by Jay Allan
“Very well, Captain.” There was disappointment in Akawa’s tone, but no accusation. No bitterness. “I’m not all that surprised. I didn’t really expect it to work, but we had to try.” That was a bit of a lie…he’d given it about 50/50 odds in his head, which wasn’t quite ‘not expecting’ it to work. Taylor’s people didn’t have a worldwide detection grid, and Akawa had nursed hopes that his missiles would be discovered too late for the AOL to get its Dragonfires into the air.
Akawa had been in total command of UNGov’s forces facing the AOL for only a few days. His first order, after those commanding the arrest of a dozen officers he considered too dangerous to ignore, was to prepare a nuclear strike against the Portal the AOL had used to transit to Earth. With any luck, a well-executed attack would kill thousands of Taylor’s soldiers…and very possibly destroy the Portal, stranding any forces still on the other side and cutting the army off from its Tegeri lines of supply. He knew Taylor had strong AA defenses, but a successful strike would virtually end the war then and there. The aftermath might be nasty, a series of bloody fights against Taylor’s desperate survivors, but Akawa didn’t think even the gifted rebel general could conquer a world without support or supplies, with thousands of his soldiers stranded on the Portal world from which he’d come.
It had been a good plan, one where time was of the essence. Every passing hour was another AA battery Taylor’s people put into service, another five hundred of his troops marching through the Portal. Akawa had issued the order without delay, but in the end it had taken two full days to execute. UNGov had dismantled the nuclear arsenals of the old nation-states, more concerned that they could be used by rebels against their new order than that they would have need for them. A small number of weapons had been spared, just in case a need arose, but they were scattered around the planet in different facilities. Samovich had deployed the salted bombs from the reserve arsenals, but there were still some normal warheads left, a few at least. But by the time Akawa had gathered them all together for the strike, Taylor’s people had reassembled more of their anti-aircraft batteries, and they proved to be as effective against missiles as they were against flyers. Akawa had launched 82 missiles, all he’d been able to find in immediately usable condition. And Taylor’s people had shot every one of them down. First the UNGov air attack had failed, and now the nuclear strike. Akawa realized, as he had suspected, that the war would be won on the ground.
“We will have to look to our main strategy.” He looked around the central room of the headquarters. He could feel the fear. Failure would certainly doom Akawa, but he could almost hear the thoughts around him, his aides trying to help him—most of them, at least—but also planning for themselves, holding back enough to escape retribution if the new commander failed.
“I want Green Division to move to the north, to dig in along the enemy’s line of advance and prepare to defend.” He walked toward the massive display in the middle of the room, staring intently as he did. “Here,” he said, his hand slapping down on a spot about one hundred kilometers from Taylor’s advance elements. “Here is where they will dig in.”
“Marshal, we cannot possibly get reinforcements to that location, not before the enemy is able to engage Green Division.” Antonio Bizzetti was a colonel, a skilled soldier who had worked closely alongside Akawa before the latter’s sudden promotion. His voice lacked the timidity most of the others had displayed, no doubt the byproduct of his perceived friendship with the new commander-in-chief. “At least let us move Blue Division with them…perhaps the two units together will be able to hold until more forces arrive.” His voice suggested he was far from confident.
“No, Colonel.” Akawa almost said, “Antonio,” and he reminded himself the main HQ was not the place for informality. “A commander as skilled as General Taylor would pin the two divisions and move flanking forces around the south. Our units would be destroyed.”
“But Green Division will be destroyed anyway…there is no way they can hold, dug in or not.”
“No, Colonel, there isn’t. But it will take time…and it will buy us several days to continue concentrating the main army west of the Urals. We must be ready to stop the invaders before they reach Moscow, and Europe beyond…and we need time to do that. If they get past us, to Warsaw or even farther west, they will be in a position to threaten Geneva itself. We will lose all tactical flexibility and be forced into an all-out defense of the capital.”
“But what about Blue Division? Surely doubling the force along the line will help us hold longer…”
“Perhaps, Colonel, but I doubt it will make a meaningful difference. And I don’t think either unit will hold long against General Taylor’s veterans. Two routing divisions are not much more use than one.” He paused taking a deep breath. He was beginning to step into his role with more assurance, but he still felt a bit intimidated by the power he now wielded. “Besides, I have other plans for Blue Division.”
He stared at the screen, his eyes moving down, to the southernmost positions. There were icons showing the locations of Taylor’s troop concentrations, though without any real intel on his order of battle, much of the satellite-obtained data was highly conjectural. Orbital reconnaissance could give accurate information on numbers, at least most of the time. But whether those troops were veterans—or Supersoldiers—he could only guess.
Taylor’s soldiers are all veterans. And mine are mostly green. So the only real thing is locating the enhanced units from Erastus…and trying like hell to stay away from them while we strike at his other forces.
His eyes remained locked on the display, looking for a weak spot, any kind of opening. But there wasn’t one. This Taylor knows what he is doing.
