by Jay Allan
“Yes sir, Major.” MacArthur’s reply was sullen. “We will lift in 9 minutes 30, as ordered.”
Taylor knew the snotty shithead was pissed, and he couldn’t help but smile. He cut the line without another word. You know a war’s been going on too long, he thought, when you want to kill people on your own side more than the enemy.
“OK, boys. Here they come.” Hank Daniels was lying on his stomach, his enhanced eyes focused on the approaching enemy. “Remember, we’re going to drop as many of them as we can, but the ones we don’t get…we let them break through. Do not…I repeat, do not…engage in close combat. Our priority is to minimize our own casualties. If the enemy approaches your position, you are to withdraw.” Daniels tried to issue the order coldly and unemotionally, but he ended up sounding like he’d just tasted something bad. He trusted Taylor’s judgment implicitly, and Blackie had made Jake’s orders exceedingly clear. But it still ran against his grain to let any of the enemy go when he had a chance to wipe them out. To Hank Daniels, every battle was a fight to the death. He’d been torn from his life and family and sent to an alien hell…all because of the enemy. The Machines and their Tegeri masters were good for one thing in Daniels’ mind, and only one. Killing.
His assault rifle was slung, unused, over his back. Instead, he held a heavy Gauss gun, the long, thick barrel stretching over a meter in front of him. He shifted his body so he wasn’t lying on the heavy cable that connected the magnetic coilgun to the power supply on his exoskeletal attachments. The weapon was far too heavy for a normal soldier to manage, but Daniel’s enhanced muscles and powerful exos allowed him to handle it with ease.
“Mortar crews…” Daniels had his strikeforce’s own mortar, plus a second one Black had stolen from Bear Samuels’ group to reinforce him. “…commence firing.”
Barely a second or two passed before Daniels’ cybernetic ears picked up the whistling sound of two shells heading for the enemy line. The mortars were using enhanced plasma rounds, and each shot packed a heavy punch.
The first two rounds landed short, erupting with blinding flashes about 100 meters ahead of the approaching enemy. The second shots were right on target, and a dozen of the Machines were caught in the kill zones and engulfed by the expanding, superhot plasmas.
The Machines were moving east in a tight formation, driven that way by the pincers closing around them from every other direction. Now they scattered, trying to minimize their vulnerability to the mortar fire. But the whole force was trapped in a narrow defile, with minimal room to extend their formation.
“Gauss guns and HHVs…prepare to open fire.” Daniels had ten of the magnetic autoguns, all in the hands of crack shots. Normally, the strikeforce commander wouldn’t handle one of the heavy weapons, but Daniels had come up as a sniper, and there wasn’t a better shot in the battalion. And he wanted every hit he could get before he let the survivors through.
“Fire!” The word was barely out of his mouth when his finger depressed the trigger. The Gauss gun was firing on full auto, but Daniels’ didn’t need it…his shots were all spot on. His targets didn’t just drop, they practically ceased to exist as 5 or 10 hyper-velocity projectiles tore them apart.
Up and down the line his people were raking the approaching enemy, inflicting enormous casualties. Normally, he’d have kept some of his assets in reserve, but he wanted to take every shot he could get before he was forced to withdraw. He’d follow his orders, but Jake’s command didn’t prevent him from doing everything he could to drop as many of the enemy as possible before he bugged out. The Machines were firing back, but it was light and sporadic. They’d already been in a fight, and they were disordered and low on ammunition.
“Keep firing until I give the order to withdraw.” Daniels would never disobey Taylor, but he was going to push it to the limit.
He’d put down at least 20 of the Machines already, and he kept firing as quickly as he could pick out targets. He was really liking the Gauss gun. The weapon wasn’t a new one, but it hadn’t been a battlefield success until recently. It packed too much recoil for a man to effectively handle, and it needed a heavy power supply that was hard to move in the field. Both problems were neatly solved when the Supersoldier program started implanting artificial muscle fibers and installing exos on troopers. A soldier with mods could easily manage the Gauss gun’s kick, making it an extremely effective, yet highly portable weapon. And the powered exoskeleton had no trouble at all mounting the coilgun’s power unit.
