Decisively Engaged (Warp Marine Corps Book 1) (26 page)

“Looks like three, four companies total, from two different regiments,” he said after assessing the size of the last Kirosha force standing between Task Force Able and safety. “Still not using radios much – smart of them – but we got enough drones up there to spot them before they got swatted down. Assuming they don’t have more camo-nets available.”

“I don’t think so,” the intelligence operative said. “They would have used them for the first ambush if they had more.”

“Maybe. If we have to make assumptions, we assume the worst. They could have spared enough for another infantry force like the one at the second ambush.”

“It’s possible, yes.”

“This time they are in range of our two remaining mortars. We don’t need to spot them to kill ‘em all. I’m going to cover both flanks of the convoy with two full spreads.” That would use up half of their bomb supply and would take forty-eight fabber-hours to replace, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

He’d screwed up enough times tonight.

* * *

“Here we go,” Commander Zhang muttered. Out loud: “Fire at will.”

Vehelian-One engaged the enemy barricade a klick away, laser bursts punching through the piled-up cars and the soldiers behind them. The Kirosha had brought in a couple of anti-tank guns, but only a couple, and the Oval hovercraft engaged them at long range and tore them apart before they could get a shot off. The rest of Task Force Able followed suit; anything with a human-sized heat signature was targeted and taken under fire. 100mm mortars lashed both sides of the road, targeting manned Kirosha positions and any possibly concealed ones. Many of the bombs struck nothing but dirt and trees – there were no more camo nets for Kirosha to hide under – but that was small consolation for the Kirosha who were in the area of effect. Five hundred soldiers were obliterated in the span of three seconds. The Ruddy blocking was obliterated without inflicting a single casualty on the task force.

“Check fire, check fire,” Lisbeth ordered; her force had achieved a rare result in military operations, a total wipeout. According to all sensors, not a single Kirosha had survived; the only heat signatures left were those of burning vehicles and rapidly-cooling corpses. “Cars Three and Four, clear the road.”

Task Force Able made it home without further incident.

* * *

“The last of the enemy forces have entered the Enclave, sir.”

Grand Marshall Seeu accepted the report without comment. Magister Eeren Leep found the military genius’ calm demeanor annoying. Yes, all high-caste Kirosha were taught since early childhood to guard their private emotions, but there were subtle, polite ways of conveying one’s feelings on any matter of importance. The Grand Marshall acted as if the loss of an elite Army regiment and the mauling of two others was of no import at all.

“It appears the ambush was not as successful as one might have hoped,” Eeren said, a calculated insult.

“The ambush had three objectives of descending importance,” Seeu replied, speaking as he would address a group of eager new students at the Academy of Arms. “First, it must inflict as much damage on the enemy as possible, to weaken them for the battles to come. Secondly, it was intended to force them to hurry when abandoning their port, to prevent them from destroying valuable assets. Third and last, it provided us with more information about their weapons and tactics. All objectives were achieved.”

“You say it is so, therefore it must be so,” Eeren said, letting a hint of doubt creep into his carefully-worded statement. “To a less well-informed observer, it would appear otherwise.”

“Ignorance is a grave burden, but a cure is easily available,” the Grand Marshall said in a mild tone. “Half of the force that left the Enclave was destroyed, including one of their three heavy artillery pieces. More importantly, our benefactor has examined the spaceport. He believes much can be salvaged from the wreckage there. The demolition charges the Star Devils left behind were not as effective as they thought. Furthermore, our honored ally was nearby and he managed to defuse several of them, saving many things that we shall put to good use.”

“That is good news.” Eeren would have to sound optimistic when he made his personal report to Her Supreme Majesty. He had hoped to cast some aspersions on the character of the Grand Marshall, just enough to warrant some minor loss of favor, but given the results of the ambush, it would probably be best to be as positive as possible. If the Queen found herself unhappy with the war against the Star Devils, she might remember that Eeren Leep had been prominent among those pushing for it. Court games were complex and often deadly. Best to back the Grand Marshall for the time being.

“Tomorrow, we strike the first blow of the real war,” Seeu Teenu said.

“May it be short and victorious.”

* * *

Heather McClintock knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

The small apartment was on the second level of the Marines’ building, and it had a private staircase that allowed visitors to access it without going through the barracks proper on the ground floor. She’d never been there before; Lieutenant Murdock and she had run in very different circles, back when the platoon’s assignment to Jasper-Five had been an annoyance and budgetary problem rather than the difference between life and death. Things had changed a great deal.

Captain Fromm was stretched on a couch in the studio apartment; a bottle of Kirosha clear liquor was on the coffee table next to him, about a third of its contents already gone. There were no glasses in sight. The officer watched her in silence as she walked in.

