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

by Christopher Nuttall

  Ryan had to fight down the urge to start giggling, again. He would have a new command. If he’d been promoted - and he doubted the doctor would make such a mistake - he’d probably be given a company. Perhaps he’d be put in command of one of the penal units, a death sentence by any other name. Or perhaps they’d just pin a worthless medal on his chest before sending him back out to die. The thought of facing the enemy once again was terrifying. He couldn't help thinking that his nerve had died with the rest of his men.

  The vehicle lurched, then came to a halt. Ryan stood as the hatch banged open and followed Gellman out into the FOB. Someone was very paranoid, he noted; the AFV had stopped within a wired compartment, isolated from the remainder of the FOB. A chemical stench floated through the air, strong enough to make him gag; outside the FOB, he could see tracts of wasteland that had once been trees and forests. The hillside he recalled from their first landing was just a blackened ruin, as if fire had swept over it so intensely that nothing had been left alive. There were clear fields of fire in all directions, he saw, as the guards poked and prodded at his body before allowing him to pass. He couldn’t quite keep the resentment off his face at their attitude. Where the hell had they been while he’d been fighting for his life?

  “This way,” Gellman said, as they were finally waved through the gates. “I’ll need to check in with HQ first.”

  “Of course, sir,” Ryan said.

  The FOB had expanded massively since his last visit, although - in all honesty - he hadn't been paying much attention to anything beyond the brothel and the bars. Countless warehouses had sprung into existence and countless vehicles were buzzing around, carting crates of supplies from the landing pads to the convoy assembly points. He shuddered in disgust as he saw some of the REMFs, walking along without a care in the world. Their nice clean uniforms had never seen combat, he was sure, any more than they’d seen it themselves. They probably hadn't even come under long-range mortar fire!

  He glared at a pair of uniformed women who walked past them and had the pleasure of seeing them flinch. Women were rare in the combat branches, he knew; they were probably logistics officers or clerks, rather than anything useful. Their uniforms were so neatly tailored that he could just guess why they’d been assigned to Corinthian. No doubt they worked on their backs or on their knees, instead of crawling through trenches or even sitting in front of a desk. He glanced behind him to see the two woman hurrying away, as if they’d come face to face with a wild animal. Once, it would have bothered him; now, he no longer cared. The useless REMFs had no conception of what he’d faced.

  “Here we are,” Gellman said, with forced cheerfulness. They stopped outside a large building and waited, patiently, for the guards to check them once again. “We’ll probably have to wait until the CO is ready to see us.”

  “Joy,” Ryan muttered.

  Gellman was right, he discovered as soon as they were shown into a waiting room. It was crammed with REMFs in fancy uniforms, all looking as if they’d just stepped off a recruiting poster. Ryan wondered if they’d run for their lives if he started growling, then forced himself to sit and wait as long as it took. And yet he found himself more and more aware of the bastards looking at him, as if they were wondering what he was doing here. He felt cold hatred flaring within his breast, demanding an outlet ...

  “Major Gellman, Captain Osborne,” a woman’s voice called.

  Ryan allowed himself a moment of relief as Gellman led him through a door, following the woman. She had a nice ass, he noted; it was a relief, despite everything, to know he could still be interested. And yet, he could do nothing. His body twitched ... he slowed to a halt, suddenly unwilling to walk any further. Court martial and summary execution seemed a great deal better than remaining where he was, a frail shadow of a man.

  “Come on,” Gellman said. “Not long to go now.”

  The woman turned to face them, her eyes wide. Ryan felt a surge of sudden hatred, a mad impulse to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze. It was all he could do to remain still. Horror ran through his mind as he followed Gellman into the General’s office. He hadn't been like this before, had he? He’d never even considered lashing out at someone, even a REMF, before the battle. What had happened to him?

  “Captain Osborne,” General Haverford said. Ryan had to force himself to remember to salute. “I’m sorry about your loss.”

  Ryan bit his tongue, hard, to keep from saying something he’d be made to regret. The General’s uniform was as clean and tidy as every other uniform he’d seen inside the wire, where there was no danger of sudden death or prolonged mutilation. He'd seen actual combat, Ryan recalled, but he didn't look like a combat soldier. He hadn’t even been under the shield, when the battle had begun. No, he’d been safe and warm in the FOB.

  “If it were up to me, you’d be placed on inactive duty until you were fully healed,” the General said. “You were the only survivor of your company. But I need you here and now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ryan grunted. He wondered, briefly, if he could snap the General’s neck before Gellman could stop him. But that would just put an even more useless REMF in command of the operation. “I understand.”

  The General studied him for a long moment. Ryan stood still, finding it hard to care if he’d gone over the line or not. Death would be almost welcome. He couldn't bear the thought of going back into combat. And yet, cold hatred surged through him as he realised he was looking at the architect of the battle, the man who’d thought that throwing twenty thousand men into the teeth of enemy fire was somehow a good idea. There would be an opportunity to avenge the dead, if only he waited long enough. He was damned if he was blindly following orders any longer.

