by Jay Allan
“There is more, sir.”
Ghana could hear the enthusiasm in the captain’s voice. He looked up expectantly.
“We have found their headquarters as well. At least I believe we have. I pulled the scouting parties and airships back at once so we didn’t give them any alarm. It appears they are based out of a series of caves and tunnels along the Mezzara Ridge.”
“Outstanding, Captain. You are to waste no time. The raiders are to be wiped out…to a man. Take whatever resources you need, and go immediately.” He paused. “Use whatever force is required, Captain, and risk whatever losses…but none of them are to escape…do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir. Understood. The strike force is loaded up and ready to go. All I need is your orders, General.”
“Then you have them, Jangus, along with my congratulations. Well done.”
“Thank you, sir.” Sand saluted. “With your permission.”
“Yes, by all means. Go. Rid us of these parasites.”
Ghana leaned back, savoring an uncommon bit of good news. He realized it didn’t really help him with his bigger problems, but it felt good nevertheless. And he wanted to savor it, at least for a few minutes.
But that was not to be.
“General…” It was the aide at his door again.
Why do I even bother to turn the com unit off?
“What is it?”
“Sir, we have an officer at the front gate. He says he is a messenger from General Lucerne.”
Great…what the hell can that be about?
“Very well, have him brought here at once.”
The aide hesitated.
“What?” Ghana snapped, the pleasure from Sands’ report all but gone. “What is it?”
“Sir, I also have a report from operations…”
“By Chrono’s beard, man, just spit it out!”
“We have multiple reports of troop movements, sir. General Lucerne’s men. They are more active than they’ve been at any time since the ceasefire.”
“Go,” Ghana roared, get that messenger down here now!”
He watched the messenger slip out, the heavy door closing behind him. He kept staring, for a minute perhaps. Then he leaned back and took a deep breath.
What fresh hell is this?
Chapter Sixteen
Aquitania Oasis
“The Badlands”
Northern Celtiboria
“I can see the dust cloud coming. It’s heavier now. Definitely the caravan.” Minth Samis crouched down behind the clump of bushes, looking out from the edge of the oasis. Aquitania was a common place for caravans to stop and camp for the night. There was no real reason the line of trucks needed to stop at the tiny patch of lush terrain in the otherwise dry and inhospitable desert. The caravan wasn’t some ancient procession of camels and horse-drawn wagons, making their way slowly from oasis to oasis. The motor transports carried food, water, fuel…everything the convoy needed to cross the desert. But human beings made decisions for various reasons, and not all were based on logic. The traders in the caravan longed to feel the grass beneath their feet for a night, to sleep among palm trees and picturesque little ponds. And so, the oases remained major vectors of cross desert travel.
Blackhawk had told Samis that is where the convoy would stop for the night. He looked up. The sun was almost down. It looked like the stranger had been right. Again.
Samis had wanted to hit the convoy at midday, when the heat was at its worst. It was what the Grays usually did. But Blackhawk had his own ideas. ‘Attack just before they stop for the night,’ he had said. ‘They will be least on their guard, their minds already on the evening meal and sleep…and the growing darkness will cover your withdrawal.’
It was the withdrawal part that rubbed Samis the wrong way. The caravan was a big one, the richest they’d seen in a long time. It would be heavily guarded, no doubt, but the Grays had taken on escorted caravans before. Still, Blackhawk had been insistent…and there was something about the man, something that made it hard to refuse his advice.
Advice, my ass. He’s been giving us orders.
Samis resented that, the way Blackhawk had just shown up and started telling everyone what to do. The Grays had been in this desert for a long time. They knew how to take care of themselves. And Cass was their leader, not some adventurer none of them knew. He’d never known Cassandra Cross to let anyone influence her.
Even when he’s sharing her bed…
Samis felt a surge of anger, but it subsided. Part of him resented Blackhawk, as much because he’d wanted Cass for a long time, and he’d been painfully aware she viewed him as no more than one of the Grays. But even his jealousy was insufficient to overcome Blackhawk’s strange power of command. He would stew about the newcomer, grumble to himself, or even to one of the others. But the idea of disobeying Blackhawk was a more difficult proposition. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or respect—or some combination. But the thought of challenging Blackhawk scared him to death.
He turned and glanced down the makeshift line. He had ten of the Grays with him, and they were all in position, including the two with the autocannon. The heavy weapon was one of the Grays’ most prized possessions, but the truth was, they were almost out of ammo for it, and they had little prospect of getting more…so Cass had sent it with Samis. The small squad had to make the enemy believe the Grays’ entire corps was attacking the convoy. The longer the enemy bought it, the better chance the diversion would work.
Samis leaned forward, his eyes focused on the now-visible column. The trucks were heavy ones, but there was nothing else. He’d expected an armored vehicle or two in the lead, a few squads of soldiers doing escort duty, but the convoy looked entirely unprotected.
Blackhawk told you to fire and then run…
Fuck Blackhawk…if we can take this convoy, it’s worth two years’ supplies for back home…
His thoughts struggled with each other, resentment, obedience, thoughts of securing a great victory. Seeing Cass’ expression when she discovered he’d taken the convoy with just ten of the Grays…
His eyes focused on the lead vehicle. It was close, and slowing down. It looked like the convoy was going to camp at the oasis. Just as Blackhawk said.
