“Sir,” the man said with the casual wave of his right hand that passed for a salute in the NRA, “Sergeant Burelli, Bravo-26 security detachment.”
Returning the salute, Michael did what he did with every new NRA trooper he met: He shook hands. Given that every last one of them had been taught from birth to think that the Feds were something unspeakably evil, it was the only way Michael knew to show them that Feds were ordinary human beings, too.
“Sergeant. Glad to be here. They tried to nail us with kinetics on the way in.”
“We know,” Burelli said. “We felt them.”
“Any sign of follow-up?”
Burelli shook his head, the look on his sun-weathered face—by Fed standards, he looked like an old man even though Michael had seen enough Hammers to know that he was probably not even fifty—making it quite clear he wanted the Hammers to try. “No, sir,” he said. “ENCOMM reports no air activity in this sector and no kinetics inbound. Portal defenses are online, so we’re not expecting any problems.”
“Any ground activity?”
“Nothing. The Hammers know better; they don’t try much anymore, ever since we trapped two entire battalions of those scum-sucking PGDF bastards inside Delta-35,” he said, a grin splitting his face from side to side. “They were so damn sure they had us on the run, they couldn’t help themselves. They kept on coming, on and on … until we blew the roof down on their Kraa-kissing heads. For some reason, the Hammer’s appetite for cave-clearance operations has never been the same since. Can’t think why.”
Michael laughed. “Good to hear it,” he said. “We’ll be hooking up any minute for the tow to Bravo-16. Good to meet you, Sergeant. Best of luck.”
“Thanks, same to you,” Burelli said before walking up the tunnel back toward the cave mouth. Michael watched him for a moment. The sergeant’s lanky beanpole frame radiated confidence and quiet aggression, a powerful reminder of just how committed the average NRA trooper was to the cause. If commitment were all it took to win a war, this one would have long been over.
Checking with the map stored in his neuronics, he set off to find the local dataport to connect him through to ENCOMM, looking forward to the day when the NRA adopted Fed neuronics. He would probably die waiting; neuronics were yet another technology explicitly proscribed by Hammer of Kraa doctrine. He had to work at it, but he found the port eventually. Connecting the interface unit and logging on were the work of only moments—the NRA’s fiber-optic networks might be archaic, but they were fast and reliable—and Michael was in. He pulled up Operation Pendulum’s command plot and had a few anxious moments while he scanned it, hoping to confirm that Alley Kat and Hell Bent had made it back.
To his relief, they had, though not without drama. Like Widowmaker, they had been targeted by Hammer Kingfishers operating from McNair spaceport and then by kinetics when they returned home, but return home they had, and thanks to Widowmaker’s diversionary efforts to the west, they had been able to take out their secondary targets before fleeing, leaving behind them the smoking, shattered ruins of four planetary defense camps supporting operations along the main highway running from McNair through Perdan and on to Daleel. Classic hit-and-run attacks, straight out of the irregular warfare manual, attacks that came and went before the defenders ever worked out what was happening.
Problem was, irregular warfare never won wars, even if supported by the most advanced ground-attack landers in humanspace. Until NRA ground forces captured and held the fount of all Hammer power, the city of McNair, until its troopers controlled the streets, until Chief Councillor Polk and the rest of the Supreme Council had been hung in time-honored Hammer fashion by one leg from lampposts, until Doctrinal Security and its legions of black-jumpsuited psychopaths had been destroyed, this war was a long way from over.
Michael was about to disconnect when Major Hok’s face appeared in his neuronics.
“Major Hok, sir,” he said, “how’s Pendulum tracking?”
“Too early to say,” Hok said noncommittally. “Your tug arrived yet?”
“On its way.”
“Good. General Vaas wants to talk to you. Hand over to your XO and report to ENCOMM soonest. Hok, out.”
“Yes, sir,” Michael said, heart sinking. He had been looking forward to doing not much while Widowmaker was towed to her new location. He consulted the maps stored in his neuronics; his heart sank even more. The journey from Bravo-26 back to ENCOMM to meet up with Vaas would be a bastard: a long and uncomfortable trek through the sprawling complex of caves and tunnels that housed the NRA, by way of an intricate network of maglevs, heavy and light sleds, carbots, truckbots, and of course caves too convoluted for anything other than foot traffic.