He intended to send Blue Division around the south of Taylor’s forces, going around his line entirely and moving against his rear areas. He knew one division wasn’t enough to truly outflank the invaders, but if he could get teams all around, individual companies—and in a few key spots, battalions—he might be able to cause enough disruption to slow Taylor’s advance. And every day he added to the march was time to get an additional division to his chosen defensive line just east of Moscow. But even in the rear areas, Taylor’s army was carefully-deployed, with well-placed pickets supported by what had to be local reaction forces. Anywhere he sent the Blues, Taylor could respond with reinforcements in a matter of hours.
Nevertheless, the plan was still valid. Even if every one of Blue Division’s attacks was repulsed, fighting them off would still slow Taylor down…and if the assaults made him nervous enough, he might just call a temporary halt to the army’s movement. And that would buy even more time.
“Colonel, open a channel to Blue Division HQ. I want to talk to General O’Reilly myself…”
* * *
“Forward, men…there’s no point in stopping here. The enemy will just cut you to ribbons. If you want to live then press on…take the position. Or die.” It wasn’t the encouragement of a heroic officer, perhaps, but it was the best Major Emilio Vargus would manage.
Vargus was crouched down in a small shell hole with six of his soldiers, but most of the battalion was strung out in the open. There was nothing more than a company in front of them, he was sure of that, but they were dug in and well-supplied with heavy machine guns. At least fifty of his men were down, and the others were wavering, their advance slowing to a crawl as the enemy continued to pour fire into them. Some of them dove to the ground on the open plain, and others just froze.
Vargus knew he had to do something, but he wasn’t sure what. He wasn’t a combat veteran, not really…no more than any of his men were. Internal security duty could be dangerous on occasion, but it carried the unquestionable advantage of massive superiority, in numbers, weapons, tactics. Putting down riots was one thing; charging grim veteran soldiers was another.
He knew he had to push forward himself, lead his troops by example, but the truth was stark. He was afraid. His legs felt frozen. He remembered old mission
s, breaking up demonstrations. Usually a few shots were enough to put a mob to flight. But not always. More than one group had held firm before his security troops, even rushed at them, often armed with nothing more than clubs or bottles. He tried to put the thoughts out of his mind, to not think about how he’d given the orders for his people to fire. But they were still there, the rioting civilians falling to the ground, racing toward his troops until the last of them went down. He’d always considered them fools, but now he saw something else in those tortured recollections. Courage.
He gritted his teeth and tried to push himself, and then, with a shout, he leapt over the edge of the shell hole and ran toward then enemy lines. “Forward,” he shouted, his rifle leveled and firing as he ran. “Follow me, men!”
His legs felt weak, as if the next step would be the one that caused them to collapse…but they endured. He was terrified, and every fiber of his being wanted to turn and run for his life. But he kept moving. And across the field his soldiers followed. Not all of them, but first individuals…and then small groups.
“Forward,” he cried again, as he drew closer to the enemy. He could see their trench now, feel projectiles whizzing by. But still he pressed on. Just another few seconds…and his people would be in the trench…
* * *
“Pour it into ’em boys!” Aaron Jamison stood between the two heavy autocannons, peering over the trench at the approaching enemy soldiers. He’d thought they were about to break a moment earlier, and for an instant, the advance had stalled. But something had rallied at least part of the battalion. More than half of them were down, and Jamison knew a lot more would fall as they covered the last fifty meters. But if they didn’t break, a few of them were going to make it to his line.
“Autocannons, keep firing. Everyone else, prepare to hold the trench.” He was surprised at the tenacity of this enemy attack. His people had repelled two other assaults over the past twenty-four hours, but they’d barely had to open up, and the UNGov troops bolted and ran. There was something different about this group.
He turned and walked down the trench, popping his almost-spent cartridge and slamming another home. “Alright, guys. Every one you take down out there is one less you’re going to fight in here.” His mechanical eyes riveted back and forth, picking out targets and dropping each with a single shot.
His people had the advantage of position, but they’d been heavily outnumbered from the start. The enemy was firing as they advanced, and even with their cover, at least three of his soldiers were lying in the trench. Maybe a half dozen others were wounded, but all but one of them were still on the line.
He’d brought up extra autocannons after the last attack, and he’d positioned them to make it appear his force was larger than it was. But most of his company was deployed off to the left, with a reinforced platoon in reserve. He’d started with forty-one troops in this section of the line…and the enemy had attacked with a full battalion, five hundred strong.
“Here they come!” he shouted, firing once, then again, taking down two enemies just as they reached the edge of the entrenchment. He leapt to the side as one of them fell, splashing him with mud. Then another dozen jumped in, and his men were engaged in hand to hand combat.
He was one of only three Supersoldiers in the platoon, but his men were all veterans, and they made short work of the UNGov troops. Jamison swung to the side, moving toward one of his men who was bracketed between two enemies. He pulled up his rifle and slammed the butt down on one of the soldiers, hearing a sickly crack as his enhanced strength shattered the man’s spine. Then he spun around, bringing the weapon to bear and firing off a single shot, dropping another enemy moving up behind him, just before he’d raised his own weapon.
That was close, he thought. You may be a veteran Supersoldier and these guys half-trained bullies, but that doesn’t mean one of them can’t kill you.
