Guerrilla
Page 12
Milton was looking at him hopefully, and Warden tried to keep his eyes from betraying his utter lack of a bright idea. How the fuck were they going to get in now?
18
“He is,” Ten roared as the shotgun bucked in his arms and the Lizardman rushing at him crumpled to the floor. His boot opened a door, and he dropped to one knee, throwing his arms wide as he exclaimed, “An Englishman!” in his best tenor.
The Deathless inside the room were clearly taken aback by the passion of his performance, rising to their feet to congratulate him. Ten favoured them with more of his best efforts
“He is… an Englishman,” he sang as the shotgun found his shoulder and he panned from right to left, firing as he went.
“For he himself has said it,” the gun boomed in the small room, “and it’s greatly to his credit,” Ten roared over the noise as the Deathless screamed and the shotgun barked like a hellhound. “That he is an Englishman, that he is an Englishman!”
He rose up from his crouch and moved down the corridor, singing along at the top of his lungs as the music blared from his speakers.
“For he might have been a Roosian, A French or Turk or Proosian, or perhaps Italian! Or perhaps Italian!” he sang as he swapped in a fresh drum. He paused the music and the silence seemed strange.
“Lieutenant, how much time do I have? I thought I might try and arrange a little parting gift for our guests before I join you?”
“Roger that. We need to choose a delivery window for our own present. Get to us within ten minutes and make sure you don’t bring any more guests, we have plenty to entertain here already.”
“Yes, Sir,” acknowledged Ten, walking toward the external door and noting the heat signatures arranged in a horseshoe on the other side. He let the strap take the weight of the automatic shotgun, strode toward the door and booted it open, tossing in a couple of grenades before stepping smartly to one side as the enemy opened fire.
The appearance of the grenades led to much movement amongst the Deathless troopers and a certain degree of shouting. The gunfire stopped as quickly as it had started and when the grenades went off, Ten made his move, dashing into the room and heading straight for a shattered window. He dived through, restarting the music as he flanked the enemy while they were disoriented from the flashbangs and fragmentation grenades.
He rounded the corner, covered in blood and dust and roaring along to the song like an amateur opera singer competing in a talent show, completely oblivious to utter lack of skill.
The shotgun boomed as he sang, “But in spite of all temptations.” Two more Deathless fell before him and he dashed forward as the rest of the group turned.
“To belong to other nations,” he sang as he jumped up onto a metal crate, “He remains an Englishman.” He pulled the trigger and ended the Rupert cowering behind it. The remaining Deathless turned to flee.
Sorry lads, not on the cards today, Ten thought as he aimed his weapon.
“He remains an Englishman!” he sang with as much volume as he could muster, and brought down all three of them as the song finished. He looked around and found no nearby enemies.
He dropped down from the crate and pulled a slightly battered jelly baby from his pocket.
“Heaven,” he muttered, popping the sweet into his mouth. He washed it down with half a canteen of water, one ear cocked for enemy movement.
Then he reloaded his weapons and looted the Deathless for ammunition and grenades. He found an access card in a zipped pocket on the Ruperts uniform, still intact despite the gaping shotgun wound in the middle of its chest. Bingo.
Then he spied a corner of plastic in another pocket and tugged it free. Weird, it looked like some kind of paper, trapped between two films of plastic.
“A map,” muttered Ten, “an actual physical map printed on actual paper.”
Boggling at the idea that anyone might use physical maps, Ten scanned it into his HUD, then scanned the nearby buildings for context. The HUD hungrily slurped down the information and incorporated it into the Troop’s data store, updating the Marines’ tactical displays.
Ten looked at the map symbols and although he couldn’t read the legend, it seemed that the Deathless hadn’t strayed too far from human norms; there was a lightning bolt over a building that looked like a generator, a red cross that had to be a medical bay, beds indicated a barracks and a weird gun-like thing that was probably an armoury. He had destroyed two armouries already but there were still two more. Excellent.
Ten stuffed the map inside his jacket to keep as a souvenir. It wouldn’t be cheap to get it all the way home, or quick, but it would get to his storage unit eventually and be waiting for him if he ever retired.
He checked the HUD update, reviewing all the information submitted by the rest of the Troop and letting them know his location, just in case they needed it. His HUD showed him the armoury furthest from the ship and plotted a route that would, hopefully, keep him away from the Deathless; if ever a job called for silent sneakiness, this was it. Then he swapped back to his suppressed carbine and grinned grimly into the darkness.
Music off, Ten ghosted into the night and disappeared.
19
Atticus sat in the makeshift command room watching the reports from the deployed Troops. It was grim reading, made worse by the fact that Atticus could do literally nothing to help. He drummed his fingers on the console, fiddled with his HUD and eventually settled into a sullen silence broken only by occasional muttering of dissatisfaction.
“Tea, sir?” said Butler, walking in silence to appear, unexpected, at Atticus’s side with a large mug of strong tea. Atticus grunted his thanks and Butler disappeared from view as quietly as he had arrived.