“HHV crews, focus your fire on the flanks. Let’s force these fuckers to bunch up in the center.” With the added firepower of the Gauss guns, Daniels could divert his HHVs to drive the enemy where he wanted them. The Machines were getting close, but he still had time. He could take out a few…
“Hank, it’s Jake.” Taylor’s voice was loud and a little distorted on Daniels’ implanted com unit. He sounded a little odd…almost amused.
“Jake…I was gonna pull back in…”
“Pull back now, Hank.” Taylor was trying to suppress a laugh. “I know you don’t like leaving the web, Spider, but I’ve got this covered. MacArthur’s birds are ready to hit them as soon as your people are clear.” He paused. “Ya killed enough, buddy. Just get the hell out of there so the Dragonfires can hose them down. Then we can all go home.” What passed for home, at least.
Daniels smiled. He hated the idea of not taking out as many of the enemy as possible…but if someone else was going to kill them, he figured he could share the honor. “Got it, Jake.” He took one last shot, targeting a cluster of three Machines and taking them all down. “We’re on the way.”
MacArthur looked down at the field. The Machines were fleeing in disarray…and there were a lot fewer of them that he’d expected. He hated to admit it, but that obnoxious prick Taylor knew his shit. There was nothing left for his people to do but mop up.
“Raptor 05 and Raptor 06, assume covering position.” His squadron had driven off the enemy air support before the ground forces went in, and the scope was clear of any contacts. But Machine stealth technology was strong, and MacArthur wasn’t about to risk getting caught with his pants down. He knew he’d be expected to explain the loss of any Dragonfires and, if he was going to take casualties, he wanted something better to say than, “I got ambushed by enemy gunships because I was careless.”
“Raptors 01, 02, 03, 04, commence attack run.” He angled his ship, pulling back on the antigrav output, descending sharply. “These fuckers are disorganized and out in the open. Let’s take ’em down.”
The Dragonfire gunboats were bristling with weapons. Each boat had six U-270 “Chainsaw” guns designed to intercept incoming missiles and ordnance. MacArthur’s squadron had engaged the enemy air support earlier, and they’d won total superiority over the battlefield. With the Machines disordered and in wholesale retreat, they were getting only spotty antiaircraft fire from the ground, and the Chainsaws intercepted it all almost effortlessly.
The four ships came across the field at perpendicular to the enemy line of retreat. Each Dragonfire mounted ten heavy autoguns, and they strafed the field as they flew across. The massive hypervelocity rounds almost disintegrated anything they touched, tearing Machine bodies to shreds.
“Reposition for second attack run.” MacArthur’s voice was loud, feral. He hated the enemy with a raging passion. His grandparents had been scientists, and volunteers on one of the early colonial expeditions. They’d been slaughtered by the Machines, just like every other human being on New Earth. MacArthur hadn’t even been born, but hatred for the Tegeri and their creations ran hot in his family.
The massive gunships angled up slightly, coming around 90 degrees to hit the enemy along their line of retreat. Flying an antigrav was a lot easier than a plane or copter…at least once you got used to it. Altitude was controlled almost totally by the power fed into the antigravity generators, and the overall piloting had a much more two dimensional feel to it.
“Arm EFAs.” The enha
nced fuel-air explosives were an area effect weapon, designed to cover a large section of ground with an intensely hot fireball. The EFA’s were like Napalm on steroids, and they were extremely effective at clearing out sections of a battlefield.
MacArthur stared straight ahead as his gunboat headed for the approaching enemy. The Machines didn’t panic, at least not the same way humans did. But they could evaluate threats and respond appropriately. They were running now…scattering and trying to flee anywhere they could. It might not be a rout, at least technically, but it damned sure looked like one.