“May I?” she said, gesturing toward the bottle. Fromm nodded and she took a swig. The stuff was made from the fermented fronds of a coastal tree; it had a slightly briny taste and kicked like a mule. The burning liquid warmed her insides as she sat down on a wicker chair facing the couch.

In an emergency, the nano-meds in Fromm’s system would purge any alcohol in his bloodstream and administer counteragents to bring him back to sobriety in a matter of seconds. Drinking during ongoing military operations was still against regulations, and a terrible idea in any case.

“I’m sorry about Obregon,” she said.

“You don’t know how sorry you are. Not yet. Whoever I promote to replace him isn’t going to be half as good as he was. And I got him killed.”

“The spaceport had to be evacuated. You saved over a hundred lives.”

“And lost a tenth of my command doing it. Decimated. Worse than decimated. Six out of fifty-six. I underestimated the enemy. I sent insufficient forces to do the job.” He reached for the bottle and put a dent on its contents. “I’m doing a bang-up job so far. I’m going to lose the platoon. Just like the last one.”

Heather had looked up Fromm’s actions at Astarte-Three. His platoon had been hit hard; twenty-three KIA, everyone else WIA. The losses had been necessary to fulfill the company’s objective – to hold off an enemy advance that might have resulted in the destruction of an entire Marine regiment – but Fromm had taken them personally. This incident had hit too close to home.

“You’re what we got, Fromm. You know your duty. Getting drunk and wallowing isn’t going to accomplish anything.”

He shrugged. “I needed to take a few hours off. Found Murdock’s stash hidden in a compartment inside a wall, and figured getting wasted wouldn’t hurt and might help.”

“Did it help?”

“Not much.”

“I thought I might help,” Heather said.

“By talking? Or were you planning on fucking me better?”

“A little of both, I suppose. Figured getting us laid couldn’t hurt.”

We both could use this
, she thought. Something besides killing and fearing death. Or failure, which was worse.

His expression changed into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Sure, why not?”

“Just what every girl wants to hear,” she said, unbuttoning her blouse.

Afterwards, they lay together in bed, tired and relaxed.

“We lost most of the feedstock from the spaceport,” Fromm said, still unable to let go of the thousand worries of the job. “One heavy-duty fabber made it, though. It’s just a matter of using what we’ve got. Improvise, gear down. We’re not fighting Spacefarers with graviton technology. We’ve got enough food for three weeks without rationing. All we have to do is hold out until the fleet shows up. We can do this.”

He was still talking to himself and figuring out solutions to the problems at hand when she drifted off to sleep.

Year 163 AFC, D-Day

Despite all the fighting of the previous days, the official commencement of hostilities between the Kingdom of Kirosha, the United Stars of America, the Wyrashat Empire and the O-Vehel Commonwealth happened at noon the day after the rescue of the spaceport’s personnel. Once again, the High Queen of Kirosha went on the air.

“Despite the treachery of the outsiders from beyond the sky, we have waited for a response to our demands until the appointed time. The Star Devils remain silent. Therefore, war is declared against all foreigners polluting our soil. They may be slain out of hand by any subject of the kingdom, and their property will be assigned to their slayers as a reward. The Star Devils brought their fate upon themselves. There shall be no mercy.”

Fromm listened to the radio address from the command bunker, paying only partial attention to the Queen’s words while he went through yet another logistics report. Despite the losses of the previous night, the defenses around the legation buildings were stronger than ever. The volunteer units were in place, except for the Kirosha and the Navy personnel, who would take at least a week of training before he felt confident enough to put them in the line. On the other hand, the enemy had numbers and initiative.

His imp chimed a priority message. The Ruddies were on the move. A flight of drones took off to get a better view of the situation. Fromm grunted when he saw what the enemy was doing.

“They aren’t swatting the drones near the walls,” CPO Donnelly said. “They want us to see this.”

“Those bastards,” Fromm said. “Those fucking bastards.”

It was another mass attack, over twenty thousand strong in the first wave alone. About half of the Kirosha pouring into the Enclave were Final Blow Society warriors.

The other half were children, eight or nine-year-olds.

The drone videos made it clear. Kirosha children of that age were not only smaller in stature, their heads were noticeably oversized for their bodies, and their legs were shorter than an adult’s, making them look more like running babies than children. They were carrying short spears and singing as they marched at a trot in blocks of ten or twenty, led by adult leaders. Whenever their pace faltered, their handlers berated them or used leather straps to whip them forward.

Kirosha Army regulars were following the first wave, infantry formations. They would rush the embassies when the child soldiers had reached the trench line.

