Königstiger: Odin's Warriors - Book 3
Page 23
When legionnaires found out the Germans were exempt, that their dead were somehow more worthier than their own hallowed fallen, relations hit the floor.
Gunship autocannons with the help of the gunships targeting systems tracked each projectile and fired a single metal slug at a velocity of 7,000 metres a second, striking the shell overhead and detonating. But for every ten shells that exploded midair, three or four managed to find their way screaming into the midst of the defenders. Great clouds of black dust and smoke fountained upwards at each shell strike, six days and nights of paralysing explosions.
The Gruder Mark IV didn't fly any more, the sensor suites on the Nordic gunship more than sufficient. If the enemy gun pieces remained static, the intelligence being procured would be more than sufficient to direct Republic and German artillery and pummel them out right.
But the artillery pieces kept moving. Attached to the back of bigger ken-korels, they denied the enemy. Rob, still learning the systems, started using computer algorithms to try and predict their movements, anticipate them, and fire their own artillery barrage is in anticipation. It met with some success, then that faded, as the daemons adapted a more chaotic firing sequence.
For five days, the dropped mines kept the daemons contained. Eventually, holes appeared, gaps in the genetic sniffing cluster munitions, and the Korel seized this opportunity. Waves and waves of daemons crossed no man's land, in fits and starts, testing the defences. Expending their ammunition. Not enough to compromise a major assault, but nevertheless had to be dealt with.
The armoured knights positioned themselves across the front lines, and dealt with those remaining enemy which made it to the very last line of defence in hand-to-hand combat. Griffin, Mick, Beowulf, and Magnus, slept in their power armour, or more to the point, power napped, the sentient suits waking them when proximity alerts triggered.
On the far side of the hill, Ella and Laurie patrolled the northern defences, having dug out most of the new trenches themselves, as the wild daemons, as Laurie now categorised them, swept in from the north. Not even remotely in same numbers as those south of them, but just as dangerous. If it wasn't for their arrival and the gunships astounding ability to detect ground and airborne targets, from quarter of a world away, Laurie had informed both Sarah and that bloody commander of the Germans, they would have been overrun from the rear within days. Not even that.
Ella did not want to leave visual range of her daughter's war machine, as Amelia was confined for her own protection inside the gunship, along with the daemon she’d swore an oath to protect. The Queen Valkjur worried her. It worried everybody. The only person it opened for was a child not even ten. Ella could swear on her mother's grave that the Queen sure was having a temper tantrum. Seismic tremors issued from the ground underneath it, such was its rage. Or its perceived rage. Amelia said the suit was angry, at last being brought out into the glory of war and light, and found the child of Odin was not blooded, and therefore could not unlock offensive capabilities.
The child of Odin was not blooded. Ella didn't want to even consider the possibilities of what that inferred. She absentmindedly ripped every single limb off the daemon in front of her, dropped the pieces in the pool of green, and resumed her patrol, stomping all the way.
ON THE SEVENTH DAY, Laurie swapped with Rodriguez, up to that point tasked with guarding the gunship, and tried to get some rest. Running back and forth every bloody minute, even with an augmented exoskeleton, wore an old man down. The suit filtered out most of the explosions, but Laurie still felt the subsonic vibrations through the ground with every artillery burst, whether up in the air or down on the ground. Peace. Just five minutes of peace. That is all I want.
Soldiers of the Republic gave him a wide berth, terrified of the imposing armour. German soldiers in battleship grey uniforms muttered as they walked past, knees sagging as they carried crates of ammunition and supplies back down the hill, to where the top of the trench system began. And just like the head he had chucked towards the German major, he didn't need to understand the language to know its intent. Here he was, safe as houses, in these fearsome suits of armour, not suffering like them.
The suns had been up for a few hours, allegedly anyway. Every passing day was more of the same. Dark grey, roiling thunder storms traversed the skies, threatening rain, but never did. The electrical storms sparked from horizon to horizon.
Laurie set the suit’s systems to standby, notified the Aries, engaged the proximity alert, and set the alarm to wake him in forty-five minutes. And being an seasoned, veteran soldier, Laurie fell asleep standing upright, in moments.