“Sergeant…” MacArthur didn’t turn to face his gunnery chief, didn’t even move a muscle as he gave the order…he just stared at the enemy survivors 100 meters below helplessly trying to flee the death he was bringing them. “…commence EFA drop.”
As soon as the last of the ordnance dropped, MacArthur increased the antigrav power, arcing the gunboat up and away from the inferno it had just unleased. The billowing flames reached 100 meters into the sky, and the explosions obliterated everything in an 80 meter wide swath across the plain below. MacArthur checked the scanner. All four of his attacking boats had completed their runs. It was impossible to see anything on the ground but the flames. A wicked smile crossed his lips. He couldn’t imagine how anything could have survived down there.
“MacArthur to Battalion Command. Attack run complete…destruction total. Raptor Squadron, returning to base.” MacArthur took one last look back at the stricken field. He didn’t like Jake Taylor…he didn’t like him at all. But the man knew how to wage war.
Chapter 10
From the Journal of Jake Taylor:
When I was home, I never gave much thought to the things my father complained about. I tried to keep him quiet, just as my mother did. We were both scared he’d end up at a reeducation facility. I heard it all, of course, over and over, but I never really thought much about what he was saying. He was always talking about obscure things…things I’d never heard anywhere else, topics it was hard to learn anything about.
It’s easy to dismiss what you are told, to tune out the rantings you hear over and over. Almost everything my father said was contradicted by what I learned in school or saw on television. To believe what he was saying, I had to disregard virtually everything else I was taught. I had to ignore my teachers, the news…everything. It’s easy to discount an extreme opinion, even when it’s from someone close to you. Of course, just because a statement is extreme doesn’t mean it’s wrong. But that’s not how it seems when you’re listening to it, especially when you’re 18 or 19, and you think you know everything. When you think you have your whole life ahead of you.
My years on Erastus have given me lots of time to think. War consists of short bursts of intense effort and terror separated by long periods of boredom and inactivity. My father’s rants don’t seem so unfounded anymore. I know UN Central can’t be blamed for the Tegeri and the Machines. Indeed, a united mankind has been far more able to fight off the alien menace than a fractured and squabbling world could ever have managed. But now I think about the monitoring, the assembly restrictions, the endless list of rules and regulations, the seemingly random enforcement of sometimes draconian laws. Now I wonder why all that was necessary. I started to think about the things I was taught in school, and the more I thought, the more questions I had. I understood the need for mankind to stand together and face the Tegeri, but I started to realize that didn’t explain everything. It didn’t even come close. Now I question how I ever thought it did.
Pre-Consolidation history is a heavily proscribed topic, and back then I generally believed the official texts, just like everyone else. Everyone but the old-timers like my father. The government can rewrite the history books and tell as many lies as it wants…but it can’t erase the memories of living people. Or perhaps it can…perhaps that is what the reeducation camps are for.
I wish I could see my father again, talk to him, truly listen this time. He had so much to teach me, so much life experience…and I threw away the chance to learn. He’d lived through incredible times, but no one would listen to what he had to say. I was young and stupid, and I thought everything I’d been taught at school and heard on the media was true. I regret it. I regret it all.
“I must congratulate you on the continued success of the Supersoldier program on Erastus.” Anan Keita stood next to Kazan, wearing a finely-crafted black suit. His expression was solemn, even mournful, as befitted the funeral of a member of the UN Secretariat. It was a mask, however, the kind he’d worn so often in his tenure at UN Central…a career that saw him rise from a low-level operative to the verge of a Seat on the Secretariat. Raj Patel had been Secretary of Military Affairs since the Consolidation, and that meant he’d been in Keita’s way for at least the last decade. Keita had waited with growing frustration as the sick old fool took his sweet time about dying.
“Thank you, sir.” Kazan often called Keita ‘Mr. Secretary,’ but the obsequious exaggeration seemed misplaced at the previous Secretary’s funeral. “Progress on Erastus has outstripped our most optimistic projections.” Kazan caught himself speaking too loudly and lowered his voice. “As you know, the original tactical plan set forth a 40-year timetable for total pacification. We are currently in year 12, and I have just completed the newest modeling.”
