by Jay Allan
The Ataphor Basin
“The Badlands”
Northern Celtiboria
The “Battle of Ataphor” – Fourth Phase: The Counterattack
“My soldiers, we have fought long together, we have marched until our feet were raw and blistered. We have celebrated victories and mourned lost comrades. But now our great campaign is at an end. It is to this place, this blasted desert, so valuable for its location, that I have led you, but alas, it is not I who will lead you out of here.”
Blackhawk was on the ground behind a small rock outcropping, listening to the transmission. It was being broadcast wide, in the clear, pushed to every channel and frequency available to both sides.
The rearguard had fallen back steadily, moving from one meager bit of cover to the next…and suffering badly as it did. But it was also doing its job, forcing the enemy to expend large quantities of its enhanced ordnance. The rate of fire of the particle accelerators had fallen by more than half…conservation measures, Blackhawk guessed, as supplies began to dwindle. Soldiers were still dying, victims of the imperial weapons, but the ammunition expended for each kill had risen sharply. That was good news, at least after a fashion, but Blackhawk was conflicted, torn between his cold analysis and the newer feelings, the regrets for men killed following his orders.
“I have made a terrible mistake, my soldiers, placed you all in grave peril. For I enlisted aid in our struggle, but instead of gaining an ally, I have sold our futures. Sold your futures. And that I cannot allow to stand.”
Blackhawk glanced over the small rocky spur toward the enemy lines. The fire was still coming, and even as he lay there, several arcs of blue light slammed into his positions, along with a volley of more conventional ordnance. His soldiers were pressed up against the cover, holding their fire. He’d ordered them to stand firm…but to fire only when the enemy advanced. Between charges, they were to hunker down, do all they could to stay in cover.
“I am a prisoner as I tape this message, in all but name. This transmission is possible only through the courage of one of our own, who has risked his life to bring it to you.”
Blackhawk heard the word ‘prisoner,’ and he understood. Carteria had taken control of Ghana’s army. Perhaps not openly, but effectively nevertheless. And this was Ghana’s attempt to strike back, to…
Suddenly Blackhawk knew what Ghana was going to do. Had already done.
“I cannot escape, my soldiers, and I will not allow myself to be used as a tool…or to be murdered by an assassin’s hand, as has already been attempted once. So, listen to me now, and obey this, my final order.”
For a moment, Blackhawk felt as if he’d been with Ghana when the general had spoken those words. Ghana had never been anything to him, save perhaps an enemy. Not even, more the enemy of his new friend, Lucerne. But now he understood, he felt the emotion driving the address, the raw defiance. Ghana would die before he would yield…and Blackhawk couldn’t help but feel a wave of respect for the cornered Warlord.
“I have sent a communique to General Lucerne, an offer of peace…and more than that, a request to him that he take all my positions and ranks, my lands and titles, my commands and my responsibilities. I beseech all of you, my beloved soldiers, to swear faith to General Lucerne, to serve him as you have served me. Though he has ever been my enemy, he is an honorable man, and one I know I can trust to look after all of you.”
Blackhawk could see what was happening. He hoped Lucerne was listening, that the general understood the opportunity he was being offered. The retreat had to stop, now. It was time to destroy Carteria’s forces. Losses would be high, very high. But the victory was there, waiting to be plucked. If Lucerne had the stomach to spill the rivers of blood it would take to win.
“Attack, my soldiers. Now. Fall upon Carteria’s forces. Fight them, take them by surprise…attack in the flank, the rear. Fight, my brave warriors…fight as you have never fought before. And trust that General Lucerne and his men will join you. Together you will save the Northern Continent. You will drive the invaders into the sea.”
There was a long pause, the transmission silent. Blackhawk knew Carteria’s forces would try and block the signal, but he also suspected they had been caught by surprise…and that had given time for Ghana’s words to reach his entire army, and Lucerne’s as well.
