by Jay Allan
“Let’s move. To the rocks…grab some cover and then open fire.” He was shouting back to his small group, but also yelling into his com unit, to the soldiers jumping from the other airships. He snapped his head to the left and right, confirming what he already knew…two hundred of Lucerne’s crack veterans were on the ground. The battle for a fortune in coin, for the control of an army of mercenaries large enough to turn the tide in the fight for the Northern Continent, had begun.
He’d wanted to keep Cass close to him, imagining that he’d be able to protect her somehow, keep her safe. He knew there hadn’t been much truth to that hope. The battlefield was a dangerous place. But the urge had been strong anyway…and ultimately futile. She wasn’t there…she was on the far side of the convoy, with one airship full of Lucerne’s soldiers, linking up with the rest of the Grays. Her people had been shadowing the convoy since they’d discovered it, staying just outside the perimeter the enemy’s scouts patrolled.
There hadn’t been a doubt what Cass would do, that she would go and link up with her people, lead them into the fight. She hugged Blackhawk and gave him a passionate kiss…and then she walked away and boarded a different airship. Blackhawk had almost followed, gone with her, but he knew he had to be with the main attack. He would do more to protect her by ensuring the outnumbered force prevailed in the fight.
He ran up to a large boulder protruding from the sand and peered carefully around the edge. There was some fire…the convoy guards had heard the airships, and they’d deployed to face the attack. He watched them move, and he knew immediately.
Those are crack troops…
He pulled his rifle around and aimed it toward the convoy. They were too far out for reliable aimed fire, at least most of his troops were. Blackhawk stared down the barrel, targeting a man in an officer’s uniform. Crack. His rifle spat and the soldier fell, clutching at a gruesome neck wound.
The return fire was light, but it was increasing in intensity as more guards rushed to the threatened area. Still, things were going well so far. At least a dozen of the convoy troops were down already…and Blackhawk hadn’t seen a casualty among his men.
That won’t last…
He fired again…and again, two more hits. He glanced down the line. His troops were all along the rocky spine, crouched behind the stones and perched atop the larger outcroppings. They were firing steadily, but the convoy guards had fallen back, taking cover behind the trucks.
The fight raged on for at least another ten minutes, Blackhawk and his troopers taking a steady toll on their enemies. But the bloodless fight was long over, and at least four of the attackers were down now, two dead for sure, the others badly wounded. Blackhawk suspected his losses were higher, but half of the platoon leaders were reporting to DeMark.
He kept firing, picking his shots, now shooting as often to suppress enemy fire as to score hits. Then he heard the sound overhead, the last two armed and operational ground attack craft in Lucerne’s army. They were out of bombs, but their autocannons were fully loaded, and they came screeching down from the sky, like deadly birds of prey. Their weapons opened up, spat death on the defenders as they raked the enemy positions and shot up the transports.
Blackhawk knew the air attack was limited, that a single strafing run by two planes would fall far short of destroying a force of five hundred. But the attack had a different purpose, and as he watched the disorder below he knew the pilots had done their part, scattering the defenders and pulling their attention from the infantry threatening them. It was time.
“All units…forward now. Charge!”
He leapt from behind the stones, running hard over the small rocks and then the sand. The enemy fire was slow, sluggish, their formations distracted and disordered by the air attack. But Blackhawk knew they were good troops…and his chance to close would be brief. If his people delayed, even for an instant, they would be caught in the open by the full firepower of the defenders…and that would be the end.
He fired as he ran, shooting small bursts all across the enemy position. “Fire,” he yelled into his com. “Suppressing fire…keep them pinned.” He heard the volume of the assault rifles pick up all around him as he ran. He was halfway there…in another few seconds it would be a close range fight.
He saw a soldier fall, off to his right. Then another. And one to the left. The enemy had been hard hit by the strafing run, but now the soldiers were reacting to the charge. The resumed their fire, slower and more ragged than it had been perhaps, but deadly enough to soldiers running in the open. Blackhawk had known the mission would be a costly one, and now he was seeing that first hand. But there was nothing to do, nothing but continue onward, to fight to the end.
“Forward,” he screamed again, pushing his legs, running out in front of the formation. It was a reckless move, but he knew Lucerne’s men didn’t know him…they didn’t trust him as they did their longtime leaders. So he would motivate them the old fashioned way, gun in hand, out in front.
He began aiming his fire as he got closer, targeting the enemy troopers closest to him, picking off any of them reckless enough to peer around from behind one of the transports.
“Fire, men…and forward. Take the convoy!”
* * *
“Cass, this is suicide.” Jarvis was right behind the Grays’ commander and he reached out and grabbed her shoulder. “We’ll be wiped out.”
Cass and Jarvis had watched the strafing run, and they’d been listening to the sounds of the fighting down below. She knew Blackhawk would be in the battle already, and it was almost time for her people to hit the engaged enemy from the other side.
“This is why we’re here, Jarvis,” she snapped back, her intensity sounding almost like anger. “General Lucerne’s men are fighting…and it’s our job to hit the enemy in the rear while they are fully engaged.”
