by Jay Allan
“Yes, sir. I’ll have my lead companies on the march in three minutes.” It was a precise figure, but that was typical for Cyn Kuragina. Her White Regiment had always been one of the three “line” units the Eagles fielded. The Black Regiment was the elite, the senior force right after the Teams. But since the fighting on Lysandria the year before, Teller had realized that Kuragina had forged her battalions into a force every bit as effective as Colonel Falstaff’s Blacks. It was as much random chance as anything that the White Regiment was uncommitted, but if he’d had to pick a force for a desperate holding action, it would have been the diminutive but tough as nails Kuragina and her battle-hardened troops.
“Very good, Colonel.” He paused. “And, Cyn…you’re going to be massively outnumbered. Just try to slow them down, at least until we can get some more troops deployed.” His voice was thick with concern. Kuragina would be leading a vanguard of 700 Eagles to somehow hold off thirty times their number…at least until he got the other half of her regiment up there.
“Don’t worry, sir. Black Eagles don’t worry about enemy numbers.” Her voice was remarkably calm, but Teller could hear the concern there too.
“Use anything you can get…cover, terrain, anything. Just hold them off until we can get reorganized.”
“Yes, sir. You can count on us.”
“I know I can, Colonel.”
He cut the line, turning his head and looking out over the small headquarters. The Black Eagles had a lot more tooth and a lot less tail than most modern fighting forces. Darius Cain wasn’t just a tactical genius. His administrative and organizational skills—and Teller’s as well—had been as crucial to making the Eagles the efficient force they were.
He switched the com frequency. “Captain Camerici, I want the White Regiment’s second battalion recalled immediately and formed up for battle. I will be leading them forward myself.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a hitch in her voice. Teller knew it was concern about him moving up to the front lines. He sighed.
How many times have I given Darius shit about that? But we’re in big trouble here…and I’ve got to stop this new force from breaking through. Somehow. He shook his head. And if Darius was here, I’d be telling him to send someone else…
“The forces attacking the main enemy line are to disengage and pull back at once,” he said.
There was a pause. “But, Colonel…the reports from the front suggest that the enemy is on the verge of breaking…”
“Yes, Captain, but we’ve got a huge force moving against our flank and rear.”
And unless I’m completely wrong, we’re going to find these troops are a hell of a lot better than the Eldari levies.
“I want Falstaff’s Black Regiment to redeploy immediately. They are to move east to support Camerici’s people against the new attack. Cornin is to pull his Reds back three kilometers and dig in facing the Eldari forces. Once his positions are prepared, I want one of his battalions to man the defenses. The other is to withdraw and move to the flank to relieve Vandeveer’s people. Once the Reds are in place there, Colonel Vandeveer is to pull the Blue Regiment back to this location to serve as a mobile reserve.” He paused. He realized he had hit her with a tidal wave of orders. “Is all that clear, Captain?”
“Yes, sir. Clear.” She was already relaying his commands to the various officers involved.
Teller just shook his head. He’d never seen a tactical officer as sharp and fast as Camerici. Even in an organization like the Black Eagles, she stood out.
“I’m heading to Kuragina’s position to get her second battalion moving. When Colonel Vandeveer gets here, he is in command of headquarters.” He paused. “Until then, you have my proxy, Captain. You’re in charge.”
“But, Colonel…” Camerici sounded shaken…in a way she hadn’t while discovering a huge enemy force moving against the army’s rear. Teller had just effectively put her in command of a dozen superior officers.”
“You understand the situation better than anyone else here, Antonia.”
And I think I trust you more than anybody else here too.
“You can handle it. And Vandeveer will be here soon.”
He better be…because I’m going to need those reserves.
Then he turned and jogged over the hill toward Kuragina’s command post.
He knew one thing for sure. Everything that had happened so far had been preliminary. The real test had just begun.
* * * * *
Darius Cain’s eyes stared out though his visor, watching the enemy soldiers fall as he fired his assault rifle again and again. He had the weapon set to three-shot bursts, and every time he pulled the trigger, an enemy died. He was a consummate professional at war, an artist with the weapons of death, but there was something different at play here. No matter how much he tried to pretend this was a normal mission, the fact that he might be less than fifty meters from his father, the man he’d thought dead for so long, dominated his thoughts.