He sipped his tea gratefully. It had been a long week, and the end was not yet in sight. Fortunately, Command HQ was unusually quiet today. Colour Sergeant Jenkins was off in Ashton helping Lieutenant Hayes with the militia. Corporal Wilson was busy working on the new batch of clones.
Corporal Hughes wasn't particularly noisy, but she was off looking after the kids who were building and piloting drones to gather intelligence. The kids weren't the slightest bit fazed by the danger the Deathless invasion put them in. They had taken to their task of searching for the enemy and gathering intelligence with glee and enthusiasm.
The cocky little sods had even sabotaged a few enemy vehicles with weapons they had improvised and attached to the drones. Exactly how they had come up with the devices remained a question that Atticus decided he didn't need to answer.
He had suggested subtly that the footage of the attacks should be deleted before any of the parents stumbled across it; nobody was going to like the idea of children engaging the enemy, even indirectly.
But the kids were having too much fun to worry about the rules or getting into trouble. Atticus had raised an eyebrow at Hughes when she had cautiously broached the subject; the Captain certainly had no idea what was going on, Ma'am, don’t know what you're talking about.
Plausible deniability, that was the ticket.
Yes, peace and quiet was a nice change. Then he became aware of a warning message on one the monitors. He set down his mug and leaned forward as it flashed on the screen. A proximity alert was firing for a spot a few kilometres from the caves, well behind their lines and far from any of their forces.
“Something’s out there,” he muttered, flicking through the Marine and militia monitors, checking for anyone unaccounted for or out of position.
“Shit,” he said, “looks like an enemy squad.”
“An enemy squad where?” said Governor Denmead as she came into the room. She had taken to wearing combat gear continuously so now she looked like a member of the militia, although she wasn’t carrying weapons or webbing.
“About three kilometres from the cave system, right there,” said Atticus, pointing at the map where a red pin hovered, fla
shing dimly.
“How can there be enemy activity that far behind the lines? How did they get past us?”
“I don’t know,” said Atticus uneasily, “but our forces are all accounted for and, with both Troops deployed and the militia engaged, we have nothing left with which to investigate.”
“What about the reserve? Did we not have a company of militia held back for just these occasions?”
“We did, but they’re already in action on the other front.” Atticus stood up and grabbed his webbing, which was fully stocked with ammunition and supplies, as always. Then he picked up his rifle and looked at Governor Denmead. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“Wait, what?” she said, eyebrows shooting up in surprise.
“They have to be stopped,” Atticus said, checking the Deathless rifle he had collected, “because if they keep moving in the direction they’re heading, they’ll find the entrance to the caves and then this will all have been for nothing.”
Denmead looked at him, face slightly grey. Atticus, still wearing the Deathless clone, towered over her.
“Butler,” said Atticus, “suit up, it’s time we earned our living.”
Butler, Atticus’s super-efficient valet, nodded and disappeared from the room, returning a few moments later with his webbing, weapons and armour.
“Ready when you are, sir,” he said, adjusting his HUD.
“Just the two of you?” said Denmead, aghast. From the faces of the three other people in the room, it seemed that her thoughts were widely shared. “There could be dozens of them!”
“Hopefully not,” said Atticus, “or this will be the most hopeless engagement since the Battle of Little Bighorn.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Denmead in a tone that brooked no discussion. She collected her things and rammed a magazine into her rifle. “Are you ready?”
Atticus looked at her thoughtfully.
“Are you sure? This is probably a one-way trip, a proper fight against superior numbers with little hope of victory.”
“Don’t exaggerate, Captain. Let’s get moving.” And she walked from the command room, slinging her rifle as she went.
Butler and Atticus shared a look.
“You heard the Governor, Butler. Time to make a difference.”
Ten minutes later the three of them were ripping across the flat plains toward the location of the enemy.
“They’re still in the same spot,” said Butler, who was watching the monitors while Atticus drove the speeder, “and the high-altitude drones are in position. Looks like a dozen light troops. They have a small vehicle but they’re investigating a farm of some sort.”
“There’s a ridge to the east of the farm,” said Denmead looking at her own version of the map, “we should be able to get within about eighty metres.”
“Right,” said Atticus as he angled the speeder and reduced the velocity, “there’s the ridge, I’ll stop well back from the edge, and we’ll take the last couple of hundred metres on foot.”
“What if they have drones out, sir?”
“That’s a chance we’ll have to take. We can’t risk them moving on and spotting something they shouldn’t.”
They piled out of the speeder and finished the journey on foot, crawling the last few metres on hands and knees to keep below the line of the ridge. At the top, Atticus peered cautiously over, looking around for a few seconds before sliding back into cover.
“There’s a steep drop, about ten metres, then it’s flat to the farm buildings. One enemy wheeled vehicle between us and the farm. Eight troopers in view, two in the vehicle which leaves two unaccounted for if the surveillance was good.” He sat for a moment, thinking. “Butler, did we bring any explosive ordnance?”
“Of course,” said an aggrieved Butler, producing a clutch of grenades, “I always like to bring gifts to a party.”
Atticus grinned. “Good, so here’s the plan.” He explained and it was clear that Denmead didn’t like it any more than Butler but neither of them had any better suggestions and time was short. “Right, get to it. See you on the other side.”