“Goodbye, my soldiers. Do as I command, win the future for yourselves. And now, I will do all that I can, the only action left to me to ensure I can never be made a tool to use against you.” Another pause. “I love you all, my brave warriors.”
Blackhawk knew what was about to happen, but he still found himself startled at the blast. Bako Ghana was dead.
He also knew how Ghana’s soldiers would react. Ghana hadn’t been a match for Lucerne, but the man had been no fool. His death would inspire his men, anger them. They would fall on the Carterians with unbridled fury…and if Lucerne’s forces stopped their retreat, returned to the fight…the invaders would be caught between two forces. Even their enhanced weaponry wouldn’t save them.
Blackhawk could feel something growing inside him, a calling, the drive of a feral beast. He pulled the small com unit from his belt. “Major Blackhawk…calling General Lucerne.” His voice was deep, thick with focused rage.
“Yes, Major.” Lucerne’s voice lacked the raw bloodthirstiness of Blackhawk’s, but the determination in it was unmistakable. “I saw the transmission. And I received General Ghana’s personal message. I’ve issued orders to halt the retreat. The army will attack.”
Blackhawk felt old feelings, drives he’d suppressed for the past few years, rushing over him like a tidal wave. They came from a dark place inside him, cold, emotionless. The mantra that had driven him for so long. Victory. At all costs.
At all costs. He turned and looked over the survivors of the rearguard. He’d been pulling back steadily, doing his best to minimize losses, to force the enemy to expend ordnance, trading space to save casualties. But now that would stop. These few hundred men would stand here, fix the enemy army in this place. There would be no further retreat. None. It would be costly, indeed few would likely survive. But those few would hold this patch of ground…and the army would win the victory. Carteria’s forces would be defeated. And that was all that mattered.
Was it all that mattered? Should it be? The answer was clear…at least in Blackhawk’s mind. Yes…it was all that mattered. For the alternative to victory was defeat.
The jumble of emotions he’d experienced recently was pushed aside, Cass, her people, his admiration for Lucerne’s soldiers. The thoughts, the emotions were still there, but they were driven deep, subsumed by the inner warrior. This was war, and he had a command, a job to do. There was nothing else now for him, nothing save victory.
A part of him struggled against the coldness, but the wave of battle had taken him, and all else was subordinated to it. The drifter, the lone wanderer he’d become, the man awakening, finding purpose in aiding Lucerne and affection with Cass…that man was gone, the cold blooded warrior back in his place.
He was what he had been, what he’d run so far to escape.
* * *
“Open that door, now.” The Carterian officer’s voice was harsh, angry. Roan stared at the locked door, his hand shaking, fingers tightly gripped around his pistol. He’d done what he’d promised, transmitted the message to the armies. He’d taken the Carterians by surprise, and he was almost certain he’d gotten the whole thing out before they’d managed to jam his signal. But now he was trapped, cut off.
His eyes scanned the room, glancing down to the body lying half under the main station. He’d chased the two other crew members out of the hut, locking the door behind them. But he hadn’t taken any chances with the Carterian he’d found in the room.
He was scared. He had agreed to transmit Ghana’s message because he’d been ashamed at his treachery…to save the comrades he’d almost helped to sell into servitude under Carteria. Only now that he’d completed h
is mission did he realize the true cost he would pay. Ghana had known, of course. Had he found it amusing, ironic…to send his traitorous officer to almost certain death even as he struck his final blow against Carteria?
Would the desperate effort even succeed? Would the army respond to the words of their dead general? Would the scattered units, the officers in command of battalions and regiments come together, join with their recent enemies to fight the Carterians?
Or have I come here…will I die here…in vain?
Roan sucked in a deep breath, struggling to control the shivering. He wanted to live. He’d been a soldier, an officer for many years, but he’d served mostly in staff positions. He’d been on the battle lines before, had a few close calls. But now a cold truth was becoming clear to him. He was about to die.
Maybe I can surrender…perhaps they will keep me alive. No…I have threatened their entire plan, killed one of their men. I took their coin and then betrayed them, even as I had betrayed General Ghana in joining them.