Darius had always been cool under fire. He and his soldiers had killed only because their jobs demanded it…and they didn’t draw satisfaction from violence. Until now. He relished every kill, every strike against the force that had brought him here, that had perhaps held his father prisoner for years. He knew those he gunned down were common soldiers, not at all responsible for whatever the Eldari Tyrant had done to his father. But the cold fact was, he didn’t care. He held all of Eldaron responsible for their leader’s actions…and his mind seethed with what he would do to them if they had killed his father.
Ernesto Alcadebo was right next to him, firing with the same gusto, though his urgency was born of different motivations. The Eagle captain considered it his overriding duty to keep Darius Cain safe. And gunning down enemy soldiers before they had a chance to shoot the general was the most straightforward way to accomplish his goal.
There was no doubt in Darius’ mind his people were expected. The doorway into the detention area had opened into a large chamber, thirty meters square, and there were at least fifty enemy soldiers waiting. But Darius had brought two hundred Black Eagles with him, and though only a dozen and a half had managed to pour into the room with him, they had cleared it of the enemy in less than half a minute. The Eldari soldiers wore sectional body armor, but it wasn’t self-contained and nuclear-powered like the Eagles’ fighting suits. The hyper-velocity coilguns Cain’s people used tore through the breastplates of the defenders, ripping their bodies to bloody chunks in an instant.
The first fight was over, but the large anteroom had over a dozen hallways leading off in every direction. Cells, Darius thought. It wasn’t a surprise that the Citadel had such a large detention area. Governments like the Tyrant’s tended to arrest a large number of citizens, a necessary effort for one trying to maintain a brutal dictatorship and crush all opposition. But Darius hadn’t come to bring freedom to Eldaron’s oppressed political prisoners. He had come for a single captive. And he knew he was running out of time.
“Where?” Cain shouted to his captive. “Which of these corridors?” There was death in Cain’s voice, and the prisoner feel to his knees, whimpering and begging for his life. Darius reached down and grabbed the fool by his hair, lifting him up with a single powered arm. He extended his blade on the other side, and held it a few centimeters from the terrified man’s face. “This is your last chance, Henri…tell me which corridor or I will cut you into quivering chunks right now.”
The miserable Eldari screamed in pain, but he managed to fight through his fear and agony long enough to hold out a shaking arm. “That one,” he managed to rasp softly. “Down at the very end.”
Darius stared for a few seconds, trying to decide if he believed the man. This would be a moment for treachery too, though he doubted the Eldari had the courage for that…and the prisoner had to know that whatever happened in the next few minutes, Darius would find a way to repay betrayal.
The room was filling with armored figures, more of the Teams pouring in.
“I want a single Team down each of these corridors. Conduct a quick recon, but don’t get too far from here.” He believed his prisoner, but not enough to forego checking out the other hallways. “Ernesto, organize three Teams and come with me.”
Darius took a couple steps and stopped, turning to stare back at the terrified captive. “And bring him,” he said as he moved swiftly toward the designated corridor.
Alcabedo rushed to keep after him, gesturing for the designated Teams to follow him. He grabbed the prisoner himself, dragging the man roughly behind him until he was able to hand him off to one of the troopers.
Cain stopped in front of the closed hatch and paused for an instant. He looked like he might be thinking of how to unlock the door when he whipped up his assault rifle and opened fire on full auto. The tiny shards of hardened iridium left the weapon at almost 5,000 meters per second, and when they struck the metal around the edge of the hatch, both target and projectile vaporized.
It took less than a second for Darius to blow a large hole on the edge of the hatch, and then he leaned forward and shoved it open with all the force his fighting suit’s servos could manage. The door let out one loud creak, and then it tore off its track, falling to the ground into the corridor.
Darius’ rifle was already down in front of him when the hatch gave way, and he opened up almost immediately, targeting the half dozen Eldari troops standing in the corridor.
