Crimson Worlds Collection III

by Jay Allan

  “I want a report from the surface. Is 2nd Platoon engaged yet?”

  Jennings sat on Sand Devil’s bridge, staring at the contact on his scope. It was one of Stark’s stealth ships. He was sure of that. And it was coming after him.

  He turned and looked at his small bridge crew, two other officers besides himself. A Torch wasn’t a very big ship and, aside from speed, its capabilities were seriously limited. But Stark’s stealth ships were similar, and Jennings suspected the two vessels would be a close match in a straight up fight. Should he button the crew up in the tanks and try to outrun the enemy ship? Or should he stand and fight?

  He knew the right answer. He had to get out of the enemy’s jamming zone and get word back to Mars – whatever was left of it, at least – about Stark’s base. Stark was a war criminal, one now responsible for thousands, if not millions, of deaths on Mars, another toll added to the list of bodies crushed under his heel in his grab for power.

  But Jennings was a man, not a machine, and emotion played into his decision. Besides, there was no guarantee he could outrun Stark’s ship before it could take Sand Devil out. Fleeing was as dangerous an option as standing and fighting. At least that’s what he told himself. Because Ben Jennings wasn’t going to run. Not after what Stark and his people had done to Mars.

  “All hands to battlestations,” he growled. “Prepare to engage enemy vessel.”

  The bridge crew snapped into action, working feverishly at their stations under the red light of the battlestations lamps.

  “Laser batteries one and two report ready, Captain.” Lieutenant Verason’s voice was firm and thick with resolve. There was no doubt he agreed with the captain’s decision. “The enemy is coming around the asteroid. They will be in our field of fire in 45 seconds, sir.

  “All weapons, fire as soon you have a target.” He knew the enemy captain would give the same orders. In a few more seconds, the two ships would be face to face in each other’s firing arcs at point blank range. After that, it wouldn’t take more than a few seconds to decide the issue.

  Chapter 18

  Federal Base Zeta

  Western Virginia Region

  US Zone, Western Alliance

  “Minster Li, I could not agree more that any further deterioration of the international situation must be averted at all costs, but I find it difficult to imagine a scenario under which either of us can trust the other.” Warren was sitting in his office – Francis Oliver’s until two days before – speaking with the head of C1, the CAC’s primary intelligence agency. Li An was a legend in the intelligence community, and her trail of achievements – and bodies – stretched back decades before his own birth.

  “Yes, Mr. Warren. I’m afraid therein lies the crux of the matter.” Li An spoke flawless English. According to the dossier Warren had hurriedly read, she was completely fluent in the primary language of every Superpower.

  “We must decide now, Mr. Warren, you and I, if that is to be the cause of mankind’s destruction.” Her voice was weak, and Warren was shocked at how frail she sounded. He’d been taught to fear her and respect her abilities since his first day in training, and he had to remind himself he was talking to one of the deadliest and most intelligent spies who’d ever lived. She sounded like a sick old woman. Indeed, she was a sick old woman. But he suspected there was still venom left in the aged viper.

  “So what is it, specifically, that you propose, Minister Li?” Warren was determined not to fall for whatever trap she was laying for him, but there was something about her voice that caught his interest. Was it honesty? Did he even remember what that sounded like?

  There was a moment of silence on the line. “I propose that we end this disastrous conflict at all costs. We are now teetering on the edge of total destruction, a final confrontation that will obliterate us all. We must decide if anything is more important than avoiding this fate. Is there any territorial ambition worth more than survival?” She paused. “We are surrounded by fools, you and I, by imbeciles driven by greed, by pride. Fools too stupid to think for themselves and make decisions based on rationality.”

  “Again, Minister Li, I agree in principal with your words, but I do not know exactly what you would have me do.” His voice was direct, to the point. In spite of a lifetime of hating and fearing C1’s fearsome leader, Warren found himself liking the woman on the com. She sounded so clear, so straightforward. Was that all part of her game, he wondered? Was she trying to gain an edge on him, something that would allow the CAC to win the final victory?

  “Mr. Warren, the original purpose of my call was to determine if I can place my trust in you.” She took a deep, raspy breath. “Your predecessor, whose manipulations are largely responsible for the current war, was brilliant, but he was not a trustworthy man.” She used the past tense, but she wasn’t entirely convinced Stark was dead. She couldn’t help but think he was out there somewhere, directing events like some master puppeteer. She’d tried to investigate, to pick up his trail, but every lead had been a dead end.

  “Gavin Stark was a monster to the core, while I am simply a human being who wears a monster’s mask upon occasion.” She rasped again, struggling for air. “I believe you and I are made of similar stuff, Mr. Warren, and that you are not the creature your former master was.” She paused. “For that reason, I will trust you.” She cleared her throat again, throwing herself into a small coughing spasm. “You must excuse me, Mr. Warren. I am not as young and well as I once was.”

  “I understand, Minister Li. Please continue when you are able.” There was an odd tone to Warren’s voice. In spite of his suspicions, he wanted to hear what Li had to say.

  “My initial plan had been to propose to you that the two of us take actions to seize control of our respective governments, preparatory to a phased reduction in our war footings. This would be followed by a renewed peace and a reaffirmation of the Treaty of Paris.” There was a short pause on the line. “I believe however, if my intelligence is correct, that you have already taken control of the Alliance.” She paused briefly. “Congratulations on a flawlessly executed operation.”

