Michael nodded. “As long as we fight.”
“So believe it, Michael,” Anna said. “And you know what?”
“No, what?”
“Your mutiny was wrong in so many ways—”
“Shit, you can say that again!” Michael said, wiping the tears from his eyes.
“—but it was right in one way, maybe the only way that matters. If our gutless politicians won’t take the fight to the Hammers, then someone has to, and that someone happens to be us. There’s nobody else, Michael. So accept responsibility for what’s happened and move on. We have a war to win, and sitting around wallowing in self-pity and guilt is not going to help us do that.”
“Hey,” Michael protested. “Don’t hold back, Anna. Tell me straight, why don’t you.”
“Somebody has to, Michael Helfort, somebody has to.” Her face softened. “Come on. Coffee and something to eat, then I need to report back to the 120th. Even though we’ve given the Hammers one hell of a kicking, something tells me we’re not out of the woods yet.”
Michael sighed. “Okay. Lead on,” he said.
Monday, January 14, 2402, UD
FLTDETCOMM administrative center, Branxton Base, Commitment
Michael closed Anna’s latest vidcomm, more relieved than he liked to admit to hear that her regiment had been pulled out of the line at long last, the 120th reduced by a week’s bitter fighting to a shattered shell of its former self, every last trooper left alive wounded, Anna included. Michael winced when he saw the impressive bandage she sported across the right side of her face; more dramatic than it looked, she had assured him, and nothing to worry about, though she might be left with a tiny scar.
Of course, Anna being Anna, he had not believed any of her assurances, not for one second. Still, she looked okay, and she had been promoted to lieutenant; Third Platoon, C Company, First Battalion, 120th NRA was her new command. Not bad, thought Michael, considering she had been a trooper only weeks before.
It had been a harrowing week for the NRA, operation following operation as ENCOMM fought to persuade the Hammers that any hope they might have had of destroying the NRA’s heartland was gone, drowned in an ocean of blood. After the brutally successful, if costly, attacks on the Hammer’s three beachheads, ENCOMM had returned the NRA to doing what the NRA did best: hit and run. Exploiting the fact that the Hammers’ forces were bogged down around their beachheads, it had launched a relentless succession of operations, small unit attacks mounted from sally ports that appeared from walls of limestone rock, attacks that came and went before the Hammers could mount an effective response. The attacks had been devastating: Hammer units were decimated, then decimated again and again, their casualties measured by the thousand, access routes mined, infrastructure blown apart, equipment and supplies destroyed. One operation mounted by the 185th at night in the middle of a torrential storm had even managed to destroy an entire squadron of marine heavy landers without the loss of a single trooper.
Dollar for dollar, the most effective of all were the NRA’s ghost squads. Two strong, they slipped out under cover of darkness, sliding their way past sentries, searching out exhausted Hammer marines sleeping the sleep of the dead. The ghosts would slip among the huddled shapes, cutting the throats of every second man, before slipping away into the night. Understandably, the effect on marine morale had been devastating.
The Hammers were now very jumpy, to the point where every marine and his dog would open up at the slightest suggestion of an attack. Only half jokingly, one wag from ENCOMM’s staff had said that the Hammer’s blue-on-blue casualties now exceeded those inflicted by the NRA. It was no joke, though; the Hammers were doing it tough.
Even so, the bastards still showed no sign of packing up and going home. How much longer? Michael wondered as Captain Adrissa called FLTDETCOMM’s morning briefing to order.
“Welcome, everyone. Before we get into it, I just had a comm from ENCOMM. They confirm that at 06:00 this morning, the Hammers started to pull back from their beachheads in Juliet, Mike, and Quebec sectors. Quick-response forces are being de—”
The room erupted, a cacophonous mix of cheers, applause, and shouting, every last Fed present standing to acknowledge what Michael knew to be the NRA’s greatest victory ever … and its least significant. He sat unmoved by the jubilation engulfing him. The Hammers might have given up, but that did not mean the war was over. Michael feared the opposite was true. The cost to the NRA in lives and matériel had been prodigious; any chance of the NRA making its long-delayed push out of the Branxtons and into McNair in ’02 had now vanished, the ordnance and people they needed expended in the frenzied effort to keep the Hammers at bay.