The hall was long, two hundred meters or more, and there were small doors on each side. Cell doors, Darius thought, feeling a surge of unfocused anger when he wondered how many of the occupants of this prison had committed no greater crime than speaking freely or seeking to protect their families.
Whatever I find, that kind of thing is over here. When I leave, if Eldaron survives it will no longer bow under the rule of one who calls himself Tyrant.
Darius wondered for an instant if he’d ever heard of a dictator who actually took the title Tyrant. It was supreme arrogance, but he couldn’t help but admire the honesty of it…the sheer brazenness. But that won’t stop me from spilling every drop of his blood…
He ran down the hall, and he could feel his heart pounding in his ears. Sweat poured down his neck, his back, making his armor even more uncomfortable that it usually was. But he ignored it all. “Have a Team cover the rear,” he snapped to Alcabedo. He didn’t know the layout of the Eldari prison, and he suspected the way they had come was the only entrance…but there was no point taking chances.
“Already done, General.”
Darius nodded, a cumbersome gesture in armor. Of course you did, he thought, allowing himself a fleeting smile. Ernesto Alcabedo was one of the Eagles’ best, and he took his job as bodyguard very seriously. But he hadn’t faltered in his regular duties, not an iota.
Darius stopped abruptly. The corridor ended in front of a door, similar to the others, but a bit larger. This is it, he thought…and he summoned all his discipline, all the calm he could muster. He took half a step back and aimed his rifle at the locking mechanism. He was more careful this time, concerned about any rounds or debris going through the door…and hitting anyone inside the cell.
I’m have come, father. I have come for you…if you are here.
He took a deep breath and opened fire.
* * * * *
“Stay down, you fucking assholes. These aren’t Eldari toy soldiers firing pop guns. Those are hyper-velocity rounds coming in, and they’ll rip your suits open like you’d pop a can of beans.” Joseph Trent was crouched low, peering out over the small ridgeline at the enemy position a klick and a half to the east.
Trent was a sergeant, but he didn’t hold a sergeant’s post. He was Dan Sullivan’s backup as company commander, and one of the few non-coms in the whole outfit who had a direct line to Darius Cain. The Eagles were a precision outfit, and in the field they usually stuck pretty close to regs, calling each other by proper ranks and the like. All except Joseph Trent. No one called him by his names, first or last…or even his rank. No, to everyone in the Eagles, from newly recruited private to the regimental commanders and above, Sergeant Joseph Trent was known as Bull.
No one was sure whether the name had attached itself to the veteran non-com because of his size and enormous build…or because he was stubborn enough to pound his way through an obstacle with his head. But however it had come into the Eagles’ lexicon, Bull Trent was one of the great heroes of the organization, a man Darius Cain had personally decorated half a dozen times.
Darius had tried to promote Bull as well, but the pigheaded sergeant had refused, insisting he was a non-com at heart, and that’s what he would stay. Nevertheless, ability could not be long denied in an outfit like the Eagles, and though his fatigues still bore the three stripes of his official rank, it had been a long time since he’d stepped onto a battlefield to do a sergeant’s job.
“Bull, it looks like we’ve got another attack coming in…I’d guess brigade strength this time.” Dan Sullivan’s voice blasted into Bull’s helmet. Sullivan was another over-achiever, a platoon commander who had taken over company command on Lysandria…and performed brilliantly. Cyn Kuragina’s entire White Regiment had been deep in the fiercest fighting on that world, when the Eagles had been surprised by several thousand well-equipped troops emerging from hidden positions. Just like now. Only there were a hell of a lot more this time.
“The boys are ready, Cap. They come out of those trenches and we’ll blow ‘em to hell.” There were both men and women serving with the Eagles, but Bull Trent had his own way of speaking…and nobody tried to change it. Darius had long decided it was a pointless effort, and the last thing he wanted to do was tinker around with a natural fighting machine like Trent. And there weren’t more than a handful of others with the guts to try, even in an outfit as known for ferocity and bravery as the Black Eagles.
Sullivan glanced up at his display. He knew Bull was the kind of fighter who never gave up, never even admitted the possibility of defeat. But he could also read the data in the shimmering projection just in front of him. There were a lot of enemy troops over there. A lot.
