by Jay Allan
“No excuses, General. You have numbers, better supply and, currently, the advantage of defending.” Keita was motivated by more than self-entitled arrogance. There was fear too, the dread of what would become of him if the battle on Juno was lost…or even won too late. He was on shaky ground already on the Secretariat, and he knew he’d never survive if his sponsor lost his long power struggle with Chang Li. Indeed, if Keita returned from a defeat on Juno, he had no doubt Samovich himself would have him killed, before Li even got the chance.
“Secretary, these soldiers we are fighting are veterans of the harshest place men have ever fought. Even my Black Corps troops cannot match them evenly.” Ralfieri’s voice was becoming softer. He knew he wasn’t getting through to Keita, and he was starting to give up the effort. “It is more than just the experience of Erastus. They fight with a spirit I cannot explain. They have a motivation, some kind of inner fire than drives them to push beyond normal human endurance.”
Ralfieri was grasping at an understanding of what truly drove Taylor’s men. Belief in a cause was something that had largely vanished from human culture. The war against the Tegeri was driven by fear, not by inspiration. The feelings of patriotism and pride soldiers had felt in some of the old nation states had been largely forgotten in the decades of UNGov rule – and the idea of men sworn to fight tyranny had been lost utterly, brutally eradicated by years of reeducation camps and terroristic internal security.
“Nonsense excuses, General. Yes, these men were hardened by their years on Erastus, but your soldiers are veterans also. Your numerical and supply advantages should be more than sufficient to counter whatever X factor you assign to service on Erastus.”
Ralfieri was just beginning to comprehend what his forces were facing, but he knew Keita was beyond understanding any of it. The politician was a creature of the system, and he would never be able to rationalize that there was more to success on the battlefield than numbers and equipment. Keita knew only the UNGov way, that of self-serving expediency, of constant politics and maneuvering for personal power. He was ill-equipped to understand what drove fighting men, the sense of brotherhood that gave veterans their true strength. The spirit and camaraderie that made men rush back into the killing zone they had just escaped to carry a wounded comrade back to safety.
Anan Keita could never comprehend what made Taylor’s soldiers so formidable. But Antonio Ralfieri was beginning to see…and he started to wonder if his people were fighting on the right side.
* * * * *
Aaron Jamison crept forward, holding his assault rifle at the ready. It was dark, the battlefield lit only by explosions and fire. Jamison’s mechanical eyes adjusted to the low light levels, and he was able to see well enough to get around. He kept reminding himself the enemy had the same ability. Jamison and his people had fought in all of Taylor’s battles, but they hadn’t faced a foe with their own capabilities until Juno.
He heard a gunship approaching. His enhanced ears picked it up kilometers away, but it sounded like it was heading his way. It was coming from behind, which probably meant it was one of theirs. But not definitely.
“On your guard, boys.” Jamison spoke with a heavy Irish accent, but his men were used to it, and he knew they all understood what he was saying. “Airship incoming.” There was no way to know for sure if the aircraft was friendly or not, and if there was any chance the enemy was about to drop a batch of FAEs on his position, he wanted his men ready.
He looked ahead, but it was still quiet. The enemy had pulled back on this section of front. There was no knowing how far, or where they would stop and form another defensive line. For all he knew, they could be hiding just over the hill he was climbing, waiting on the reverse slope to ambush his men. The scouting reports from the drones had come pretty frequently earlier in the battle, but now they’d slowed to a crawl. He knew the captain had requested a flight three times, but the high command had to conserve its supply of the recon devices. And that meant Jamison had no idea what was waiting over that hillside. That’s where I’d be if I was them, he thought warily.
“Conover, Gupta…scout forward and check out the downslope of this ridge.” Gupta was the platoon’s scout, and Conover was its most experienced enlisted man.
“Yes, Lieutenant.” The two replied almost simultaneously.
Jamison turned again, looking at the sky behind him. The sounds of the gunship were louder. Indeed, now it sounded like at least two craft incoming.