  “We are developing new weapons to hammer the enemy positions and break through to the shield generator,” the General said, finally. “Hopefully, we can clear our way through them with less casualties. Before then, I want you to take command of one of the reconstituted companies and prepare them for the attack.”

  At least it’s not a penal battalion, Ryan thought.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said. He didn't mean it; he rather suspected General Haverford knew he didn't mean it. The man must be really short on qualified officers. “I’ll take command of the company at once.”

  “A different issue, first,” General Haverford said. “An officer lost control of his men two hours ago, Captain. They killed a great many enemy prisoners and were about to gang-rape many more. How should they be punished?”

  Ryan scowled. The old Ryan would have been horrified. Atrocities - and word of the atrocity would probably have swept around the planet by now - only made it harder to win civilian hearts and minds. The guilty had to be punished. Worse, they had to be seen to be punished. But now, he found it hard to care. Let Corinthian be swept clean of life. The planet wasn't worth a single dead soldier.

  “Throw them into the penal units, sir,” he said, finally. It was the right answer, even though it wasn't what he wanted to say. “They’ll have their chance to redeem themselves or die.”

  “I may have to hand the senior surviving officer over to the locals,” the General mused, slowly. “They’ll demand the right to try him.”

  “That would be a betrayal, sir,” Ryan said, before he could stop himself. “You’d be giving us up to the enemy.”

  “Yes,” the General agreed. “The Admiral said the same thing - and more besides. But atrocities like that aren't going to make us popular.”

  “We are never going to be popular,” Ryan said, bluntly. The rage flared up in him again, so strong it was hard to think clearly. “They are going to hate us for thousands of years. But let them hate, as long as they fear.”

  The General blinked. “I’ll take it under advisement,” he said. “Dismissed, Captain.”

  Gellman elbowed him, outside. “You do realise you would probably have had a seat on the court martial board if you’d kept your mouth shut?”

  “I don’t care,” Ryan said, bl
untly. He’d spoken rudely to a General. That wasn’t a mere prank like stealing weapons or selling information to the insurgents. “All I want to do is get this damned war over and done with.”

  “Fine,” Gellman said. He didn't seem inclined to argue further. “Your orders should be waiting for you downstairs.”

  “Then let’s go get them,” Ryan said. “Shall we?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Furthermore, such concerns apply at all levels of warfare. A competent junior officer might be betrayed by his cowardly superiors, while a competent general officer might lose a battle because his juniors stopped to loot halfway to the battlefield.

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

  Mark watched Captain Osborne leave the office with a profound feeling of dissatisfaction. It was obvious, blatantly obvious, that Osborne was on the verge of cracking up. Mark couldn't imagine what it was like to be castrated, particularly in such a manner, but he was sure it had to be traumatic. In an ideal world, Osborne would have had his manhood regrown long before he’d been allowed to wake up, or placed on medical leave until he was deemed fit to return to duty, if he didn't take a medical discharge. But Osborne was one of the few experienced officers to survive the battle, one of the few who could be put in command of the reconstituted units. There was no time to allow him to recover.

  And he might not survive long enough to go on leave afterwards, he thought, as his intercom buzzed. If he’s that badly wounded inside ...

  He sighed, then tapped the switch. “Haverford.”

  “Sir, this is Tallinn,” a voice said. “I have Lieutenant Pella here, as you ordered.”

  “Bring him in,” Mark said. “Now.”

  He’d taken the opportunity to glance at Lieutenant Pella’s file while waiting for the meeting, but there had been little there of interest. Lieutenant Pella was too young, really; he should never have been kicked up a grade without some additional seasoning. But the battlefield was no respecter of high ranks, he knew, and Pella had been given responsibilities he was ill-prepared to handle. Captain Rask too, coming to think of it. The man had been a lieutenant before being promoted, after the battle. He’d needed more seasoning too.

  But Rask is dead, he thought, as a young man - his hands cuffed behind him - was marched through the door, escorted by two burly MPs. Pella didn't look old enough to shave, Mark thought; his baby face probably hadn't made it any easier to impress his authority on the troops. And he probably hadn't had the nerve to contradict Rask either. Pella is the senior survivor, the one we can hang.

  “Pella,” he said, flatly. “What were you thinking?”

  Pella stared at him, his eyes wide. “Rask ... Rask said they deserved it!”

  “Did he?” Mark said. “Are you aware that ordering the mass slaughter of two-thirds of a town’s population and the gang-rape of the remaining third is an illegal order?”

  He sighed, inwardly. Pella probably didn't know. He’d been recruited after the collapse, when Wolfbane had been concentrating on building up as large an army as possible. There hadn't been time to go over all the little niceties, particularly after the endless pile of red tape the Imperial Army forced upon its subordinates. The training officers, men who’d had to endure well-meaning interference from ignorant idiots, had probably thrown out some of the babies along with the bathwater. And Pella hadn't served on Thule. Corinthian was his first taste of combat.