He turned and looked around the small shelter, though he knew it was hopeless. There was only a single entrance, and even now, those who would be his killers were banging against that door, demanding entrance.
He took a step back…then another. He felt wetness on his eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks. He was terrified. He didn’t want to die. The thought that he had only moments—perhaps even seconds—to live seemed unreal, and he began shivering uncontrollably.
“No!” he shouted, feeling as if he was about to go mad. He had to escape, somehow. He had to open the door…if he waited until they blasted the thing open they would kill him for sure. Maybe if he surrendered, begged for mercy…
No…your choices have brought you here. You must face this. General Ghana stood firm…he sacrificed himself. For the army. For his family and his lands. The man you were prepared to betray for base coin. Now you must decide…will you die a coward and a traitor? Or weapon in hand, true to your commander and your comrades?
He heard the sound against the door, the soldiers outside, battering against it. The entrance to the communications center was heavily armored, but he knew that wouldn’t keep his killers out for long. He stepped back again, bumping into the consoles along the wall. Nowhere left to go. Nothing to do. Save wait.
He heard the sounds of assault rifles firing into the thick hypersteel door. Then silence, the soldiers outside stepping back. He took a deep breath, prepared himself.
You have lived poorly, made bad choices. If you do one thing now…die well.
There was a massive blast, the door blown from its place, a twisted heap of metal, slamming into the comm station next to him. He flinched, fell back onto the equipment behind him, even as soldiers poured in through the thick smoke.
He began panicking, losing control, but then he felt something. A strange calm, focus. He reached out his arm, firing the pistol. One of the troopers went down. Then he fired again, another body falling, this one almost at his feet.
He could hear the return fire, automatic weapons. His body was thrown back, hard into the wall. But he felt nothing, no pain. Only a strange floating sensation. And then darkness.
* * *
“Advance!” Rafaelus DeMark lurched forward, climbing out of the crater and advancing across the field. The enemy fire was heavy, but it was beginning to slacken as the Carterians pulled back, blasted by the repeated sorties conducted by the remnants of the now-cooperating air forces of the two armies.
DeMark had thirty-two hundred men at his back, veterans all. They had seen the damage the Carterians had inflicted on their comrades, the brutal toll the enemy’s imperial weapons had claimed…and they were here as avenging angels, come to destroy those who had killed so many of their friends. They were oblivious to their own losses, and their charismatic leader urged them on, leading by example, from the first rank.
DeMark had expected the enemy to hold up his advance for hours, perhaps days, to defend the approaches to the battle now raging between Ghana’s forces and the main Carterian army. But Blackhawk had somehow held the enemy back, penning them against the edge of the original battlefield, thwarting their pursuit of Lucerne’s retreating soldiers. His handful of troops had nailed themselves to their ridge, and they had driven back charge after charge. By the time it was over, barely one man in five was standing. But they were still on that ridge. And DeMark’s troops and the rest of Lucerne’s army were able to forcemarch back to the field unhindered, arriving in a matter of hours instead of after days of vicious combat.
DeMark was a veteran warrior, one of Lucerne’s most trusted commanders. He’d fought in his share of bloody battles, but he’d never seen anything like Blackhawk’s grim determination…and the perseverance he’d extracted from the men under his command.
Eighty percent casualties. And they are still there, fighting…
He wondered if he could have done the same thing, if he could have ordered his soldiers to stand so long in a maelstrom, watching most of them die, without yielding, pulling back. He admired the tenacity of his new ally…and he felt disapproval too. He was a warrior, certainly, but now he knew he had witnessed the ultimate demonstration of cold blooded determination. Of butchery, unrestrained by human weakness, compassion. The singleminded pursuit of victory, unimpeded by any other considerations.
Those men were your comrades…and they are dead now.