He flipped his com to the platoon frequency. “I want everybody to take cover now.” He wasn’t taking a chance of his people getting caught out in the open by an air attack. He still figured the gunships were friendlies, but he’d started to doubt his judgment when there was still no contact.
Just then his com crackled to life. “AOL ground units, this is Red Squadron Leader inbound. You are instructed to take cover. We are bombing enemy units 600 meters forward of your position.” Jamison still wasn’t used to the Army of Liberation designation, but he sighed with relief that the birds were friendlies.
So there are enemy troops over that hillside, he thought. “Everybody down. We’ve got FAEs coming in just over the ridge.” Six hundred meters was close, very close.
Fuck, Jamison thought an instant later. “Gupta, Conover, return to your former positions immediately.” On the unitwide com: “Repeat…everybody get down. We’ve got friendly air about to bomb enemy positions on the other side of the hill.”
He jogged toward a small crater and jumped into it. “Gupta, Conover,” he repeated, the urgency in his voice increasing.
He heard the gunships streaking across the sky, coming in low. It sounded like they were just over his head, but he knew they’d be at least 100 meters up.
“Order received, Lieutenant. We’re on the way...” It was Conover, and his report stopped abruptly, just as the top of the hillside erupted into billowing flames.
Jamison dove down into the crater, shouting into his com as he did. “Gupta? Conover? Respond!”
He felt the wave of heat surging down from the hillside, and he tried to imagine the inferno raging just over the crest. The whole area was as bright as day for half a minute before the roiling flames began to subside, and darkness slowly crept back over the field.
Jamison was still crouched in his crater, shouting madly into his com. “Gupta? Conover? Respond!” But there was no reply, nothing but the static.
* * * * *
“Charge!” Bear Samuels’ shout ripped through the com lines and, as one, 975 enhanced soldiers leapt over a small rise and ran toward the enemy position half a klick away. The enemy was withdrawing, retreating from the ridge they’d held for the past 6 hours. Samuels was determined to hit them hard before they got away. He was as uncomfortable as ever with the killing, but he knew the only way to end the fighting was total victory. Taylor’s actions and orders were clear. The fight would continue without a stop until the battle was won. And anyone Samuels let escape here would only come back to fight his men later. Mercy now would only condemn more of his own men.
He ran across the field, leading the charge himself. He and his Supersoldiers would cover the distance in less than a minute, and then they’d have a clear field of fire on the fleeing enemy troops. If his people stayed close, if they exacted a heavy enough toll, maybe they could extend the breakthrough and bring this nightmare of a battle closer to an end.
The enemy fire was light and sporadic. Most of the defenders had already fled, many of them dropping their weapons as they ran for their lives. Samuels pushed himself, running as hard as his enhanced muscles could manage, and he bounded over the top, firing as he did. There were enemy soldiers all across the plain ahead, fleeing. It was a wholesale rout, and when Samuels stopped to look around, he understood what had finally broken these Supersoldiers. The entire ridge was blackened, the result of repeated FAE attacks. The AOL gunships had pounded this position, dropping load after load of fiery death on the defenders.
The ai
rmen had paid heavily to punch this hole for Samuels’ people. He could see the wreckage of at least four of the giant airships, blackened smoldering hulks lying silently on the great plain. It didn’t take more than one look for Samuels to realize that none of the crews had made it out of those birds. They had paid a heavy price, and he’d be damned if he’d allow that sacrifice to be in vain.
“Pursue, men. Pursue and maintain fire.” He reached around and pulled a fresh clip from his belt, ejecting the spent cartridge as he did. “Let’s go, boys. Forward to victory!” He slammed the clip in place and ran down onto the plain, gunning down the fleeing enemy as he did. He knew he’d hate himself later, recount all the helpless, fleeing men he’d massacred. But there was no time for that now. Bear Samuels had a gentle soul, one the soldier side of him caused constant torment. But nothing was stronger to him than loyalty. Loyalty to these men he led…and to Jake Taylor. “Let’s go, boys. Pour it into them!”