The captain took a look down the line his company had formed. Bull had them just behind the ridgeline…great cover against an attack from the enemy’s position. The ground rose slowly from their hasty trench line to the high ground his people occupied. There was very little undulation, and that meant there wouldn’t be much cover for the enemy forces if they attacked. It was a textbook killing ground, one he knew troops as good as his would use well. But he still doubted they could beat back a truly concerted attack. Not unless the enemy broke and ran.
And that won’t happen…not with this enemy.
There was something too familiar about these enemy soldiers. He had seen it before…the discipline, the equipment.
“Bull, do these guys remind you of the enemy on Lysandria?”
“Yeah, Cap. I’d bet it’s the same crew, whoever the hell they are.”
Sullivan sighed softly. It was the same force…he was ready to bet his last credit on that. But what did that mean? What did Lysandria and Eldaron have to do with each other? They were far apart, almost on opposite sides of Occupied Space. Lysandria was a backwater, a democracy of sorts that had brought invasion on itself by provoking a stronger neighbor, one that could afford to hire the Eagles. Eldaron, on the other hand, however poorly its military forces had acquitted themselves, was an economic powerhouse, a strong world ruled by an absolute dictator.
So where are these soldiers from? There must be 25,000 of them here, at least. Who could field such a force?
“Cap, it looks like we’ve got some activity over there…”
Sullivan snapped out of his thoughts…just as something exploded fifty meters behind him. A huge spray of dirt blew up into the air, landing all around.
“Mortars,” he heard Bull shouting in the com. The sergeant had recognized the activity along the enemy line…and he’d been the first one to shout out the warning.
&n
bsp; Sullivan ducked low, pushing himself forward, into the soft dirt of the hillside, just as shells began landing all along the line. Mortars weren’t an enormously dangerous weapon for fully-armored troops. It pretty much took a direct hit to kill or seriously wound a powered infantryman. But enough of them could drive a force to ground, stalling an advance…or suppressing defensive fire.
“Alright boys,” Bull said harshly, “these bogies are going to be coming our way soon, so I don’t care how many firecrackers they send over here, your fucking eyes better be where they need to be. ‘Cause if you don’t blow these bastards away when they’re out in that nice open ground, you’re gonna be fightin ‘em right here…ten of them to one of you.”
Sullivan nodded to himself. He’d been thinking the same thing, but once again, Bull had beaten him to it. He wondered if he’d ever seen a more natural soldier than the hulking non-com. He was still wondering when his com unit went crazy, and his whole line opened fire.
His eyes snapped to his display. There were waves of enemy soldiers moving forward. They were all powered infantry, as well-equipped as the Eagles themselves, or nearly so. The moved quickly, covering ground like only powered-infantry could. Their form was excellent, and they moved ahead side to side, keeping themselves low and offering as small a target as possible as they advanced.
His soldiers raked the open plain with fire. Enemy troops began to fall, a few dozen at first…then hundreds as they came closer. The dead soon covered the field, the heaviest concentrations in the lines of fire of the big autocannons. The SAWs and SHWs spat death all across the field, but still the enemy came on. And behind the first wave, fresh lines moved up.
Sullivan peered over the ridge. He knew every shot counted, so he added his own rifle to the fire of his company. He was a crack shot, one of the best in the regiment, and every time he squeezed the trigger, an enemy soldier went down.
But the approaching force just kept coming, despite losses that would have sent most armies reeling in retreat…if not an outright panicked rout. Sullivan couldn’t help but be impressed by the courage that was on display. This was a dangerous enemy…that much was obvious. But there was something strange about them, or at least a doctrine that was utterly foreign to the Black Eagles. He had to grudgingly admit that their training and drill was as close to that of his own troops as any enemy he had faced. Yet there was a difference, one that was downright chilling. The Eagles were as fierce as any fighting force that had ever existed, but they valued the lives of their soldiers. Every plan was created to minimize losses. The equipment, tactics, support services…they were all designed to keep casualties as low as possible. Darius Cain set the standard, and down the ranks, every officer, every squad leader…they spared no effort to keep their men and women alive.