“Is this even our fight, Cass? What do we care who hires mercenaries, who controls the Northern Continent?” There was bitterness in Jarvis tone, the anger of a man who had buried both parents and a sister after the Warlords had ravaged the Galadan.
“You’d better care, Jarvis. You came here with me to save our people. I know the losses you suffered, my friend. But we can’t let ourselves assume the Warlords are all the same just because we’re angry at what happened. They are not the same…and if Carteria comes to this continent, we will see firsthand the difference. I also would have the Galadan independent, free of all of them if I could. But that won’t happen, Jarvis. It’s not something we can attain. And Augustin Lucerne is by far the best option. He promised me two million ducats from the convoy…enough to rebuild every farm in the Galadan.”
“And you believe him? You trust him?”
She paused. “Yes,” she finally said. “I do. And if you trust me, accept my judgment. We’re going to lose friends today, Jarvis. Not all of us will survive this…but the ones who do—and those who fall as well—will save our people.”
Jarvis stared at her silently for a few seconds. Then he shook his head. “I don’t know, Cass,” he said. Then, after a long pause: “We’ll be lucky if half of us come through this, you know. It is much to gamble on the word of a Warlord you hardly know. But if you are sure, I will trust what you say. I wouldn’t take a piss on a rock for Lucerne—or for Blackhawk for that matter. But I will do anything for you.”
Cass turned toward Jarvis and gave him a weak smile, the best she could manage through the fear and tension. “Thank you, Jarvis. For this. For everything. Your loyalty has been one of the crutches that has gotten me through the last two years.”
Cass held Jarvis’ gaze for a few more seconds then she looked out, down at the convoy. It was time.
“Alright, everybody,” she said, turning her head back and forth, yelling to her gathered Grays. “This is it. Everything we have done up until now has led us to this. Success today will ensure a future for the Galadan, for our friends, our families. Not just food, supplies, sustenance, but complete rebuilding. Our cou
rage here, our victory, will signal a new future for our people, one of prosperity, of plenty.”
She took a deep breath, her hands tightening around the assault rifle. All her people had the sleek new guns. General Lucerne had sent her back with a cache of weapons, and the Grays were equipped with military grade ordnance, equipment they couldn’t have dreamed of before.
She moved forward climbing over the gentle crest her people had been hiding behind. “Now,” she shouted…and she ran down the hillside, right into the maelstrom.
* * *
Blackhawk spun around the end to the transport, his eyes fixing on the closest enemy soldier. He squeezed the trigger, and the trooper fell back hard, taken in the chest by the close ranged shot. His snapped his head around, scanning the area. Nothing. Then he turned toward the back of the truck, his weapon trained on the hatch. He reached up, pulling open the door slowly. His senses were on fire, the battle trance fully engaged. He was ready to fire, but there was nothing inside…nothing except a pile of metal chests. He felt a wave of satisfaction, the knowledge that those chests likely held the coin he’d come to seize. He felt an urge to jump inside the truck, to open a chest and confirm that expectation. But his discipline intervened. He had to win the battle first…when the enemy was defeated, the spoils would remain.
He crept to the edge of the transport, peering around, looking quickly both ways. There was combat going on all along the column, soldiers firing at each other at close range, even hand to hand struggles with rifle butts and survival knives.
His people had gained the initiative, at least to a point. The strafing run had done considerable damage to the enemy, and his charge had taken the defenders by surprise. But Blackhawk’s troops were still outnumbered. Each of them could kill two enemies for every one of their own that fell, and they would still lose the fight. Lucerne’s men were long service veterans, experienced killers with nerves of steel. But the troops they were fighting were elites too…some kind of guard unit, Blackhawk guessed. They didn’t have the raw edge Lucerne’s people did, but they were solid fighters, and their morale was strong. They held firm, refusing to give ground despite the losses suffered in the air attack and the surprise of the subsequent charge.
Blackhawk panned his eyes around, looking for threats, targets. Then his rifle snapped up, almost on pure instinct. It fired once, twice. The shot was a dangerous one, the bullets ripping right past the head of one of his own…and slamming into the Carterian beyond who was about to fire. The soldier had recoiled from the sound of Blackhawk’s shots, but then he turned, nodding a silent thanks to the stranger turned officer who had just saved his life.
“Blackhawk, what’s your status? We’re pinned back here, almost surrounded. We need support.” It was Rafe DeMark on the com, and his usually calm voice was thick with tension. Blackhawk didn’t know DeMark very well, but he’d liked the officer from the moment they’d met. And he knew if the veteran major was calling for help, his situation had to be downright critical.
“On the way, Major,” Blackhawk snapped. “I’ll grab some men and be right there.”
“Roger that, Blackhawk.” DeMark paused, and Blackhawk could hear the sounds of heavy combat in the background. “Hurry,” DeMark added. Then he cut the line.
“Sergeant Fillon, get your men and follow me to the rear of the convoy.”
“Yes, sir,” came the non-com’s gruff reply.
Blackhawk turned and headed back toward DeMark’s position. He ran along the edge of the transports, his eyes darting back and forth, his hands moving almost on their own, aiming his rifle and picking off enemy soldiers who came into his field of fire.
