“Yes, after being killed several times over,” he snarled. “Do you think soldiers come back to life on the battlefield?”
He scowled as he blew the whistle, terminating the exercise. If there had been time to set up an actual blockhouse, he’d have used it to illustrate what they needed to know ... but there hadn't been any time. The experienced men understood what sort of meatgrinder they’d be facing, yet the raw recruits - and former REMFs - were treating the whole thing as a game, one they could walk away from at will. They’d have been wiped out to a man within the first five minutes, he was sure, if the pretend blockhouse had been real. As it was, they didn't really comprehend the danger of a series of blockhouses covering one another.
“That was fucking awful,” he bellowed. Even as a lieutenant, he’d left the shouting to Sergeant Rove. But Rove was dead and no one had sent him a replacement. The bastards didn't give a shit if his scratch company lived or died. “You’d all be fucking dead if that was fucking real, you idiots!”
He glared at them. “It doesn't matter if your uniforms are muddy,” he snarled, lowering his voice slightly. “All that matters is staying alive! The bastards had you perfectly targeted the moment you ran forward, a single sweep of machine gun fire would be enough to tear you to shreds! You’ve seen the damned mass grave, haven’t you? Do you want to end up in something just like it?”
The thought made him shudder. His former unit - even the captain - had been buried in the pit. Every recovered body had been dumped into the pit, rather than bagged up and saved for transport back home. It was just something else to resent, to mull over in the darkness of the night, when drink wasn't enough to numb the pain of his existence. The Admiral and the General seemed to believe it was more sporting to let the enemy kill his men, but they were happy to deny them a proper burial afterwards. He shuddered again, bitterly, and dragged himself back to reality. The men before him were going to die if they didn't learn the lessons he had to teach them.
“We’re going on the offensive soon,” he added, loudly. They’d been warned they would be moving to jump-off positions as soon as night fell, suggesting the offensive would begin in the morning. Ryan hoped desperately they weren't planning to launch a night offensive. It would be unbelievable chaotic. “If you don’t learn these lessons by then, you’ll wind up dead!”
But you don’t really care, a thought whispered at the back of his mind. Do you?
He pushed it aside, angrily. “Dismissed,” he bellowed. “Grab some food, then get your supplies for the offensive. Anyone not ready to jump off will be in deep shit!”
Lieutenant Gordon gave him a sharp look. “Do you have to keep swearing, sir?”
Ryan laughed, bitterly. “Do I look like a Drill Sergeant?”
He went on before Lieutenant Gordon could say a word. “These men have hardly any idea of what they’re going to face,” he snarled. “They think they can just rewrite the damned rules in their favour, time and time again. And the rules don’t work like that! The enemy is going to eat them for breakfast!”
Lieutenant Gordon started to say something, but Ryan ignored him as a low rumble announced the arrival of a large troop of Landsharks, followed by boxy vehicles that looked like mobile missile launchers. He wondered, nastily, just how the tankers were coping with the brave new world. They’d been walking around in fancy uniforms on Thule, secure in the knowledge that nothing could hurt them, sneering at the infantrymen who’d cleared up the rubble after the tanks had passed through. But now over a hundred so-called invulnerable tanks had been destroyed in the fighting.
I might have been badly wounded but I survived, he thought. They won’t survive a missile exploding inside their armour or being gunned down when they try to flee.
“Well,” he said. He made a show of glancing at his watch. “Only fifteen hours to live, Lieutenant Gordon. Only fifteen hours to live.”
***
“They’re out there,” Angel breathed. “I can sense them.”
“Smell them, more likely,” Emmanuel said. He wasn't sure just what the Wolves had used to clear the area of foliage, but the smell wafted over to them every time the wind changed. “I think they’re getting ready to attack.”
He smiled at the panicky look in her eyes as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, leaving a faint glow from the position of the enemy lines. A night attack was possible, but Colonel Stalker had said it was unlikely. The enemy would be charging right into the teeth of their fire - again - in darkness. Even the best night vision gear would have trouble coping with the scene. But tomorrow ... Emmanuel had no doubt that tomorrow would see the next and final battle for Freedom City.
“There should be a good story in this for someone,” he said. He’d recorded dozens of interviews and shot hours upon hours of footage ... if he didn't return home, one of the editors would take the reports and turn them into a coherent story. “I was sure to record your good side, of course.”
Angel gave him a sidelong look. “Did you?”
“I’m sure you will have a very big role in the flick,” Emmanuel said, deadpan. He waved a hand towards the enemy lines. “Someone is going to make a movie of this, Angel; it’ll be an uplifting story of heroism and human sacrifice, no matter who wins.”
“Watching us all die wouldn't be very uplifting,” Angel muttered. “The Wolves will still have won, won’t they?”