Keita was looking forward, pretending to listen to the protracted eulogies and glancing only occasionally toward Kazan. He was getting impatient with his subordinate’s pointless chatter, but his eyes opened wider when Kazan mentioned the projections. He was extremely anxious for the revised tactical estimates, and he hadn’t expected them for at least another few days. “What is your current timeframe for completing the conquest of the planet?” He spoke softly, but he couldn’t hide his interest.
“Five years, sir.” Kazan was still whispering, but the excitement was obvious in his voice.
Keita had been looking straight ahead as he listened, but now he turned his head and stared at his subordinate. “Five years? Are you certain?” He was a master at containing and disguising his emotions, but he couldn’t hide all his excitement. This was incredible news…and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Keita was the logical choice to succeed Patel to the Secretary’s office, but in politics you could never be sure. This would clinch it. No one could challenge him. His political enemies would have to retreat. Keita had been acting-Secretary for five years, and under his supervision, the Supersoldier program had been a stunning success. The implications of a rollout beyond Erastus were staggering. Keita had a fleeting thought – might he ride this triumph not only to the top of the Military Secretariat, but ultimately to the Secretary General’s chair itself?
Kazan couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “Yes, sir. We ran it through the central planning computer three times with identical results. I have the findings and all the supporting documentation. No one will be able to contest the projection.”
Keita saw the obnoxious smile on Kazan’s face. The news was good for both of them. Kazan wanted the under-secretary’s seat that Keita would be leaving. The little worm would sell his grandmother for that promotion, Keita thought. He felt derision for his grasping underling, even as his own lust for the Secretary’s chair was no less consuming. But he knew there was no way to deny Kazan the step up. And he had to admit the creepy little bastard had earned it. He’d done a superb job on selecting the pilot specimens for the program…and they had done the rest. Keita had always been amused by the soldiers…at the superhuman efforts a pat on the head and a flag to follow could generate from ordinary men. They are simple, he thought, but useful tools nonetheless.
“I have a Secretariat meeting tomorrow, and I want to be prepared. They will undoubtedly wish to explore expansion options for the program.” Keita was speaking softly, trying not to draw attention to himself. It wouldn’t serve his purposes to offend anyone, certainly not before he was formally confirmed. No one had really liked Patel, and he seriously doubted anyone c
ared that the old fuck had finally died. But he had been a Secretary, and the bureaucracy required respect for the position, not the man.
“I will have the data ready for you first thing in the morning, sir.” Kazan spoke quietly as well, his eyes focused forward, watching as the 7th or 8th dignitary began speaking about the life of Raj Patel. Kazan couldn’t wait to get away and go back to his office. He and his staff would be up all night as it was, but he didn’t mind. Supersoldier had been his project, and he was going to see it through. And ride it as far as it could take him.
“So you see, gentlemen, not only has the rate of pacification increased almost 350%, but this has been accomplished with a corresponding 55% reduction in casualties.” Keita stood at the head of the polished teak table, addressing the assembled Secretariat of the UN, the 14 men who ruled the world…currently 13 men and one empty chair. Keita was still acting-Secretary, at least officially. He’d been nominated to succeed Patel, but the wheels of bureaucracy moved slowly. He knew he had six votes locked up, so he only needed one of the others…and the news he was delivering today had a good chance of delivering him a unanimous appointment.
“Your report is very impressive, Under-Secretary.” Anton Samovich was Secretary of Internal Security and generally considered the number two man on the council, after the Secretary General. “It is not my intention to catch you unprepared, but do you feel you can offer some insight on how quickly the program can be rolled out to the other Portal worlds?”
Keita suppressed a smile. He’d wondered for some time if Samovich was a potential ally. The wily old Secretary was unpredictable and hard to read, but he was a formidable force to have on your side. Now he had his answer. Samovich knew very well Keita would have the data he requested. He was providing a chance for Keita to elaborate on his success.