“You fucking bastards,” Fromm repeated. In a few minutes, his people were going to have to make a dreadful choice, unless he could think of something.

There were over two hundred human and a thousand Kirosha children inside the compound. Kill ten thousand of theirs to save twelve hundred of his? Let them swarm your trenches so their soldiers could follow with rifles, rocket launchers and satchel charges?

A though occurred to him. He called the Oval Centurion.

A few seconds after the call a hundred dazzler munitions soared out of the Vehelian legation and detonated over the Kirosha version of the Children’s Crusade. The paralyzing lights burst over blocks of marching troops; everyone collapsed mid-step. He’d asked the Ovals to spend their entire stock of the area weapons, but it’d been worth it. The attack had been stopped in its tracks.

There were fatalities among the children, of course. According to his imp, at least one percent; some whose nervous systems failed under the flashing lights, others who broke their necks or cracked their skulls when they fell, and those buried under masses of limp bodies, suffocating to death before they could wake up. A hundred out of ten thousand, minimum. Likely more. Hopefully enough to convince the other side that if the same trick was tried a second time, he wouldn’t hesitate to do what was necessary.

“Contact the Kirosha commander. Tell him we will allow them to remove the children. Next time, however, we will not answer for the consequences.”

“Yes, sir,” CPO Donnelly said. She hesitated for a second before continuing: “Thank you, sir.”

Fromm shrugged. “As you were.”

He left the bunker.

* * *

“Tell the Americans we will do as we are asked, and offer a twenty-four-hour cessation of hostilities,” Grand Marshall Seeu said over the telephone before turning to his civilian counterpart.

“You will not send more children?” Magistrate Eereen asked.

Seeu dipped his head. “There is no point. The American, Fromm, has sent us a clear message. He will slaughter our children if he has to. Dozens of them died when they were knocked unconscious. He does not wish their deaths in his conscience, but he will do what he must. They may love all children, but they love their own more, as any species with a will to survive must. I underestimated his resolve.”

“What are we to do next?”

“The time for stratagems is over. When maneuvering is no longer possible and one stands on deadly ground, fighting is the only course left. A siege might prevail in the end, but to keep so many troops in the capital for very long raises the risk of rebellion or invasion elsewhere. Her Supreme Majesty shares my dislike for sieges in any case. As soon as the armistice is over, we will assault in earnest. We have a few gifts from our benefactor that we have yet to use.”

“One hopes for swift and devastating success,” Eereen said. Inwardly, he was elated at the result. If Seeu had won with his army of children, his fame would have reached legendary levels. Now it would come down to a campaign of hard blows, as each side bled the other and found out who ran out of blood first. Victory would be costly, and Seeu would find it hard to wrangle much prestige from it.

Eventually, the aliens would be gone, the Grand Marshall would be remembered as a respectable but not extraordinary general, and Ka’at would flow on as it should.

The new Star Devils had promised they would never send missionaries to Kirosha, or build schools or hospitals. In fact, their hideous emissary had promised no Lhan Arkh would set foot on Kirosha for as long as the Kingdom stood. An odd turn of phrase, but good enough for Eereen.

Year 163 AFC, D Plus Two

Admin work was traditionally looked down upon by most naval officers, despite its importance, and Lieutenant Commander Lisbeth Zhang was no exception. All branches in the military had been run by fighters ever since First Contact. She had to go through reams of virtual paperwork to handle her new – not to mention unofficial and highly unorthodox – posting, and she didn’t like it one bit. One had to learn to handle bean-counting, but few officers on a command path found it enjoyable.

Not that I’m likely to be assuming any sort of command after this is over
, she thought. For the time being, however, circumstances had left her in charge of about half as many personnel as when she had led her doomed Task Unit, even if there were no ships involved in her current command. She now was in charge of eighty-seven spacers, eleven petty officers and six warrant officers, and it was her job to manage, feed, care for and, if necessary, send them to their deaths with guns in their hands. More ground-pounder crap, in other words.

Lisbeth went over the stats of the ad-hoc unit she might command in combat. A hundred spacers had been organized into a company, divided into three platoons, all done Marine-style; on shipboard the crew would be broken up into divisions and watches, but here they were using ground-pounder rules. The rest of her administrative force was broken down into standard divisions. The whole thing smacked of desperate improvisation, but when you gave spacers rifles and put them in trenches, things were well and truly desperate.

Luckily the jarhead-in-chief wasn’t throwing her people into the line right away. Her people would have some time to run simulations and learn their new roles, guided by the spaceport’s security crew, who would serve as cadre. For now, all she had to worry about was doing paperwork and getting everyone as ready as possible before the enemy tried something else.