Emmanuel shrugged. He’d interviewed a handful of the prisoners and they’d all been fairly demoralised, after watching hundreds of their comrades killed for nothing. If their attitudes were spreading through the rest of the enemy forces, it was quite possible that the entire edifice would collapse sooner rather than later. But no one knew better than a reporter just how easy it was to block news from spreading off-planet. Admiral Singh would do everything in her power to keep her enemies from learning the truth.
We’ll be telling them, he thought, as the darkness deepened. There were flickers of light in the distance as the enemy hurled a handful of shells into the city, but otherwise the night was quiet. A ship sneaking into one of their systems could broadcast a message, then run before anyone can catch up with them.
“This could be our last night alive,” Angel said, softly.
Emmanuel had to fight down a laugh. How many times had he heard that line on bad romantic flicks? One of the things he loved about Jasmine was that she was always ruthlessly practical. Romance wasn't something either of them enjoyed. She might die at any moment on duty, while he might be caught up in something he was trying to turn into a story and brutally killed. And as pretty as Angel was, he didn't find her appealing. There was something about her that bothered him.
“Yes, it could be,” he said. “Why?”
Angel met his eyes. “Come to bed with me,” she said. “No one will ever know.”
Emmanuel hesitated. Maybe he’d done her an injustice. If she’d reached her current post through sleeping with her superiors, she’d hardly need to try to lure him into bed. Or maybe it was a gesture of defiance against her superiors by choosing her own bedmate. Or maybe he’d just been wrong all along. Jasmine was unusual even by the standards of most female soldiers he’d met.
“I’d know,” he said, quietly. “And I do have a girlfriend.”
He shook his head. “Go find someone,” he urged her. “I’ll be here for a while, then I’ll go back to the bunker to get some sleep. Tomorrow may be our last day alive.”
Angel smiled, rather wanly, and turned and walked off. Emmanuel smiled after her, then returned to staring out of the window towards enemy lines. The night was quiet, but the stench of defoliant still hung in the air. It seemed to be growing warmer too, or maybe that was just his imagination. The coming battle would be utterly savage.
He looked past the enemy camp, into the wilderness. Jasmine was out there somewhere, he was sure, although Colonel Stalker hadn't given him very many details. The enemy FOB was apparently impregnable, he’d said; Jasmine and her team would be of better service imped
ing the enemy when they launched their final attack. He hoped, desperately, that she would survive the coming struggle. It had been too long since he’d held her in his arms ...
And yet I might not survive tomorrow either, he thought, grimly. Part of him was tempted to hurry after Angel, just to see if the offer was still open; he told that part of him to shut up. It was a natural reaction to the prospect of imminent death, but still annoying. It might be the last day for all of us.
Chapter Thirty-Five
And smaller factors can play a role. Did your enemy CO pay his men? Did your enemy CO allow them leave? Does he allow bullying to thrive within the ranks or does he crack down on it? Does he reward men who use their minds or does he see them as threats?
- Professor Leo Caesius. The Role of Randomness In War.
“It’s time, sir,” Colonel Travis said.
Mark nodded, slowly. The sun was already peeking over the horizon. He'd repeatedly considered a night attack, but his forces were already brittle. There just hadn’t been time to reform the old units, train the newcomers and generally overcome the scars left by the last defeat. He’d taken every precaution he could, dragged up ideas from so far in the past that hardly anyone remembered them ... and yet he knew he was gambling everything on one last throw of the dice.
But the enemy must feel the same way too, he thought. Their return fire had been sporadic, their counterattacks limited. Even given the opportunity to crush a handful of raiding parties, they’d been content merely to chase the raiders away from the defence lines. Their ammunition must be on the verge of running out.
He looked down at the chart, silently contemplating the enemy defences. There was far less detail than he preferred, even after a couple of unwary guards had been abducted and interrogated by his men. He’d learned more by debriefing the survivors of the first assault than by drawing answers from the prisoners. And yet, it was far from hopeless. The defence lines looked solid, but he knew that couldn't be the case. They’d already cracked one defence line during the first battle.
And he was woolgathering.
He scowled as he turned to face Colonel Travis. There was no way in hell he wanted to send his men back into that inferno. The defenders might only have enough ammunition to hold out for half an hour - he certainly intended to make them expend as much as possible - but it would be more than long enough for them to butcher thousands of men. Admiral Singh might win the battle, only to go back to Wolfbane and discover that even the normally cynical corporate overlords drew the line at victories that came at such a high cost. Who knew what would happen when the next world was invaded? That damned shield could hardly be unique. In their place, Mark would have tried to produce a shield that would protect an entire world.
And if that happens, he thought, it will change everything.
Colonel Travis met his eyes. “Sir?”
Mark sighed. “Contact the forward units,” he said. “They are to begin the bombardment as planned.”