That he did not need.
Back at Widowmaker, Michael climbed the ladder to the flight deck with an effort; Ferreira was waiting for him.
“Cheer up, sir,” she said with a smile. “The tug will be here in a minute, and then it’s a ten-hour tow. I feel a shitload of rack time coming on.”
“Enjoy it,” Michael said, sour-faced. “ENCOMM wants me yesterday, so I’ll catch up with you later.”
“I heard they relocated.”
Michael nodded. “Tell me about it. ENCOMM’s now halfway to bloody Daleel.”
“Shit. Rather you than me,” Ferreira said with a grimace. “That’ll take you hours.”
“Yup, it sure will. See you all later. I’ll comm you an update when I know what ENCOMM wants me to do.”
“Sir.”
Michael was exhausted by the time he made it to ENCOMM, a journey of long hours and hundreds of kilometers. The NRA’s transport network might be a triumph of determination, ingenuity, and improvisation—all of which it was—but comfortable, fast, and convenient it was not. Climbing out of the sled that had taken him the final few kilometers, he paused in a vain attempt to stretch the kinks out of his left leg, phantom pain from old wounds stubbornly resistant to the best painkillers the Hammer pharmaceutical industry could supply.
Limping, he made his way across the lobby, past security, and into the operations room.
Major Hok spotted him and waved him over. “About time you made it,” she grunted, turning back to the holovid screen in front of her.
“Major!” Michael protested. “Give me a break. I—”
Hok’s hand went up to stop him. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Sorry. Things around here are a bit tense.”
“Tense? Why? Last I heard the ground operation was going well.”
“It was,” Hok said, “and I’m sorry to drag you all this way for nothing. General Vaas insisted, but he’s been called away.”
“When will he be back?”
“No idea.”
Michael groaned; Vaas was one of the most unpredictable people he had ever met. He could be waiting hours, maybe even days. “What does he want me for?”
“You know the general. Brainstorming session to see if there’s something we can do about our lack of landers. He seems to think you’re one of the more creative people around. Fuck knows why.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Major,” Michael snorted. “Besides, solving that one will take more than a bit of brain-storming. Anyway,” he said, resigning himself to a long wait, “if that’s what the general wants.”
“I’m sorry,” Hok said with a contrite smile. “Not been the best of days. You eaten?”
“No,” Michael replied, Hok’s question provoking protests from an unhappy stomach.
“Nor me. Come on, let’s grab a bite to eat, and I’ll tell you all about it. I’m starving.”
Michael followed Hok out of ENCOMM to the canteen without enthusiasm. He might be hungry, but the NRA’s food was both awful and monotonous. But food was food, and he was hungry. Silence reigned as the pair shoveled food into empty stomachs.
Pushing her tray away with a soft belch of satisfaction, Hok sat back, mug of coffee in hand. “Kraa, that was good,” she said. “I do love that garlic chicken.”
�
��You’re kidding me, right?” Michael said, looking up in disbelief.
“Yes, I am. I hate the shit. We have the worst foodbots in humanspace. Now, where was I?”
“Pendulum. Ground ops. Not so good.”
“Ah, yeah. The good news is the diversions worked as planned. General Vaas asked me to say well done, by the way. Not too many of those DocSec scum will get home for the weekend. Millfield is a wreck.”
“Tell you what, Major. When it comes to killing DocSec troopers, I’m happy to oblige.”
Hok’s eyebrows lifted at the quiet intensity in Michael’s voice. “Don’t like them too much, do you?”
“Why would I? The way they treated me the first time around, not to mention that little stunt Colonel Hartspring tried to pull. Bastards, all of them.”
Hok grimaced. “No argument. Interesting, though,” she added. “They’re beginning to worry we might win.”
Michael’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. This was news. “DocSec is?”