He’s been right about everything since he showed up. Listen to him…
Fuck off…it’s right there in front of you. All that plunder. Cass…
He turned toward the autocannon.
“Open fire.”
* * *
Blackhawk raced along the narrow ridge. There were drops to each side, not deep, but enough to break half a dozen bones if he lost his footing. But his balance was true, as always, and he felt a spark of relief that Cass had let him go alone. He’d been sure she was going to insist on coming…and she did, at least for a while. In the end, she’d made him do what he’d hoped to avoid…tell her point blank he could move faster and stay safer alone than with her along. He knew that was tough medicine for a proud leader like Cass, but if the choice was between hurting her feelings or getting her killed…
The convoy was moving between the two open ridgelines. It was a perfect spot for an ambush, and Blackhawk would have disqualified it for its obviousness save for two facts. First, the convoy wasn’t a rich one, and this shipment was probably where Ghana least expected any kind of raid.
And second, in about one minute, the radios in those transports were going to crackle to life with news that the other convoy was under attack. This was Grays country…none of the other bands of raiders dared to poach in the areas staked out by Cass’ people. And the Grays had never hit two targets simultaneously. As soon as word hit the convoy down below that the other caravan was under attack, the guards would lose their edge, let themselves feel safe. And that was all Blackhawk needed.
He glanced down at the chronometer Cass had given him, but it only confirmed the countdown that was already true in his head. Thirty seconds. Assuming Samis and his people were spot on time. And Blackhawk
had emphasized the importance of that. He looked across to the other ridge, to the last bits of the bright sun slipping down behind the rocky spine. In a few more minutes the light would be gone, replaced by a dusky semi-darkness. Perfect.
The trucks were almost at the point he’d designated. Cass and her people would attack any second…and then he would slip in behind and take out as many guards as he could. He didn’t doubt the Grays could take the convoy with or without his efforts. But he knew they were up against a new reality, an increased urgency by Ghana to crush them before he ended up back at war with Lucerne. They were going to have less time to compete the raid. Even if the caravan didn’t get out a distress call, they would miss their regular check ins…and Ghana’s people would respond by sending a flight of airships. The diversion would probably delay any response, buy a little time. But it still made sense to get in and out as quickly as possible.
Blackhawk also knew he could kill a lot of guards quickly…and possibly save some of the Grays. It was no coincidence the raiders had begun to suffer greater losses on their raids. They were victims of their own success. When they’d started, they were inexperienced, but they were motivated, and they were up against private security forces. Now, for all their own experience, they were facing convoys protected by veteran soldiers…and for all their own seasoning, they were still ill-equipped for that kind of battle.
He counted down to zero in his head. Still nothing. Then, a few seconds later, he heard sounds, the Grays scrambling down from the ridge. He knew he was the only one who would have heard the sounds, but he still made a note to himself. Teach them to be fucking quiet.
He made his way down, grabbing hold of a rock outcropping as he pivoted around, moving swiftly. His feet found the right spots, avoiding loose rocks that might slide down the slope, giving him away to anyone listening carefully. He had a rifle in his hands and a blade at his side, a heavy survival knife. It wasn’t his trusty shortsword, but it would do in any fight he was likely to encounter around the caravan.
He heard a shot. Then another. The Grays were in position…and they were opening fire.
He swung around another large rock, staring forward to the last of the transports, slowing quickly, coming to a stop. He raced over, pulling the blade from its sheath. He could see the rear hatch of the transport opening, two men emerging.
Guards. Protecting the rear.
His mind raced, analyzing what he saw, making his own projections on the fly.
Regulars, well drilled ones. Ghana’s men.
He’d hoped—but not expected—that a secondary caravan like this one might have relied upon private security. But if there were soldiers here there would be more elsewhere in the convoy.
He leapt forward, almost without conscious thought, acting on instinct, and on conditioning he still knew ruled much of what he did. The guards saw him coming, but too late. His blade flashed. A spray of blood, and one of the soldiers fell, his throat cut so deeply, his head rolled back as he fell.
The other had a fraction of a second more, and he moved his rifle toward the attacker. But Blackhawk had been ready. He pivoted hard, moving his body to the side, even as his blade struck again, plunged deeply this time instead of a slash. Blackhawk could see the expression on the dying guard’s face. Shock, fear, pain…then he pulled the blade out hard and the body dropped.
He looked into the back of the transport. There were crates stacked inside, but no other soldiers. He swung around the side of the truck, rifle in one hand and the blood-covered knife in the other. He saw the forward hatch slide open, a man climbing out. The driver. Obviously a civilian.
Blackhawk felt something unfamiliar, a wave of doubt, of regret at what he was about to do. The concern for killing an innocent, a civilian who’d done nothing more to him than taking a job as a caravan driver, was new to him. Collateral damage was part of war, and he’d rarely given it a thought in the past. But now it was there…not strong enough to stay his hand, but notable nevertheless.