Dark, ugly dreams assailed him. He awoke, the alarm activating chemicals in his nervous system. The details of the dreams faded.
"Captain," said Andrew over the intercom, "hope you enjoyed your sleep. I think we have a problem with morale."
"No shit. Anything specific?
"Legionnaire commanders on the eastern section are reporting manipulars refusing to fight. It's not confined to the Republic either. Ella is listening in to the German two-way communications. There are widespread accounts of gun crews refusing to leave their bunkers and man their weapons, anything involving being out in open air, Captain."
Fuck. You can be taken halfway across the galaxy, to a brand-new world, and still, war never changes.
"Thanks Andrew. I'll go take care of it. Rob, you listening?"
"Sure am," said Rob.
"Good. I'm going to leave the armour here for a bit. If any alien does make it this far, it'll have the Aries’ systems to deal with, right?"
"Damn straight," said Rob.
"Okay." He activated the cockpit hatch, and the front butterflied open, and for the first time in the week, his feet, his real feet, kissed the ground. He closed the suit behind him, and stopped a group of Germans. Captain Lawrence John grabbed their shirts, and pointed at himself.
THE BOMBARDMENT SMOTHERED EVERYTHING. Those veterans from Earth who'd survived the Eastern Front experienced intense artillery barrages before, for sure, but never as long as this. Not even remotely. The rate of fire ebbed and flowed, as gun crews grew tired, or were rotated, or stole a few hours sleep. But not here. Nothing like this. For over one hundred and sixty non-stop hours, the stream of shells never stuttered. The dead littered the ground, their skin blue, from the burst blood vessels. Medics were hard pressed to recover the bodies, deluged by fear and exhaustion themselves.
The veterans of the Republic, seasoned, hardened warriors themselves, had not. Their baptism of fire was fresh, raw, new, and unending.
It made no difference in the end, whether one was from the Republic, or from Germany. The bombardment smothered everything in fear. Troops had to take turns looking over the top of their trenches, watching guard, peering through fire and smoke. Sticking their head up on top of the parapet, lying like a statue, keeping themselves there by pure willpower. Sheer fucking force of will. Their mates did, did their duty, and so would they. They stuck their heads up, and expose themselves to the fire storm of high explosives.
On the western flank, where the land met cliff faces tumbling down into the sea, the second platoon of the Sevenths anti-tank company bunkered down alongside the Twelfth’s Legionnaires. Three-hundred yards over the pounding waves to their right, wayward shells splashed into the ocean. Soldiers of both armies trembled, not wanting it to be their turn to take watch, a rain of dirt and debris falling upon their helmets. The cacophony of aural terror just kept on building up and up in your brain, unable to find a release, a safe exit.
The unbelievable happened.
An officer walked along the trench, the top of the trench, wearing a mixture of legionnaire's clothing and German army fatigues. A grey greatcoat set over his shoulders. He wore no helmet. In his right hand, he held a bastard sword, the blade shining blue. "Can't hurt you unless they hit you. Kann dich nicht verletzen, wenn sie dich nicht treffen." He kept repeating the same two phrases, over and over again. And cheery. Cheery, and
optimistic, walking the tightrope to hell.
And if he could walk up there, and live, then the soldiers in the trenches, in relative safety, then they could too, and the tension eased, and the fear retreated, like fog before the sun.
"Can't hurt you unless they hit you. Kann dich nicht verletzen, wenn sie dich nicht treffen." The man reached the end of the trench, at the edge of the cliff, sheathed his sword, undid his trouser zipper, and pissed over the abyss, an arc of urine sailing into the void as artillery shells detonated in crushing clumps all around and over. He finished peeing, shook himself a little bit, fastened his fly, took out his sword, gave the soldier closest to him a wink, then turned right around, and walked back along the top of the parapet, repeating the refrain. "Can't hurt you unless they hit you. Kann dich nicht verletzen, wenn sie dich nicht treffen." The awestruck soldiers watched him until he disappeared from view, silhouetted against the fires of madness, and started shouting at each other, in wonder and disbelief, as the Republic soldiers shared the legend of Captain John, Bezerker of Earth, and it didn't fucking matter if the Germans understood not a word.