* * * * *
“Jake, this is insane. We’re pushing the men forward without a break, without a chance to regroup. Even the enhanced troops are becoming exhausted.” Black was upset. He’d been holding his tongue, but the dam had broken, and it was all pouring out. “Friendly fire incidents are up 350%.” He stared at Taylor as he spoke, his hands clenched in frustration. “We’re so disorganized and tired, we’re gunning down our own men.”
Taylor stood quietly, impassively, listening to his friend’s protests. Finally, he just said, “Blackie, we’ve got no choice. We need to destroy the enemy, and we need to do it now.”
“I’m not saying not to attack, but I don’t understand this sudden urgency. We’re sending in FAE strikes as quickly as we can turn the surviving birds around. The crews are exhausted. It’s so rushed, we’re not even getting notice to ground units of incoming strikes.” Black paused. “Does it make you happy that we’re incinerating our own men in some of these attacks?” Black was immediately sorry for the last comment, wishing he could take it back. He disagreed with Taylor’s orders, but he didn’t for a second think his friend didn’t ache for all the soldiers he lost.
“Colonel Black, I am sorry you don’t agree with my tactical judgment.” Taylor’s voice was cold, unemotional. It was taking all his strength of will to keep it that way. He was mourning every one of his men who’d been lost. Every one. But there was no place for that now, no time to indulge emotions. Not after what T’arza had told him. “However, my orders stand. We will not let up the pressure on the enemy no matter what. All units are to continue to attack, and they will do so until we have utterly destroyed the UNGov forces on Juno.” He paused an instant, his mechanical eyes staring into Black’s. “Is that understood, Colonel Black?”
Black hesitated for an instant, returning Taylor’s hard gaze. “Yes, sir,” he finally snapped out, his voice hard and brittle.
“Then I suspect you have work to do, Colonel.” Taylor struggled to keep his voice firm. “Dismissed.”
Black raised his hand in a perfect salute and spun around on his heels. Taylor watched the man who had been his closest companion through the years on Erastus as he walked crisply from the room, and he tried to imagine what was going through his friend’s mind.
It tore at Taylor’s insides not to confide in Black, not to tell him all he’d discussed with T’arza. But he had resolved not to burden Black or any of his officers, with the terrible truth. All men had a breaking point. Taking on UNGov, resolving to free Earth from tyranny – that was enough for any man to bear. How could he tell them their sworn mission, as impossible a task as it appeared to be, was just the beginning? That if they somehow managed to liberate Earth, they would have to rally humanity to face another, graver threat.
Taylor wanted to tell Black, he wanted to share the burden with his friend. But he’d decided this load was his and his alone, and he was determined to stand by that. His men faced enough hardship and loss, and he wasn’t going to add to it. If they survived, if they managed to free Earth…then he would tell them. But not before.
Chapter 18
From the Journal of Jake Taylor:
How much can one man bear? How much pain and anguish? How much guilt? I watch my soldiers suffer and die, faithfully following my orders. I see the survivors drive themselves forward, through hunger and exhaustion, enduring unimaginable suffering, and all I do is push them ever harder. I watch my officers, my friends, look at me as if I’m some kind of monster, a cold-blooded killer with no soul.
It is one thing to swear to a quest, to acknowledge the pain and suffering it will inflict on those involved. It is another to actually live it, to force yourself to take each bloody, exhausting step. I sit alone in the darkness, feeling lost, hopeless. Then the rage comes, the self-hatred for wallowing in such self-indulgence. Do my soldiers suffer less than I, fighting against overwhelming odds, bleeding to death on the cold ground of an alien world? Is the sacrifice of a private, dead on the field, never to see another sunrise or feel the embrace of a friend, less than my own?