Atticus strapped himself into the speeder as Denmead and Butler edged into position amongst the rocks at the top of the ridge. He checked through his plan, looking for flaws, counting the weak points and the things that could go wrong. Then he realised that this was a pointless exercise; sometimes you just had to act and trust the training and your colleagues.
He turned on the speeder, oriented himself as best he could and hit the accelerator. It shot forward, directly toward the ridge and Atticus braced himself as the edge flashed in front of him and disappeared.
Then the speeder was airborne. It seemed to hover for a few seconds but the feeling in his guts told him that was an illusion.
The speeder fell quickly and landed heavily, bouncing hard on the rocky ground, its motors unable to maintain flight after the rapid drop. The bounce shook Atticus so that his teeth almost fell out and his head snapped back and forward, banging the headrest and the side of the speeder. Then it was done and he had just enough time to glimpse the slab-like side of the enemy vehicle in front of him before the speeder slammed into it, pitching him against the restraints.
For a second, all was quiet and still. Then he tore the seatbelt off and jumped out, rifle in his hand.
The enemy troopers were moving now. The attack had caught them unawares but now they wanted to know what the hell was going on.
Atticus moved clear of the speeder, waving his arms and shouting incoherently, yelling randomly.
The enemy troopers, unsure what they were seeing, watched dumbfounded as one of their brother clones capered around like an idiot.
They shouted at him, maybe asking where he had come from or what was wrong. Atticus couldn’t tell and didn’t care, he just kept moving and shouting, counting steadily, diving to the ground when he reached five.
Then the grenades wedged under the seat of the speeder exploded and everything went white.
Atticus rolled to his feet and brought his rifle to bear, gunning down the two troopers who were struggling back to their feet.
Behind him, there was another explosion as the fuel in the much-damaged Deathless vehicle, its storage tank punctured by either the collision or the grenades, went up.
There was gunfire now as well, coming from the ridge and falling on the surviving Deathless troopers. Dazed by the shockwaves and the light, the Deathless were struggling to find their feet and return fire. Atticus blasted them to pieces as fire rained in from Denmead and Butler.
“Better check the other side,” muttered Atticus as he dodged around the burning vehicles. There were two bodies on the ground; they must have been standing close to the vehicle when it exploded.
Two more were struggling to their feet. Atticus shot the first in its head as it staggered upright then drilled the second through the chest, knocking it straight back down again.
“And the pair makes eight,” he muttered to himself.
“Going well,” murmured Atticus, moving toward the farm to check the buildings. A figure emerged, scouting carefully, looking for danger. Atticus emptied his magazine into the Deathless trooper, killing it before it had even seen him.
Then there was a rattle of fire from one of the buildings and he felt a series of stabbing pains through his chest.
“Bugger,” muttered Atticus as he fell to one side, seeking the meagre cover of a stack of cement bags, “that wasn’t what I had in mind.”
Butler saw Atticus go down and swore. The Captain was in cover but getting to him would mean an eighty-metre dash across open ground in full view of at least one enemy soldier. Not good.
But Denmead was already moving, sliding down the steep side of the ridge before pounding across the plain.
“Oh shit,” muttered Butler, seeing her move. Nothing to be gained by following, so he peered through his scope, checking the windows of the building for movement, hoping the Deathless trooper would show itself.
“Come on you bugger, stick your head out,” Butler murmured. Nothing. Denmead was halfway across the plain and the enemy was just playing with them, biding its time.
“Fuck it,” said Butler. He took aim at the windows of the building and fired a few rounds through each, hoping to suppress any watching enemy long enough for Denmead to reach Atticus. He fired again and again, emptying his magazine then slamming in another.
Still no sign of the enemy and Denmead was almost at the Captain’s side.
Then he saw the glint of a muzzle and he smiled grimly. A quick adjustment, a pause for calm, then he fired, aiming for the other end of the barely visible gun.
The muzzle of the enemy rifle shook as Butler fired again and again. Then it vanished and Butler saw his chance.
He was off like a whippet, darting down the slope and zig-zagging across the plain. He ejected the spent magazine as he ran, sliding in a new one as he slid up beside Atticus and Denmead.
“Hold on, sir,” he said, glancing at the Captain’s wounds, “we’ll have you out of here in a jiffy and get you patched up.” He pulled a morphine shot from a pouch and smashed it into Atticus’s arm then peered around, looking for more enemy soldiers.
“I think I’m done, Butler,” said Atticus, his breathing laboured. Blood dribbled down his chin as Denmead pressed her hands against his wounds. “A noble effort, Governor, and much appreciated, but this body has had it,” he said, forcing a grin.
“Stay here, Governor,” said Butler, hefting his rifle, “I’ll check for movement.” Denmead nodded, scrabbling in her pockets for bandages and tape while Butler disappeared towards the farm buildings.
“Stay with me, Captain Atticus,” said the Governor harshly, “we haven’t enough clones that we can spare them on careless Marines who get themselves shot.” She jumped as the sound of gunfire floated across the farm.