He shook the feeling and snapped his head around, looking both ways down the trench. It looked like every enemy soldier who’d jumped into the trench was dead. He walked slowly down, checking on his men. It looked like he had another KIA, and two more wounded. Not that bad considering they had just repulsed an attack by ten times their number. But they all hurt. The dead man was Colm Randall. Jamison remembered the kid from Juno. He’d been one of the first there to come over to the AOL.
Now he died in the AOL…
He stared down at the UNGov soldiers. He despised them for the enforcers they were, for the civilians they’d intimidated and even killed over the years. He felt hatred for those men, and not a hint of pity. He gave into dark thoughts. It made it easier to gun them down.
Let them all come here, and we will send them to hell. Perhaps their victims will rest better.
But that only worked to a certain extent. He knew the image he crafted in his mind didn’t describe all of the soldiers fighting against the AOL. There were recruits in those formations too, eighteen, nineteen, twenty-year olds who’d been destined for the planetary armies fighting the Tegeri. Men like him, like all his people, whether from Erastus or Juno or Capria, but born too late, denied the chance to choose to join the AOL…and shoved forward into the line to oppose it.
“There but for the grace of God go I,” Jamison whispered to himself, repeating an old saying his father had often recited. Is this a recruit like I was, he wondered, looking down at one of the corpses, a man so young he seemed little more than a boy. Dragged from home and family to be sent to fight an unjust war? Perhaps…but he found his war closer to home, didn’t he? Was my war more defensible? I was lied to, he was lied to. I killed the Machines, slaughtered them for years, yet now the Tegeri bear us no grudge. Indeed, they aid us…while we gun this boy—and his comrades---down. But the result is the same. Death knows no location. A man is no more dead in the blistering sun of Erastus than here in the cold mud of Eurasia.
The man’s lifeless eyes were wide open, almost staring back at him. Jamison crouched down, looking at the young soldier. His hatred was gone, drained suddenly from his body. There were men here who had deserved death, no doubt, but not all those who found it this day. His hands moved slowly over the boy’s face, feeling his already-cold flesh as he closed the eyelids.
“Captain…”
Jamison turned his head toward the voice. It was Lieutenant Orrin, the commander of the platoon. “Yes, Lieutenant,” he said, his voice grim, far away. “What is it?” He stood up slowly, turning to face his second in command.
“We found an enemy major, sir. Dead. We think he was the commander of the attack. He fought well before he went down.” There was an odd expression in Orrin’s voice, one that Jamison understood immediately. It was pleasing to think of UNGov’s forces as inferior, as bully security troopers dressed up as real soldiers. But Jamison knew one thing…if their experiences of going to war had taught his people one thing it was that leaders came in many varieties. These thousands serving UNGov would have their heroes too, their capable and devoted leaders. This one had held his battalion together when the others had run. He’d led them right into the trenches…and if he’d had a regiment instead of a battalion, Jamison knew his lines might well have broken.
“Yes, clearly this unit was better led than the others we’ve faced so far.” He looked over at the lieutenant. “Let us learn from that…we cannot assume the enemy leadership is inferior.”
“Yes, sir…I mean no, sir.”
“Anything else, Lieutenant?” Jamison could see the officer was concerned.
“Yes, Captain. We’ve got more enemy forces on the scanner, sir. Looks like another battalion. They’re not advancing yet, but they’re not far away…and my gut…”
“Your gut tells you they’re going to advance on our position. And you’re probably right, Lieutenant.”
Jamison nodded slowly, his eye catching a red stain on Orrin’s uniform, and a torn bit of cloth tied around his arm. It had been shoved under the sleeve—Orrin had clearly tried to hide the fact that he was wounded.
“What is that, Lieutenant?”
“Oh…it’s nothing, sir. Just a light wound. Caught a round right before they hit the trenchline.”
“You should go back to the aid station. I can handle things up here.”
“No, sir…” Orrin paused, realizing his words had come out as if he was defying the captain’s order. “I mean, please, sir…I’m fine. I’ll get this taken care of after we beat back the next attack.” His eyes found Jamison’s. “Please, Captain…my men…”
Jamison nodded slowly. “Very well, Lieutenant. See to your platoon.” He felt the urge to call up reinforcements. Orrin’s people had suffered 20% casualties, and the men in the line had to be close to exhaustion. They’d gotten an ammo resupply, so that was a plus at least. Jamison remembered some of the earlier battles after they’d left Erastus, and the critical supply shortages that had so slowed them…and cost them God only knows how many losses.
He shook his head. No, I can’t bring up any reserves yet. I just don’t have the numbers, and we’ve no idea where else they’ll hit us.
He’d seen the drone reports…there was an entire UNGov division out there, fifteen thousand troops at full strength. And behind that would be everything a world could muster. And his forces were part of the flank defense. If their lines were breached, the army’s entire advance would be stopped dead. And if the lead units had to turn to face a threat from the rear just as the enemy attacked frontally…
No, I have to play the long game. We all do. It’s not enough to hold today. We have to hold tomorrow…as long as the campaign goes on…