The enemy spell was broken.
Chapter Fifty-Four
ON THE EIGHTH DAY
ON THE EIGHTH DAY, the barrage ceased, the silence deafening. Eardrums rang with hearing damage, soldiers blinked and shook their heads, almost unable to believe it. It was in the middle of the night, in the witching hours. Andrew jerked upright in the custom moulded seat. Low, trilling sirens flooded from his station. Rob woke from his sleep, also reclining in the chair.
"Rob," said Andrew, "are you seeing this?"
"Jesus damn," he said, eventually.
As systems officer of the Aries-class gunship, he had control of the most powerful communications system on Elysium. "We better wake everybody," he said. The entire solid red mass of aliens, was moving north out of the city.
"Not a coincidence the artillery stopped," said Rob. "Where's the Old Man?"
"Still walking the line," said Andrew, transfixed on the display. Andrew tried to contact him, but the Nordic equivalent of a Do Not Disturb message resulted. He changed frequencies, and contacted the command bunker.
BLISS. Absolute bliss. Strong hands worked the sore muscles on his legs and calves, from walking up and down that bloody line. He pulled a muscle in his upper groin somewhere along the way, on the third full trek across open ground, observing himself in a detached way, as if looking down on himself from above. Been more close calls than he could count, and his body showed the evidence for it. Cuts and nicks here and there, splinters of stone and wood buried into his flesh. The last time he'd walked the line, it was in Dardanelles, France, 1917, in the middle of an intense German barrage before their Kraut counter-attack. The CO copped a direct hit, the 155mm shell right in the trench, bodies tossed up like ragdolls, like windmilling stumpy forks, minus heads and limbs. He never knew what caused him to climb out of the trench that day, and walk the line, practising fear control.
It just had to be done. So, he did. Just like here, in Elysium, by showing that a man can walk along in open ground, and not be hit, as the artillery thundered an inferno of flame and paralysing raw sound, then one could be safe down the trench.
Was it insane to go up there? Probably. Was it an example of fatalism? No. Fear was an insidious killer. Just like depression, the black dog that never slept. Let it catch up to you once, and it would land those log-crushing jaws right on your arse and not let go.
So, it wasn't fatalism. He told Griffin that story, killing time on their long sea voyage out to the Emperor's Lair. Griffin said it wasn't fatalism. It was damn heroism. Laurie smiled at the memory.
And here he was. Pulling a muscle as he was walking past a legion of the First and Last, the Fifth Legionnaires. He recognised quite a few the faces, survivors of the death camp in the bowels of the Emperor's stronghold. And so, he jumped down into the trench, waving and saying hello, asking if there was a latrine nearby he could take a much-needed dump in. He finished his business, and was walking back to the front trench, whistling as he did, when a tall, muscular legionnaire stepped in front of him. He introduced himself as Linus Augusto, smiling as he did, extending his hand, Sub-Commander of the Fifth Legion. Survivor of that hell pit, and the best masseur in the First and Last.
"It would seem we owe you double," Linus said. "First of the rescue, and now helping my legionnaires. You hurt that muscle, we can see you favouring the other leg. Can't have an officer not in prime combat readiness. Care for a massage?" He smiled, his tanned, brown skin bulging with muscles and a hint of oil. Even with the dirt.
There was an heaven. Bliss. Walking up and down the trench, saying those two sentences over and over and over again, till his bloody voice went horse, Laurie had used the time to investigate the command module. Mostly, searching for an off button. There was no off button. It had been a dark moment indeed.
But the voice in the back of his mind said, in Amelia's singsong voice, you were getting sick and tired of not knowing anything! And now he knew everything. More than a human brain can handle. Careful what you wish for, because the universe has a fucking sick sense of humour.
He did however, discover the closest thing to an Off button the command module was equipped with. A warrior’s trance, a state of no mind that a warrior put himself in before battle. Crucially, it allowed Laurie to block Andrew contacting him with every damn little thing.