  “He said they were rebels, sir,” Pella said. “And Sergeant Davidson agreed with him.”

  “Davidson is dead,” Mark snapped. “Rask is dead. You’re the one holding the bag, Lieutenant.”

  He took a moment to clear his thoughts. “Tell me what happened,” he ordered. “Start from the beginning and leave nothing out.”

  Pella paled. “We were thrown together after the battle,” he said. “There were two companies glued together, with survivors from a dozen other units that were disbanded. I ... Captain Rask gave me a platoon and told me - told us - that we would be going on a search and destroy mission. He said we’d be doing something to make sure the insurgents never threatened us again. He told us that we were going to destroy the town and punish the population for supporting insurgents.”

  “And you did nothing,” Mark said, when Pella had finished. “Why not?”

  “I was angry and scared,” Pella admitted.

  Mark groaned. It wasn't uncommon for soldiers on counter-insurgency duty to start loathing the local population, sometimes more than they loathed the insurgents themselves. Weeks of dealing with gormless morons who said nothing, yet went running to the insurgents as soon as the soldiers looked away, took its toll. It was impossible to accept that the locals had little choice when one was coming under attack, day after day. He’d worked hard to prevent atrocities on Thule, but there had been quite a few minor incidents. And yet, none of them quite matched what Captain Rask had set out to do.

  And Pella was too scared to either stand up to him or scream to the MPs, he thought. And now he stands condemned as the senior survivor.

  “Fuck it,” he said, flatly.

  He gritted his teeth. Relatively isolated atrocities on Thule could be handled without reference to outside authorities, let alone the enemy forces. But here, with the enemy already aware of what had happened ... the last thing he wanted was a series of atrocities and counter-atrocities. The enemy might start targeting hospitals as well as barracks, medical supplies as well as ammunition carts. And yet, his own forces were already on the verge of breaking. If he cracked down too hard, he risked mutiny - or worse.

  “The men under your command will be assigned to the standard one month of service in the penal battalions,” he said, flatly. “If they survive, they will be returned to their previous ranks without any stain on their records. You, however, will face a significantly worse punishment. You will be hung this afternoon as a warning to others who might go the same way.”

  Pella stared at him. “Sir ...”

  Mark nodded, curtly. Admiral Singh had flatly refused to allow him to hand Pella over to the locals, pointing out that Pella might know all sorts of useful titbits. There was no choice, but to execute the young man. And yet it wasn't fair. Pella hadn't planned the mass slaughter; he’d merely been unable to stop it. If, of course, he’d wanted to stop it. Captain Rusk might not have had to argue very hard to talk Pella into compromising himself.

  “You will have the next few hours to do whatever you want to do, before you die,” he said, flatly. “But you will die.”

  He nodded to the guards, who swung a dazed Pella around and frogmarched him out of the office. Mark sat back in his chair, feeling an odd mixture of guilt and shame. He was the army’s commanding officer, the one who bore ultimate responsibility for its successes and failures. Pella should not have been promoted, any more than his dead superior. But now all he could do was cope with the situation the bastard had left him.

  A good thing Captain Rusk died, he thought, darkly. I would have killed him personally, if I could.

  He forced the thought aside as he keyed his terminal, pulling up the death warrant. He’d never used the authority to kill one of his men before, even though he’d been familiar with the procedure from the Imperial Army. Indeed, he couldn't recall ever being involved in a case where any officer had used it. There were just too many legal quibbles over sentencing someone to death without a court martial or external investigation. The relatives of the dead man might sue ...

  Which isn't going to happen on Wolfbane, he thought. And if his relatives are unlucky, they’ll be hit with the bill for the bullets too.

  ***

  Danielle frowned as she read the message. “Do you believe this?”

  Colonel Stalker scowled. “I don't know,” he said, finally. “They had the hanging witnessed by a prisoner, who was then granted parole and permitted to return to the city, but it could easily have been a trick of some kind.”

  “They’re playing with fire,” Hampton observ
ed.

  “They killed over ninety people and were about to rape fifty more,” Danielle said. She'd thought herself used to horror, but destroying an entire town ... it was unthinkable. “How do we know they killed the right person?”

  “They didn't,” Colonel Stalker said, flatly. “The original report we received from our people stated that the officer commanding was killed by sniper fire, along with a number of other Wolves. The person they hung was probably the senior surviving officer.”

  Danielle looked down at the images. “And now ... what?”

  “There’s nothing we can do,” Colonel Stalker said. “Right now, there’s no one to retaliate against even if we wanted to. The Wolves have killed one of their own as a sacrifice, both to appease us - I think - and to restore discipline among their ranks. I think we should accept it and move on.”

  “We could demand they handed someone over to us,” Danielle said. It galled her to know that the person responsible would escape justice. But then, he was dead. “Would they concede the point?”