He could hear the sounds of the enemy rifles up ahead, higher pitched than those of his men. The sounds of combat were intense. Blackhawk’s troops had run into less resistance than he’d feared, and now he knew why. DeMark’s wing had run into the heavy fighting.
Not just DeMark…
Blackhawk’s pace increased, pushing him ahead of the cluster of troops following him. DeMark’s force had attacked the rear of the convoy…but that was also where the Grays were coming in.
They should be in the fight any minute…
Perhaps they even are already…
“Sergeant,” he snapped out, “keep your men moving, and catch up with me when you can.” Then he gritted his teeth and pumped his legs hard, unleashing the full capability of his enhanced muscles. His leg ached where he’d been wounded, but he ignored it. He had to get to the fight. The Grays were there. Cass was there.
* * *
Cass could hear her heart pounding in her ears, feel the sweat dripping down her neck, her back. She knew what was behind it all…fear. She was scared to death, and every fiber of her being was screaming to her to run, to flee from the swirling melee and find someplace to hide.
She’d been in combat before, of course, but never like this. The Grays’ raids had involved fighting, but the battles had been short, and the Grays had mostly fought against private security forces who were quick to surrender. Even when her people had encountered Ghana’s forces and suffered losses, the struggles had still been brief. But this was a full scale battle, with grim veterans on both sides, experienced troops armed with military-grade weapons. It was a bloodbath, a killing zone the likes of which she had never seen. None of these soldiers were going to surrender. This was a fight to the death.
She glanced back over her shoulder, confirming what she already knew. Some of her Grays had run. She wanted to be angry, to brand the routers as traitors, but she couldn’t bring herself to go that far. Her people had come here with her to the Badlands, and they had stayed for two years, fighting, hiding, living off the sparse land. But they weren’t real soldiers, not most of them at least. They were farmers, brave men and women when forced to be, but not warriors who could endure an inferno like this.
But you are a warrior…
The thought echoed through her head, a shout back at the fear trying to break her resolve. She wasn’t sure if she’d always been a true fighter, or whether it was a metamorphosis that had come over her as she watched her father’s life slip away. But suddenly, she realized. There was nothing in the Galadan for her anymore. A visit with her mother, perhaps, but no kind of life. As a girl she’d sought escape in the promise of university—and she’d briefly dreamed of life on the farm with Blackhawk—but now she knew. Her place was the field of battle.
She spun around, let her newly-discovered instincts take control. She was firing, almost without thinking, her eyes darting around, picking out targets as she ran. Her marksmanship was only average, and most of her hurried shots went wide. But she took down one enemy trooper…and then another.
She could hear firing from just to her left, Jarvis, keeping up with her, spraying the ground ahead with automatic fire. It felt right for Jarvis to be at her side. He’d been a friend for most of her life, and he’d been a reliable companion since her people had left the Galadan. There had never been anything romantic between them, but she thought of her comrade as a brother. Closer even.
Her people were almost to the trucks. There was a firefight going on just on the other side of the convoy, Lucerne’s veterans faced off against at least a hundred of the Carterians. There were dozens of men lying on the ground, many dead, others wounded, and the fighting was still raging.
She took stock of the situation. Lucerne’s forces were fighting well, but they were outnumbered.
Still, they might hang on…
Then she saw it…a shadow at first, and then the image, the largest man she had ever seen. He had an autocannon in each hand, and he was hosing down the line of Lucerne’s troops. At least half a dozen fell, and the others dove for cover. The fire all along the line sputtered to almost nothing as the attackers fell back to escape the streams of death coming from the giant’s guns.
She snapped her head around, seeing her people slow to a stop, staring at the massive warrior in awe. She knew the Grays were at their limit, and
watching this monster gun down Lucerne’s veterans was too much for them.
They’re going to run, she thought grimly. She looked behind to the right. Even Jarvis…
That monster is going to turn the tide here, almost singlehandedly. I’ve got to do something…
* * *
Bulg Trax was consumed with rage. His convoy was under attack…and the soldiers coming at him had to be Lucerne’s veterans. They were too good, too rock solid to be anything else. And that meant Varn Eleher had fucked up. He was supposed to be engaged with Lucerne’s army even now, pinning them down if not destroying them outright. The convoy had run on strict radio silence, but he didn’t need a dispatch to tell him Eleher had fouled things up. Otherwise he wouldn’t have Lucerne’s planes strafing his column…he wouldn’t be watching Lucerne’s toughest troops coming at the pampered lapdogs of Carteria’s guard.
I will break that fool in two when I get to him…
Trax’s arms were flexed hard, each of them holding a heavy autocannon. The recoil of the two weapons was fierce, and it took every bit of his enormous strength to hold steady, to unload the terrific firepower on Lucerne’s line. Lucerne’s soldiers were a crack formation, that much was obvious. Better man for man than his own house troops. But he had numbers…and he was going to lead the counterattack himself, break the back of this enemy formation. He would see these soldiers dead, every one of them, if he had to kill them all himself.