“Seems so. Nothing definite, of course, but DocSec is so badly compromised that we know what their brass is planning before their troopers do. Apparently, more than a few of them are finding reasons to visit Scobie’s World, and surprise, surprise, they never come back. Changing the subject, I finally got to see the holovid, by the way.”
“The Hartspring vid?”
“Yeah,” Hok said. “Nasty piece of work that one.”
Unaware he was even doing it, Michael ran a finger lightly down the side of his face where Hartspring’s riding crop had sliced him open all those months before. “Tell me. He and I have unfinished business.” Michael breathed out slowly to help control the sudden rage. “Can we stick to Pendulum, Major?” he said.
“Sure. Like I was saying, the diversions worked well. Your other landers made quick work of the bases around Perdan. Have to tell you, the general was happy to see them get back safely. They make a difference.”
“How did the Daleel diversion go?”
Hok sighed deeply. “I never knew two NRA companies could make so much ruckus. Act like a half brigade, the general said, and that’s what they did. We know the Hammers have long been worried about an attack on Daleel, and our guys were so convincing, they forced the Hammers to commit the PGDF quick reaction force from Ojan. Our guys didn’t stand much of a chance, but they did the job. Those poor, brave bastards kept the Hammers busy.”
Hok was silent for a long time, her head turned away, but not before Michael saw the tears running down her face. His heart went out to her. The troopers tasked with the diversionary attack on Daleel had known their chances of getting out alive were not good. “How many made it back?” he asked finally.
“One,” Hok said bitterly.
“One?” Michael said, voice rising in shock.
“One. Only one trooper made it back. A and B Companies, third Battalion, 45th Regiment, no longer exist. Give or take a few, that’s two hundred troopers lost.”
“Shit,” Michael whispered.
“Shit is right. Those Kraa-damned Hammers captured forty-six troopers alive, all wounded … They shot them. Lined them up and shot them,” Hok said flatly. “Forty-six troopers. We won’t forget them. I sometimes wonder why the Hammers think they can beat us.”
Hok was silent for a minute. “Anyway,” she continued, “the attack on Perdan’s firebases kicked off on schedule. At first …”
Michael lay on his bunk, his mind churning through the events of the day. With the Hammers distracted by the Daleel diversion and the threat of an immediate PGDF counterattack gone, the NRA had overrun the firebases that ringed Perdan without difficulty, their PGDF defenders falling back in the face of an attack relentless in its ferocity, the NRA attackers’ bravery almost suicidal. In less than thirty minutes of desperate fighting, five of the firebases had fallen. Ground-attack flyers diverted from the Daleel operation were left circling, unable to assist, the tactical situation on the ground so chaotic that they were unable to separate friend from foe. Destroying what they were not able to steal, the NRA had slipped away south into the protective cover of the forests that surrounded Perdan, hounded and harassed all the way but too spread out to suffer heavy casualties.
That was the good news.
Firebase Merino, occupied by an artillery battalion, was a different matter. In a major intelligence failure, the NRA had failed to spot the arrival of two companies of Hammer marines airlifted in from Beslan to stiffen its PGDF defenders, who were on the brink of falling apart thanks to the battalion’s cadre of corrupt and in effective officers. In three hours of bloody hand-to-hand fighting, the marines, aided by their reluctant planetary defense comrades, had fought the NRA’s 111th Regiment to a standstill before pushing them back.
The NRA commander in charge of Pendulum’s ground forces had made a bad problem worse: slow to understand what was happening to the 111th, she had thrown her reserves to support the attack instead of disengaging. It was too little, too late; any chance the NRA had of withdrawing was blown away by the belated arrival of more marines from Amokran.
Hounded out of Firebase Merino by marine counterattacks, their retreat cut off by air-dropped blocking forces, the NRA troopers had been sliced to pieces, troopers dying as they made desperate attempts to get clear. In the end, only a handful survived the Hammer marines’ savage response.