They’d had two days of peace and quiet after the child-soldier attack. More Ruddy units were assembling around the capital. The current estimate was that an entire field army was in place, and more units were being added to the mix, not to mention tens of thousands of spear-chuckers, although those had only managed to get killed in job lots, which made them of rather questionable military value. Still, there were enough Ruddies to bury the Enclave with their bodies.

Lisbeth didn’t have any illusions about how long it would take before a relief force arrived. It’d be weeks, at least, before any fleet assets could be spared to go to the rescue of a couple thousand humans in a remote planet. And that was if the US didn’t lose the next round of the war.

News were coming in dribs and drabs. Quantum Entanglement communications worked like that; if you went into too much detail you risked using up your supply of entangled particles and falling completely out of the loop. What had gotten through was nasty, though: millions of Americans in dozens of outposts across the galaxy were confirmed dead. The only enemy force that was taking prisoners was the Galactic Imperium, which had interned some two million humans after formally declaring war. The others were in a ‘kill them all’ rampage.

Two can play that game
, she thought coldly.

She looked up from her status reports when her imp sent out a warning. The enemy was on the move again. Moments later, a series of explosions echoed loudly overhead, followed by a rumbling sound she’d never heard before but was able to recognize. Artillery.

The Kirosha armed forces had finally committed to the attack.

* * *

“For what we’re about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful,” Russell muttered as the first explosions echoed in the distance.

Nacle was looking a bit green. It was the kid’s first time under heavy artillery.

“Don’t sweat it, Nacle. This is primmie artillery. The shields will hold.”

At least, Russell thought they would hold. He asked his imp how many guns were dropping shells on the compound. Seven heavy artillery brigades were in the game: according to the imp, those were all the modern guns the Ruddies had in the continent, over a decade’s worth of purchases and production. Each brigade had twelve 133mm howitzers, ten 111mm mortars, and fifteen 93mm triple-purpose cannon. Which made it a grand total of two hundred and fifty-nine guns dropping ordnance on them. Then there were another hundred 60mm fast-firing pieces from the towers around the Enclave, adding their own weight of metal to the mix. The force fields could handle that. They’d shut off all nonessential systems so the power plants inside the embassies could keep pouring juice into the shields. They should hold.

The noise and smoke the shells produced when they went off two hundred feet over their position were impressive as hell, though. Best show of the week so far, even though the noise was a bit much even with their helmet baffles working hard to protect their eardrums.

His fire team was spread out as before, twenty-five yards apart, but now there were more troops in between them: civilian volunteers armed with Ruddy rifles. They were okay, for POGs, but Russell mostly ignored them.

“How long before they run out of shells?” Gonzo asked through the fire team channel.

“Damfino. They’ve had a good while to prepare. Weeks, at least. Maybe never.”

“Great.”

The steady pounding went on for several minutes, until a massive single detonation stood out from the rest. Dozens of shells had hit the force field at the same time.

“Time-on-target,” he muttered. It took some decent firing control to have several artillery pieces hit a spot all at once, especially with the primmie equipment the Ruddies used.

“Oh, no!” Nacle shouted.

Russell tapped into the Mormon’s sensor feed and watched smoke pouring from the top of the Wyrm embassy behind them and to their right. The observation tower on the roof was teetering like a drunken bubblehead. A moment later, it went down.

“Holy fuck.” Either the time-on-target volley had been powerful enough to get through the fields, or some of those shells had high-tech anti-shield warheads.

“They got through the shields, Russet,” Nacle said.

“They sure as fuck did. Means we’re not gonna just sit it out. Means we’re probably fucked.”

Another massive explosion shook the air above them, and something went boom behind the lines. That had been a single shell. The Ruddies had shield-breaching charges, then. Not too many, or there’d be a lot more explosions going off inside the perimeter, but any was too many as far as he was concerned.

“May the Lord make us truly fucking grateful,” Russell said. Nacle grunted at the blasphemy but didn’t say anything.

“The enemy is moving forward,” headquarters announced. “Armor and infantry.”

“They’re serious this time. Look sharp, people. Ruddy’s come to dance, and he wants to lead.”

“Fuck that,” Gonzo said, readying the ALS-43. “Kill!
Teufel Hunden
!”

You knew things had gone to shit when Gonzo started shouting classic jarhead mottos.

The Ruddies picked up the tempo, dropping a continuous barrage of shells, with the occasional round punching through the force fields and doing who the fuck knew behind the lines. If one of those bad boys hit his spot, he was done, but you couldn’t worry about that shit.