“Okay, folks, okay,” Adrissa said, her voice raised to cut through the hubbub. “Quiet, please. When we’ve finished here, there will be a meeting of senior staff. I want …”
Michael tuned out. What Adrissa did or did not want was not important; ending this godforsaken war was.
There had to be a way, he said to himself; there had to be a way.
Late that night, Michael lay awake, staring into the darkness, when the answer came to him. To be more accurate, it was a signpost pointing to where the answer lay. He swore. In all the work he had been doing for Adrissa, he had been looking in the wrong place. He would have to talk to Adrissa, something he did not look forward to.
More depressed than ever, he rolled over into sleep.
Tuesday, January 15, 2402, UD
FLTDETCOMM, Branxton Base, Commitment
Captain Adrissa made no attempt to mask her frustration, eyes and mouth screwed up into a frown of bitter disappointment.
“That’s it, Lieutenant?” she said. “That’s the best you can do? The NRA can’t finish this war on their own, so we have to go ask the Feds? For chrissakes, talk about a statement of the blindingly obvious. I could have come up with that.” Adrissa took a deep breath to steady herself. “I have to say I think you’ve let me down … and yourself. You are without doubt one of the best tactical thinkers I have ever come across, so I find it very hard to accept that asking the Feds for help is the only way out of this war. Shit, is that the best you could come up with?”
Michael fought to keep his temper in check, his cheeks coloring an angry red. “I’m sorry you feel that way, sir,” he said, staring right at Adrissa, “but forgive me, sir, it doesn’t matter what you think. If there’s only one answer, there’s only one answer … and it makes no difference whether you like it or not, sir. Trust me, there is only one answer, and that’s to ask the Feds.”
Adrissa stiffened; her mouth started to open to respond. She caught herself in time and sat back, gazing thoughtfully at Michael before leaning forward again. “I’m sorry, Michael. Forget what I just said. You’re right. I hate to say it, but I think you are right. Thanks to Chief Chua and his microfabs, the NRA can make everything they need as long as it’s not too big. What they can’t make is solid-fuel rocket motors and warheads. If they could do that, they would not need the Feds. Without ordnance microfabs, not to mention the templates to drive them, they cannot make rocket motors and warheads. Not in a million years.”
“No, they can’t, sir. Yes, they do a great job stealing missiles from the Hammers, but the NRA can never steal enough to support a full-scale breakout from the Branxtons. All of which means they can keep fighting, maybe forever, and still not win this war.”
Adrissa nodded. “Exactly … which means we have to find a way to persuade the Feds to lend a hand. Ideally, they’d supply us with ordnance microfabs and the knowledge bases to go with them.”
“Which they’ll never do in case the Hammers get their hands on them.”
“Quite, so somehow they have to be persuaded to supply the NRA with the missiles they need. So, Einstein,” Adrissa said with a half smile, “at least tell me you’ve worked how we do that.”
Relieved that Adrissa was back on his side, Michael returned the smile. “Sorry, sir. Not yet. To be honest, persuading them com
es second. We need to work out how we can talk to them first.”
“Ah, yes,” Adrissa said. “Now, that will be a problem.”
“It will be. Our embassy’s long gone from McNair.”
“Yes, it is. Who handles Fed business now?”
“The Confederation of Worlds, sir.”
Adrissa frowned. “Shit! Precious doesn’t even begin to describe that bunch of sanctimonious pricks. Somehow I don’t think we can use them to get a message off-planet.”
“No, sir. In any case, I can’t see a message being enough. This is going to take some serious negotiation.”
“Yes, it will,” Adrissa said, massaging her temples with the tips of her fingers. Michael thought she had aged ten years in the last week. “Tell you what, Michael. Get that brain of yours in gear and try to work out how we do this. I want you back in that seat in two days with the bones of a plan, a plan that’ll work. Okay?”
Michael tried not to grimace. “It’s a big ask, but I’ll do what I can, sir.”