Michael despaired. The Perdan operation was a crucial part of the NRA’s strategy. The Branxton Ranges dropped sharply down to meet the floodplains of the Oxus River in the west and the Krommer River in the east. Three sizable towns anchored the Hammer’s line of defense protecting the approaches to McNair—Bretonville in the west, Daleel in the east, and Perdan in the center, a small town sprawled across a low saddle—and the NRA was compelled to take them all if it was ever to break out of the Branxtons and drive north to threaten McNair. Judging by the outcome of that day’s bloody fighting, its chances of doing that were not good.
That meant—Michael’s heart fluttered as the implications hit home—that this damn war was doomed to drag on and on. It meant that all his romantic ideas of helping the NRA liberate their worlds from Hammer oppression were pure fantasy. It meant that he had condemned the spacers and marines who had helped him hijack Redwood, Red River, and Redress to an uncertain future trapped on Commitment. It meant he had destroyed any chance the Fed prisoners might have had of getting home.
And now Anna, the only reason he had come to Commitment, was in the front line fighting alongside the rest of the NRA’s 120th. Shit, he swore despairingly, if her regiment was thrown into another Perdan fiasco, if they suffered the way the 111th had, he might never see her again. Nothing could help her—and him—if the Hammers captured her. One thing was for certain.
If that happened, Colonel Hartspring would make sure they both died slow and painful deaths.
Sunday, November 11, 2401, UD
Chief councillor’s residence, McNair City, Commitment
“The idea has great merit, General Baxter, great merit.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But,” Chief Councillor Polk said, raising a cautionary finger, “will it work? That is the question.”
“My staff believes it will, sir, and so do I. We have a solid plan: realistic, conservative, a plan that learns from the mistakes of the past.”
“Fine. Get the things moving. I’d like to see a formal submission to the Defense Council before the end of this month. Can you do that?”
“We can, sir. We’ve been working on this since early March.”
“Good. When you brief Admiral Belasz, don’t let him know we’ve had this little chat. I don’t want to compromise the chain of command.”
“Of course not, sir. I’ll brief the admiral next week. We are very well prepared for this, so I’m confident he will approve.”
“I am, too. Keep me posted. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“In that case, I’ll wish you a good evening.”
“Sir.”
<
br /> Polk watched General Baxter walk away. He had always known the commanding general of marines to be a rank opportunist, but the man had outdone himself this time. Polk was no fool. Without a word being said, he understood fully the deal Baxter offered: The marines would destroy the NRA; in exchange, the corps would swallow the PGDF. Not that it would be easy giving Baxter the payoff he sought. Polk’s last attempt to create a common command structure to control operations against the NRA had been an ignominious failure, torpedoed by the PGDF’s political supporters, wrecked on the rocks of the Constitution, a ship lost with all hands. It still rankled.
But if the marines were able to do what the PGDF had so signally failed to do, if they were able to crush the NRA, Polk was confident he could marshal enough support to bury the PGDF. Then the Hammer Worlds could turn its attention to those Kraa-damned Feds. Not that they would be much of a problem; the Pascanicians would help make sure of that.
With the Feds out of the way, all of humanspace would be at the feet of the Hammer of Kraa. What a glorious prospect, Polk thought. With a grateful General Baxter and the Hammer of Kraa Corps of Marines backing him every step of the way, he would become humanspace’s first—
“Chief Councillor, sir?”
The diffident words of his personal assistant splintered Polk’s dreams of imperial greatness into a thousand shards. “What?” he demanded.
“Mister van Luderen is here, sir.”
“Oh, right. Send him out.”
Sweating heavily, van Luderen slouched across the sun-beaten patio, a shambling giant of a man: florid of face, flabby of body, heavy of jaw.
“Hello, Jeremiah,” van Luderen said.
“Have a seat, Marten,” Chief Councillor Polk said. He ignored van Luderen’s outstretched hand, instead waving at one of the well-cushioned cane chairs arranged in the shade of a huge, spreading fig tree. “Drink?”
“Beer, make it two, and make it quick,” the man said, easing himself into a chair with a grunt of relief, fleshy fingers wiping away the sweat beaded under black-bagged eyes. “Jeez, Jeremiah, this town of yours is hot. Can’t understand why anybody would want to live here.”
Helfort’s War Book 4: The Battle for Commitment Planet Page 24