How dare I feel sorry for myself or shrink from the responsibilities I have undertaken? Let my friends hate me, let my soldiers feel I have forsaken them if that is what must be. For I do what I do for them, and for the oppressed millions on Earth. If I must become a pariah, hated and feared, then so be it. But giving up, running from my responsibilities, that would be the ultimate betrayal. And that is something I cannot do. Not ever.
“Stand fast. You’ve got 30 minutes, boys, so try and get a breather and something to eat.” Jamison crouched behind the shattered tree, now little more than a charred stump, shouldering his rifle as he addressed his men. He’d had his weapon set on semi-auto during the last firefight, trying to conserve ammunition. They’d gotten one batch of supplies since the battle began, but that had been late on the first day. It was day three now, and they’d seen nothing since. If he hadn’t ordered his men to start stripping the enemy dead, they’d be throwing rocks by now.
His original platoon was down to half strength, but he was commanding the whole company now. Captain Wallace had been caught out in the open during a gunship attack. Jamison had been watching as he raced toward a crater, looking for a place to take cover. He never made it. Jamison was staring right at him just as he disappeared into a mass of billowing fire. He ran over after the firestorm subsided, frantically looking for his CO. But there was nothing. No body, no remains. Nothing.
He didn’t have time to mourn Wallace. The company had lost its leader, and he was the senior lieutenant. He took over immediately, reorganizing a battered force that had been hit hard by the enemy air assault. A few minutes after he started barking out orders on his own initiative, Major Young’s voice blared through his com and made it official. The company was his.
He looked around at the blackened and ravaged ground his people had fought over for the last six hours. They’d advanced a little more than ten kilometers in three days. Ten klicks of broken, tortured hills and blackened, lifeless plains. Not a tree stood unscorched over that ten kilometers, nor a blade of grass. Just the savaged, blood-soaked ground. And the unburied dead.
Half his men. That was the price of ten kilometers. And he knew other units had suffered even more heavily. Jamison had served in the brutal, burning hell of Erastus, but he’d never seen combat as intense as that of the past three days. He was exhausted, having trouble focusing, staying sharp. He knew the nanotechnology inside him was producing adrenalin and flooding his bloodstream with amphetamines, but it wasn’t enough to stave off the crushing fatigue. He wondered what was keeping the non-modified troopers on their feet.
He glanced at his chronometer, though it was a pointless exercise. The NIS in his head kept perfect time, and it was available to him with just a thought. Thirty minutes. That’s how long a rest his people had drawn. Now they had less than 20 minutes of that left. Then they’d be back on the line.
“Eat up, boys.” He spoke loudly into the com. “We’re moving out soon.” He kept his voice upbeat for
the benefit of the men. They didn’t need to hear his own exhaustion. Jamison had served under Taylor for years, through many battles against the Machines on Erastus. He’d been one of the first to rally to the general after he’d returned from his encounter with the Tegeri. He’d never doubted Taylor, not for an instant. Not until now. He couldn’t understand why Taylor was pushing his soldiers brutally forward, without rest, without adequate supplies or provisions. A last ditch defense, he would understand. But they were attacking. Why weren’t they pausing to regroup, to bring supplies forward? How long did Taylor think his men could continue to fight with no rest, no hot food, stripping the dead for ammunition and half-empty water bottles?
Jamison realized he hadn’t eaten anything himself since the day before. He pulled a nutrition bar from his sack and tore open the wrapper. He knew he should be starving, but he wasn’t. Fatigue was overcoming hunger. Still, he needed all the energy his aching body could get. He took a bite and washed it down with a deep drink from his canteen.
He looked around at the men of his company. They were exhausted, caked in filth, many of their faces blackened with soot from the fires and FAEs. Some of them had minor wounds. There were battered men sitting all across the plain, torn sections of shirts and jackets serving as makeshift bandages, now bloodstained and tied haphazardly around injured arms and legs. But they remained in the line, ready to move as soon as the orders came. Jamison felt proud to lead such men.