But their sacrifice made this attack possible. If they’d faltered, we might have been held back for a day, even two. What losses would we have suffered then? And if Ghana’s forces might have been defeated before we got to the fight…
DeMark pushed the conflicting thoughts aside. This wasn’t time for philosophy, nor for facing the profoundly confusing morality of war. He would take a lesson now from Blackhawk. It was time to fight. Time to win the victory. To forget everything else.
He jumped down, into another crater, staring out at the battlefield in front of him. The Carterians were on the defensive, but they weren’t defeated, not yet. The fire from the imperial weapons had slacked off, barely half what it had been earlier. But he could still see the deadly arcs of light ripping across the field, killing his men, blasting vehicles to scrap. The particle accelerators had a longer range than his own autocannons, and that meant his men had to push forward and endure all the enemy could throw at them before they were able to respond. But now his units were coming into their own range…and he had two companies moving around the enemy flank, seizing a section of high ground where they could take the Carterians in enfilade.
His eyes dropped to his scanner, noting the mounting losses as the casualty reports continued to come in. He tried to ignore it, to focus on the objective…and not on the thousands of men who would die—who were dying even now. He was conflicted, and he knew his thoughts were contradictory. He wanted to disapprove of Blackhawk, to be shocked at the coldness the stranger displayed in combat, his indifference to the suffering of his soldiers. But he knew there was more to it than that. They weren’t fighting now for coin, even for strategic gain. This was a battle for the Northern Continent itself, to keep their homes free from Carteria’s subjugation. It was a sacred goal, one worth the loss of every soldier in either army.
He flipped at his com unit, calling up the commanders of the flanking companies. “Gwan, Tyllen…are you both in position?”
A second or two passed, then he got the answers, one right after the other. They were ready.
“Open fire.” He flipped the com unit to the wide channel. “All units…fire.”
The flat area between the armies erupted, first DeMark’s autocannons opening up, a hundred heavy weapons firing almost as one. Then the Carterians responding, their own standard guns joining in with the imperial particle accelerators.
The Carterians had a decent position, along a ridge with some natural cover. DeMark’s people would have been more in the open, save for the fact that the field itself had been the scene of fierce fighting the day before. There were c
raters, great rents torn into the ground, and his veterans used them all to great effect, sheltering from the enemy fire, leapfrogging forward from position to position.
The battle raged on, and DeMark’s forces bled strength, hundreds killed as they moved forward, and more wounded, some carried back by the overworked corps of medics, but most left to live—or die—by themselves, alone on the field, hurt, bleeding, afraid. It was war, stripped of the glory, the pomp and ceremony…only the raw suffering and the determination it took to prevail.
“Keep moving,” he growled into the com, wondering as he did how different he was from Blackhawk, from the coldness he’d been so ready to condemn a few moments earlier. He hurt for every man he lost…but he knew his loyalty was to Lucerne. And the general needed his people to break through here. No matter what it cost.
He lunged up out of the crater, crouched low, keeping the great mounds of displaced sand between him and the enemy positions as he moved forward.
Forward…to the enemy. To victory.
* * *
“General DeMark reports the enemy is in full retreat. He is pursuing.”
“Very well.” Lucerne nodded. “Order the 8th and the 11th forward to reinforce the general.” Lucerne didn’t have much left in reserve after releasing those two regiments, but he had an idea of the losses DeMark had suffered driving so deeply into the enemy positions. He knew he had to keep up the pressure, and DeMark’s dwindling force was the tip of the spear. The Carterians were hurt, but they were still dangerous…and Lucerne had no intention of allowing them to regroup, of throwing away the victory his soldiers had bought with their blood.
“We’re getting communications from General Ghana’s units as well. They are also reporting the Carterians are fleeing.” The aide turned toward Lucerne. “And they are offering their allegiance, sir, just as General Ghana requested.”
Lucerne sighed softly, turning and walking back to his chair, sitting down hard. He was tired, exhausted. The past few days had been like nothing he’d ever experienced…an all-out attack, followed by victory then defeat. Then the death of his former enemy…and the army he’d fought against for over a year joining his forces, striking the Carterian invaders.