***
Mindy rubbed her tired eyes as she peered out of the bunker, towards the blackened and broken soil some wag had started to call No Man’s Land. The bodies might have been removed, thankfully, but it was still strewn with the remains of enemy tanks and various other assault vehicles. They provided a great deal of cover to anyone who wanted to sneak up on the defenders, Mindy thought, yet all attempts to clear them out of the firing lines had been unsuccessful. The enemy, as aware of their advantage as the defenders were of their weakness, had fired on anyone who tried to remove even one of the wrecks. It just created another problem for the defenders.
“There’s no sign of them,” one of the soldiers breathed. “Maybe they’re not coming.”
“Maybe they’re just getting out of bed and into position,” Sergeant Rackham snapped. “They don’t have to launch a dawn attack.”
Mindy nodded in quiet agreement. All the signs pointed to a major offensive being planned; the overnight shelling had been intensified, the sound of vehicles could be heard drifting out of the darkness and reports from observation posts warned that more and more enemy soldiers were being marched down from their base to their jump-off positions. And yet, it was quiet out across No Man’s Land. A cool breeze wafted across the land, bringing with it the stench of defoliant and dead bodies. No one gagged now, not after a month of exposure to the stench. She wondered, absently, if it meant something was badly wrong with them.
But we’re in trouble too, she thought. Perhaps we should be glad they’re planning to attack.
She cursed herself for even thinking it, yet she knew she was right. Discipline was harshly enforced in the CEF, but she’d heard of discontent and even near-mutinies among the local troops. Their militiamen hadn't expected anything more than patrols and perhaps a parade or two, before Admiral Singh returned to Corinthian. A few more weeks of being under siege would be enough to allow the Wolves to win, without throwing themselves into the teeth of her fire. Freedom City might be able to feed itself, but it couldn't do anything about the shortage of ammunition or the growing mass of wounded who couldn't be given anything like enough medical help. The Wolves had flatly refused to allow the wounded to be transported out of the city.
Bastards, she thought. They know the wounded put a strain on our resources.
She glanced up, sharply, as she heard gunfire echoing across No Man’s Land. The Wolves had started their bombardment, directing their shells into the city. She braced herself, just as the first shells came down on top of the bunker. It shook violently, dust falling from the roof and dancing in the light, but the concrete held. The enemy didn't seem to have changed their shells from HE to something more suitable.
“Hold your positions,” Sergeant Rackham ordered, as more and more explosions shook the complex. “You don’t want to let them get any closer than necessary.”
Mindy nodded. She’d read the reports from the men and women who’d survived the first offensive. The enemy had often managed to get close to blockhouses, then roll grenades through firing slits to clear the way. It had been successful, very successful. Sergeant Rackham had even organised the platoon on the assumption that the enemy would try the same trick twice, keeping half the men in reserve to intercept anyone who broke into the bunker. She wondered, given how close she was to the firing slit, if she would survive long enough to see it, then pushed the thought aside. There was no point in fretting about it now.
“It’s slacking off,” one of the soldiers muttered. “They’re running out of ammunition.”
“They’re hurling their shells further into the city,” Sergeant Rackham corrected. “They’ll be trying to target the shield generator.”
Mindy paled as his words sank in. If the shield fell, they’d die within seconds. The Wolves would drop KEWs from orbit until the defence line had been smashed to rubble, then waltz in and take the rest of the city. She was tempted to run, but there was nowhere to go. Running north would take her straight into the enemy lines, running south would merely get her deeper into the city. And besides, she was damned if she was abandoning her squad. Mandy would never let her live it down.
Good thing you’re not here, she thought, as the enemy shells continued to fall. Most of them would be hacked out of the air by the laser point defence stations, but statistically a number would get through and hit the ground. It would only take one lucky shot to put the shield generator out of commission. At least mum and dad will have one surviving daughter.
***
“They’re firing into the city,” Gwendolyn said.
Ed cursed. The enemy had to know that most of their shells didn't have a hope of finding a target, but they weren't being expended uselessly. He had to protect the shield generator, even if it meant exposing the defence lines to the enemy gunners. HE shells weren't that much of a problem - his men knew to stay under cover - yet he rather doubted the enemy would keep throwing HE shells. The Wolves had shown a disgusting willingness to innovate over the last few months. It wouldn't be hard to
come up with something designed to punch through the bunkers, one by one ...
He wanted to cover his men. But the cold equations demanded otherwise.
“Order the point defence units to protect the shield generator,” he ordered, coolly. “They are to put its safety above all else, even their own protection.”
“Yes, sir,” Gwendolyn said.
Ed watched as she turned back to her console, then glanced at the constantly updating display. Enemy shells were coming down all over the city, striking targets at random; he watched in numb horror as a skyscraper shuddered, then toppled over. The falling building slammed into another building, knocking it over too. Ed couldn't tear his eyes away, half-expecting the collapsing skyscrapers to trigger a chain reaction of falling buildings, but it didn't spread any further.
They Shall Not Pass (The Empire's Corps Book 12) Page 35