He ran up to the man, plunging the blade deep into his chest. It was the most merciful death he could give the driver. Quick, too fast even for the man to feel much pain. Sparing him simply wasn’t an option. The attack had just begun, and he had no way to watch a prisoner.
He ran up the line of trucks, his eyes snapping around, looking for other guards. There weren’t any, but he saw too more drivers, running for the ridges, fleeing for their lives. His eyes fixed on them.
If they don’t have weapons or com units, I can let them go…
But he couldn’t tell, not for sure. He pulled the trigger once, then again, dropping both of the men.
More innocents, trapped in the horror of war…
And he knew that’s just what this was. War. Cass and her people hadn’t become bandits out of greed. They were fighting for families, for husbands and wives and children and parents left behind, loved ones who faced starvation if their young people hadn’t marched off to do battle, to take by force the sustenance they’d once had on their own but had lost to the ravages of the armies.
He ran forward, continuing his gruesome task, making sure no one escaped, sent in a warning that the convoy was under attack. He could hear the sounds of combat ahead. The Grays had a variety of weapons, but he’d noted the sound of Ghana’s rifles…and he could tell there were still guards ahead, fighting Cass and her people.
He moved forward quickly, his eyes snapping around, picking out the soldiers still resisting. He was coming up from behind them. His rifle snapped up. Crack. One of the men fell. He leapt out from his position right next to a transport, expanding his field of view. Crack. Crack. Another two guards down. He listened carefully…the shots coming from the convoy.
One left…
He looked around, trying to zero in on the guard. He could hear the rifle fire, sporadic, aimed. But he couldn’t find the man. He heard other sounds, screams, distress. At least one of the Grays was down.
This is no normal soldier. He’s a specialist, a sniper…
His eyes snapped over toward the ridge, focused, looking for the slightest sign of movement. Another shot…and more yells from the Grays. The sniper had them pinned down…and he’d shot at least two of them. Blackhawk had no idea how badly the two victims had been hit, but this was a skilled sniper. And he knew more than likely that meant the two Grays were dead.
He moved slowly to the side, slipping behind the transport, staring out over the rugged terrain. Nothing.
Wait…
There was something, movement.
His body lurched hard to the side, his subconscious acting on its own, just as the sniper’s shot ripped through the air where he’d stood.
Fuck, Blackhawk, pay attention. This guy is good.
He crouched down, leaning slowly forward, looking out at the rocky hillside. Nothing. The sniper hadn’t hit him, but he’d forced him to duck. And that had been enough time to make a move. Blackhawk had no idea where the sniper had gone…but he knew he was facing a very capable foe.
He moved his head slowly, almost imperceptibly. He knew he had far outmatched the soldiers he’d fought so far, but here was an adversary that could kill him if he was careless…and one that could decimate Cass’ people if they tried to rush forward.
He had to get the sniper. Now. Or the Grays would be cut down one at a time. And he knew Cass well enough to realize she’d be in the lead once she realized the danger. And that would get her killed.
Unless I get there first…
* * *
“Let’s go…forget the diversion. We’re taking this convoy.” Samis had burst out of the oasis, and he was rushing toward the stalled line of trucks. Half a dozen soldiers had taken position in the front of the column, but they’d been surprised, and they were disorganized, slow to react. Samis and his people fired as they ran, taking all six of the soldiers down before they could respond.
“We’ve got them surprised. Keep going…take down all the guards!” Samis felt a rush as his ey
es glanced down the long line of transports. The Grays had good intel on the caravan, and he knew it was a rich one. High tech imports, rare minerals, luxury goods…even the small part of the convoy his tiny force could grab would net a fortune, enough to send money home, buy new weapons. And to impress Cass.
She’ll see me differently when I come back with this booty…she’ll forget Blackhawk, and see that I’ve been here all along…
He saw another cluster of guards running along the edge of the line of transports. He fired, missing. Then again, hitting one in the shoulder. The man fell back, behind the cover of one of the trucks. His comrades had dived for cover themselves, and now they were returning the Grays’ fire. Samis could hear the bullets whizzing by, and he felt a wave of panic. He and his people were out in the open. He felt the urge to dive to the ground, take cover. But he knew they had to defeat the guards, secure the trucks.
“Move it,” he yelled, increasing his own pace. He saw one of his people go down. It was Uri Hart. Samis thought his comrade was still alive…as far as he could tell, he’d been hit in the leg. But then Jin Fallin took a hit, and Samis knew it had been a kill shot. Fallin had been hit in the head, and the bullet had taken off the top third of his skull.
“Fuck,” Samis muttered to himself as he lunged toward the front of the first transport in line. He looked around him. At least four of his people were down. He felt the urge to run, but he looked back out over the open ground, at the bodies of his friends who hadn’t been fast enough—or lucky enough—to make it to cover. The area he’d advanced over was now a killing ground, and he could hear the fire increasing as more guards took up position.
He stood where he was, frozen, the panic ruling him now. His mind raced…what to do? But there was nothing. Only fear.
“Minth, what do we do?” It was Rehn Kleren, his second in command. He’d run up behind, and he put his hand on Samis’ shoulder.
Samis jumped at his friend’s touch. He turned and stared wordlessly at Kleren.