“Too late for that. We need to make this work. Two days, Michael, two days.”
“Yes, sir,” Michael said.
Oh, shit, he thought as Adrissa waved him out of the alcove that passed for her office.
Wednesday, January 16, 2402, UD
Yamaichi marine base, Commitment
The convoy of troop carriers eased its way down the night streets until waved to a halt by the marine security detail protecting the sprawling compound that housed Marine Force 8’s senior officers. The sergeant in charge made his way over to the passenger window.
“Identification,” the man snapped.
Without a word, the colonel in charge of the night’s operation flashed his card.
“That seems to be in order, sir,” the sergeant said, stepping half a pace back and saluting. “May I know your business here to night, sir? I was not notified of your arrival.”
“No, Sergeant, you may not know my business. Now stand aside and allow my men to pass. That’s an order.”
Confused and conflicted, the sergeant hesitated, torn between his duty as a marine and the overriding authority vested in all DocSec officers, an authority he had, along with every other Hammer, been taught from birth to obey. He made up his mind. “Please wait here, sir. I will let the duty officer know that you—”
“Do that, Sergeant, and you’ll never see your family again.”
The sergeant’s face tightened into an angry scowl. “That’s as may be, Colonel, but I have my orders, too,” he said. “Wait here, please.”
The colonel ignored the sergeant. “Drive through,” he ordered his driver. “That pissant bit of timber won’t stop us.”
“Sir,” the driver said, stamping his foot down, the carrier accelerating hard into the security barrier.
Nobody was ever able to establish who fired the first shot, but it quickly became a matter of only academic interest; the marines made short work of the colonel’s troop carrier. There was a moment of silence before, without a word being said, the marines fanned out and started to take out the rest of the DocSec convoy and any troopers stupid enough to show themselves. The night was torn apart by the flat, slapping crack of rifle fire, a terrible blood lust driving the marines through the night until the last panicked DocSec trooper was cornered and shot out of hand.
The sergeant in charge of the security detail leaned forward and spit on the man’s body. “Fucking DocSec scum,” he said. “Lucky we didn’t cut your balls off first, you piece of garbage.” He turned to look at the rest of his men. “I don’t know about you,” he continued, “but I think it’s time we made ourselves very scarce. I’m off to join the NRA. Good luck, boys.”
With that, he was off, running hard into a night now raucous with Klaxons calling the marine base to action.
“Admiral Belasz is here to see you, sir.”
“Send him in.”
Without a word, Belasz entered Polk’s office and took his seat, his face gray with fatigue and stress.
“What’s the latest, Admiral?”
“Well, sir,” Belasz said, “I’ve spoken to the new commanding general of marines. The situation is still very confused, but what appears to have happened is this. Every one of the three marine bases refused to allow in the DocSec snatch squads sent to arrest the senior marine officers responsible for the Branxton fiasco.”
“Not one?” Polk said. “I don’t believe it. Not one? The marines refused to obey DocSec?”
“That’s what happened, sir.”
“Kraa!” Polk hissed softly. “Go on.”
“At Besud and Beslan the standoff ended when the officers ordered their men to stand down and hand themselves over.”
Polk shook his head; that men went so willingly to what they must have known was certain death amazed him. “What about Yamaichi?”
“Not so good, sir. We don’t know how or why, but there was a firefight with the marines securing the senior officers’ compound. The entire DocSec arrest squad was killed, and matters got out of hand despite all attempts by MARFOR 8’s commanders to regain control. A hard core of maybe a thousand marines went on a rampage. Some have disappeared, probably deserted to the NRA, and the rest pulled back to the airfield.”
“Tell me the situation is contained, Admiral.”
“Not yet, but it will be, sir. The rest of MARFOR 8 are standing back waiting to see what happens. I’m unwilling to rely on them to take back control, so marines from Amokran are on their way. They will secure the base and put a cordon around the airfield. If they cannot persuade the men to surrender, they will have to be taken by force.”
Polk’s fingers tapped out his concern. “You think marines will attack marines, Admiral?”
Belasz blinked. “I hope it won’t come to that, sir.”
