, really. He’d assaulted a doctor. That was a court martial offense, at the very least. He'd spent the next few hours lying on his bed, wondering when the MPs were going to come crashing through the door and haul him off to a cell. But nothing had happened and he’d eventually drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened by a female orderly - a press-ganged local - bringing him a tray of food. He’d glowered at her so badly she’d fled the moment she’d put the tray on the table.

  It was hard, so hard, to keep himself under some form of control. He found himself weeping randomly, then shouting and screaming at the universe ... and then sitting down numbly and just waiting to die. He no longer had any control, he admitted, when he could think rationally. Losing his junk was bad, but surviving when so many others had died ... if he’d been promoted, did that mean that everyone above him was dead? He’d liked as well as respected the captain, the colonel had been strict but fair ... were they dead? He wanted to ask someone, but the orderlies never stuck around long enough to answer questions.

  He should be in pain, he knew; he might have felt better about himself if he were in pain. But the doctors had done a good job, given the limited time they’d had to work on him before moving to the next patient. He wasn't in pain; indeed, his body felt almost normal. And yet, the absence of his manhood tore at his mind. He could barely force himself to use the facilities, when he needed to pass water. It made him feel as if he were no longer a man.

  Ryan sagged as he heard the sound of someone opening the door. He didn't think the door was locked, but he hadn't been able to muster the determination to open the door and step outside. Everyone would be laughing at him, he thought; they’d make fun of him for losing his manhood ... his thoughts mocked him bitterly, even as he turned his head to see who had stepped into the room. It took him several moments, through the haze, to recognise Captain Gellman. He’d met him back on Thule ...

  “Captain Osborne,” Gellman said. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

  “Fuck off,” Ryan said. Gellman had been promoted - unless he’d pinched a major’s uniform from someone - but he found it hard to care. “It came with too high a price.”

  “Yes, it did,” Gellman agreed. “And that’s fuck off, sir.”

  Ryan felt a surge of rage so powerful that he tottered forward before regaining control of himself. “Fuck off, sir.”

  “I can't go yet,” Gellman told him, bluntly. “You have to return to duty.”

  Ryan couldn't help himself. He started to giggle.

  “You have got to be out of your mind,” he said, when he’d finished. “Do you know what’s happened to me?”

  Gellman scowled. “Do you know what happened to Captain Yates? Captain Benton? Or Major Shaw? Or Colonel Stewart?”

  Ryan could guess. “Dead?”

  “All save Shaw,” Gellman said. “The poor bastard will probably never walk again. He’s one of the few buggers who can't take regenerated bodily organs.”

  “I’ve lost my organ,” Ryan protested. “They can't expect me to go back to duty.”

  “You can have your dick regrown once you get back home,” Gellman said, bluntly. “And you will, which is more than can be said for Shaw. Right now, you can walk and you can fight and that means you can be slotted back into the army. We are critically short on experienced officers.”

  “Because most of them were killed, sir,” Ryan said,

  Gellman didn't bother to deny it. Instead, he walked over to the cabinet and threw it open, revealing a clean uniform and fresh underwear. “Get dressed,” he ordered. “Or stay here and eventually be arrested for dereliction of duty. You’ll be put in front of a wall and shot.”

  Ryan scowled, but did as he was told. He couldn't resist removing his gown right in front of Gellman, just to see how he’d react, but the older man showed no visible reaction to the gruesome sight. The uniform felt unnatural against his bare skin, after fighting for so long in a sweaty uniform that had probably been burned; he checked his belt, instinctively, and discovered that the pistol had been removed. No doubt someone had worried about him blowing his own head off after discovering he’d lost his manhood ...

  He stared down at the floor as he finished buttoning up his jacket. His entire body was threatening to shake. He’d been through uncounted skirmishes on Thule, from brief ambushes to house-clearance operations, yet now ... yet now he felt as if he had lost his nerve once and for all. The thought of going back on the front lines, of going back into combat, scared him more than he cared to admit. His hands were shaking ... angrily, he fought to bring them under control, knowing it would only be a matter of time before they started to shake again. Part of him was almost tempted to stay where he was and risk getting shot. At least that would put an end to the whole affair.

  “I’m sorry,” Gellman said, awkwardly. “If it was up to me ...”

  “If it was up to me, I would never have come here,” Ryan snarled. “How many did we lose?”

  Gellman said nothing. Ryan rounded on him. “How many?”

  “Around twenty thousand,” Gellman admitted. “Perhaps more, if some of the wounded die.”

  Ryan shuddered. He hadn't known everyone who’d landed on Corinthian, but he had known everyone in his company. Old sweats who’d been happy to help the stupid greenie lieutenant, young maggots scared out of their minds and trying not to show it ... he’d known them all. And now they were gone, leaving him the last survivor. He wondered if that meant he had to write the formal letters, now he was the senior officer. What the hell was he going to tell the mothers, fathers, wives and children? Their young men would never come home.

  He said nothing as Gellman led him out the door and down a long corridor. The building had probably been a school, before the war; the corridors were lined with drawings that were very definitely childish. There were hundreds of wounded men, some lying on the floor and others sitting in chairs several sizes too small for them; he was glad, despite himself, that he couldn't see any of the locals. He’d saved at least one local girl from being molested, yet it hadn't stopped her comrades from taking his manhood ... burning hatred flared through him as they walked down the stairs and stepped out into the remains of Cheshire. The town was crammed with armoured vehicles, emplaced weapons and soldiers strolling everywhere.

  Should have just nuked the place, he thought, nastily. Why play war when we could just crush the defenders and keep moving?

  A shuttle roared overhead as it dropped down towards the FOB. Ryan wondered, as Gellman led him to an AFV, why he hadn't been moved to the FOB itself. There was supposed to be better medical care there. No doubt the REMFs in their shiny uniforms were unwilling t
o gaze upon a wounded soldier. If they’d had problems with men in field uniforms striding around the FOB, and they had, he dreaded to think what they would make of him now. If he walked around naked ...

  The thought depressed him as they climbed into the AFV, which set off as soon as the hatch was slammed closed. Ryan had ridden in hundreds of the vehicles on Thule, but he couldn't help finding this one uniquely depressing. The driver said nothing to the officers, chatting only to the escorts as the small convoy headed back towards the FOB. They were constantly alert, Ryan noted, which didn't bode well for the war. If the enemy had managed to sneak into a gunnery position and blow the guns - and their crews - to hell, they’d have no problems sneaking through the forest and sniping at exposed soldiers. A single bullet pinged off the armour as they moved onwards, the machine gun answering the challenge with overwhelming firepower. Ryan couldn’t help thinking it was a poor exchange.

  He looked at Gellman as depression threatened to overcome him. “What’s happening at the far end?”

  “You’ll get a new command,” Gellman said. “But there may be something else to do first.”