The ammunition dugout, whilst cramped, and full of wooden crates, with soldiers coming in and out constantly, was no Taj Mahal but on the impromptu table of used ammo crates, covered in bed rolls, and experienced hands working out the knots, life, thought Laurie, didn't get much better than this.
"Almost done," said Linus, pouring just a little more olive oil into his hands, and finished working on the upper thigh. Linus was astounded by the Captain. You can tell a lot about a person, by the stories written on their skin, scars, warts, and all, and by now, experienced old soldier as he was, had seen most of the First and Last working out their kinks.
The Captain was undressed down to his sawn-off long johns and combat boots, and he didn't seem to have an unblemished patch of skin left anywhere. Dozens of bullet holes, leaving pink and white shallow craters, shiny patches of skin from burns, blast burns, a plethora of stab and sword wounds, let alone the most obvious thing, was that down one side of his body, he resembled an albino spotted dog.
That would be the spike wounds caused by the daemons. Without that Nordic medical technology, Laurie and so many others of the First and Last wouldn't be breathing today.
"Got any family Linus?" said Laurie, feeling more limber and himself than he had in years.
"I did," said Linus. "A husband. Killed in action on Harmony Bay by an Inka tank. There you go Captain, all done."
Laurie grunted, and swung himself up, sitting on the edge of the crates, testing his leg. "Sorry to hear that, mate," he said. "A lot of good people died that day."
Laurie had been on Elysium so long now, he barely gave such a fact a second thought. What would have been an eyebrow raising, cultural curiosity back on Earth - but you're male! A husband! - was just a part of daily life here. And in that moment, Laurie knew he had found home. Griffin and the lads had fit right in, criminal Vikings aside, from the get go. The Republic was worth fighting for. Didn't matter the colour of your skin, or who you loved. What mattered was your ability to fight, to contribute, to not be fucking dickhead, and believe in a fair go for all. A bit like Australia, but better. The ideals of the Eureka stockade miners, and not the Royal British colonial wankers, he corrected himself.
Linus handed him his clothes.
Laurie hopped down, took a few tentative steps. "Christ Linus, you're a miracle worker. Thanks mate, I owe you one."
"My pleasure Captain," said Linus. "As for the favour, don't worry about it. Just get us all out alive. That'll be a miracle itself. Vale the First and Last." He grinned, bowed his head in salute, and left the dugout.
Supernovas exploded in his mind, as messages, alerts, warnings, and the proverbial kitchen sink all clamoured for his attention simultaneously. But the threat display took his immediate attention. The whole fucking daemon army was advancing. He managed to get his right foot into the rolled-up leg, jumped up in the air to put his left foot in, whilst having a mental phone call with Andrew, overcompensated, and fell back, arms windmilling, crashing into wooden crates.
He pulled his shoulder muscle.
Chapter Fifty-Five
SWARM
THE PRIME KORELLIAN considered her tactical options. Her brood army had reached critical mass. It was now a race of diminishing returns. More ken-korel existed than corpses to feed them. The technical capability to mass-produce the crude explosive rounds for the equally crude technology was accomplished quickly. She'd kept the cannons firing non-stop, as much to dismay the enemy forces as to teach the fledgling ken-korels another way of thinking, studying the language slates. The greater their numbers, the greater their cognitive abilities. Exactly the same reason why wild korel were a plague across eight-fold galaxies.
The Hrothgar-cursed gunship and matriarchal Valkyrie were the most dangerous threat. Dangerous, lethal, yet they had not attacked. That was their undoing. Any logical commander would have used those military assets and cut to the heart of the Korellian army and destroyed it before it reached critical mass. Even with her rifle sabotage, giving the Valkyrie life energy, the power armour and gunship were deployed in a strictly defensive role.
It could not be a trap. But. The Prime Korellian had not reached her rage by being so Hrothgar-sure. She shelved her first plan, and decided to initiate the second. With the telepathic ability of her hindbrain, her brood began the final offensive.