“Answer the damn question!” Polk snapped.
“I’m afraid they may not, sir,” Belasz said, “especially if they believe they are doing DocSec’s dirty work, if they believe the men will be shot out of hand. The punitive action taken against the commanders of the Branxton operation has created a great deal of resentment among ordinary marines. Perhaps …”
“Perhaps what?” Polk said, glaring at Belasz from eyes narrowed in suspicion and anger.
“Perhaps … perhaps the decision to hand the senior commanders responsible for that operation over to DocSec should be rethought, sir.”
Polk sat back in his chair, visibly angry, eyes locked on Belasz’s face. The admiral refused to back down, returning Polk’s stare. The chief councillor backed down first; looking away, he pushed the chair back and stood up. He walked over to the window. “You’re questioning me now, Admiral?” he said, spinning on his heel to look directly at Belasz. “I’ve had men shot for less, and believe me when I say that I’ll have you shot if necessary.”
Belasz straightened up in his seat. “I know that, Chief Councillor. Frankly, I cannot worry about that anymore,” he said with a dismissive wave of a hand. “So yes, I think I am questioning not you but the decision. In my opinion, it’s a bad decision. I’m sorry I cannot agree with you, but a bad decision is a bad decision even if it’s made by you … sir.”
Polk stared, eyes narrowed in fury. “A bad decision?” he snarled.
“Yes, sir,” Belasz said with a firmness belied by a tongue flickering restlessly across dry lips. “It is a bad decision. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but we cannot continue to execute or imprison our best officers every time there is a military setback. I am the third chief of defense in what? Less than two years? In that time, Space Fleet has seen DocSec rip the guts out of its officer corps not once but twice. First after the Battle of Hell’s Moons and then after the loss of our antimatter plant. Planetary defense has been purged by DocSec after the attacks on Yallan, Gwalia, and Perkins. Now it’s the marines’ turn, Kraa help them.” Belasz paused, shaking his head. “It takes DocSec only a few hours to tear down and destroy what it takes the military years and billions of k-dollars to build: an effe
ctive cadre of officers capable of leading the Hammer Worlds to victory,” he continued, face flushed and voice rising as anger began to take hold. “And what have we ended up with? Officers who spend more time worrying about staying alive than they do about defeating our enemies. It’s a bad decision, sir, because it costs us a lot more than the lives of a few officers. And why do we do what we do? Because that’s the way we’ve always done business. It’s bullshit, Chief Councilor, and it’s time you were told that.”
Belasz’s outburst had triggered a wave of raw fury that threatened to overwhelm Polk; the last man to talk to him so bluntly was long dead. He regained his self-control with an enormous effort, a tiny grain of common sense telling him that Belasz was not all wrong. “By Kraa, Admiral,” he hissed through still-clenched teeth, “you take some chances.”
“Some things have to be said, sir,” Balasz said, eyes still blazing anger and defiance, “whatever the consequences.”
Suddenly the fight went out of Polk. He slumped back into his seat. Belasz had a point, but the problem with the Yamaichi marines was much bigger than the admiral allowed.
Much bigger, so big that it threatened his hold on power.
The fact was that ordinary marines had refused to cooperate with DocSec; the Hammer system had a linchpin, and it was the people’s unquestioning acceptance of DocSec’s authority. If well-trained and disciplined marines started standing up to DocSec, the foundation on which the entire apparatus of state terror rested was at risk.
That he could not allow. Not now, not ever, not if he wanted the Hammer of Kraa to endure. No matter what Belasz might say. He straightened up in his seat the better to look Belasz right in the face. “I’ll forget your insubordination, Admiral … this time. Do not ever presume on my tolerance again. Is that understood?”
“But sir,” Belasz protested, “how am—”
“Enough, Admiral, enough!” Polk’s voice slashed across Belasz. “Enough or by Kraa …” Polk drew in a huge breath, letting it out in a long, slow sigh. “I take note of your comments concerning the effect of what I think you called DocSec purges.”
Helfort’s War Book 4: The Battle for Commitment Planet Page 39