  “That is correct, Minister Li. I have accepted the presidency on an interim basis upon the tragic death of President Oliver, pending implementation of a more final succession plan.”

  “Well said, Mr. Warren.” There was something to her tone, a weariness perhaps. Li An had played the game for a long time, and now, near the end of her long life, she craved nothing more than directness. She knew how power worked and how rarely men gave it up voluntarily. Ryan Warren might call himself interim president, but she suspected the only thing that would remove him from office was a well-placed bullet, like the one that had likely ended Oliver’s tenure.

  “Since you have already completed the first phase of my proposed plan, I suggest the following. Give me 72 hours to complete my own coup here and seize control of the CAC. It is unlikely to surprise you that I have many assets in position, ready to move as soon as I give the order.” There was a brief silence. “I have never desired the top position, greatly preferring to remain in my lower profile post at C1. However, there is no remaining option. The fools on the Committee will lead us to disaster unless something is done at once.”

  “What do you want from me, Minister Li?”

  “Nothing. I simply ask that you exert all efforts to restrain further escalation of the conflict for 72 hours. If I am successful, in three days we will take matching steps to deescalate and to pressure our allies to do the same.”

  Warren was silent. After a few seconds, Li added, “I know it all sounds quite desperate, Mr. Warren, but I would submit to you we are past the point of anything less than desperation.” She gave him a few seconds to think about it then she added, “Consider this if you have lingering doubts.” Another pause, and more coughing. “I have already placed my trust in you as a show of good faith. I have no doubt you record all communications on this line. I have willingly stated my proposal to you, and a simple recording o
f that would be sufficient cause for my immediate execution were you to forward it to anyone on the Committee.”

  Warren considered her words carefully. He knew she was one of the smartest, most capable women who’d ever lived, and one of the most deceitful when it served her purposes. But she had exposed herself willingly, far more than he had. He couldn’t imagine why she would have done that unless she was genuine.

  “Why, Minister? Why take such a risk?”

  There was a small noise on the com, almost a chuckle. “Because, Mr. Warren, though no doubt most consider me a terrible old woman, and one rotten to the core as well, I am a patriot. I love my nation, and I have no desire to see it buried under radioactive ash. I am old. Very, very old. If I am to leave behind a legacy, let it be this. That I helped us to stop at the brink and not fall into the abyss.”

  Warren sat quietly for a few seconds. He’d put the headset on determined not to believe anything Li An told him, but now he realized he did. Everything she said made sense, and she was putting herself on the line more than she was asking him to. He didn’t want to see the Alliance utterly destroyed any more than she did the CAC. And he had no doubt that was where they were heading.

  “Very well, Minister Li. Unless my hand is forced, I will refrain from any escalations for 72 hours. Contact me when you have completed your operation, and we will discuss the scale down of hostilities.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Warren.”

  “Thank you, Minister Li.” Warren’s finger hovered over the disconnect button. “And good luck to you.” He cut the line and sat back, realizing he meant it sincerely. He hoped she pulled it off. Maybe she had just saved the world with her call.

  “General Emmerich’s division is about to enter the Paris suburbs, sir.” Potsdorf turned and looked over at Werner. “They are reporting extremely light resistance.”

  Werner was sitting on a long bench along the inside of a squad transport. His mobile command center had been destroyed, and the armored combat vehicle was the best thing he’d been able to find. “He is to advance into the city, exercising extreme caution. I repeat, extreme caution.” Werner twisted uncomfortably, desperately wishing he could scratch himself. The heavy protective gear was almost unbelievably uncomfortable, but there was no choice. There were radiation hotspots and drifting clouds of nerve gas all over the battlefield.

  Reports were still coming in, but Werner was sure his armies had suffered casualties in excess of 30% in the bombardments, and possibly as high 60%. Beyond the outright dead and wounded, his forces were hopelessly scattered, thousands of troops roaming the countryside, trying to find their units, or what was left of them.

  He had even less idea of the condition of the Europan forces, but anecdotal evidence from the field suggested they were even worse off. Werner had managed to reorganize half a dozen divisions with at least some balance of men, armor, and artillery, though each of them was barley a third its regulation strength. They hadn’t run into any formed Europan forces at all, nothing except scattered and disorganized groups. It had taken four days to reach the outskirts of Paris, and now they were on the verge of taking the Europan capital without a major fight.

  Werner knew things were bad on the eastern front. The nuclear exchanges there had thrown both armies into disarray, but the RIC had more reserves to send up, and the CEL didn’t. In the end it would be simple mathematics. Unless he could force Europa Federalis to surrender in time to move his armies to the east.

  He wasn’t even sure that would be enough. He still didn’t have an accurate report on his remaining strength, and most of the troops still in the field were poorly supplied and exhausted. But he knew it was the only chance, so he pushed his shattered forces forward. To Paris.

  The streets were clogged with terrified crowds trying to flee to the west and south. Ravennes didn’t know how the word had spread so quickly, but everyone in Paris seemed to know the CEL forces were moving into the city. Gaston Ravennes was the commander of the city guard, what was left of it. The army had drafted replacements from his people three times over the last year, and after the nuclear duel to the east, half of the rest had deserted and run. He had less than 200 men to try and keep order over a city with 3,000,000 terrified, fleeing civilians.

  He’d believed the propaganda, the reports the government offices kept issuing, promising that the Europan armies would stop the invaders before they reached the city. He’d believed them until two days before, when he saw the convoys leaving the government district, taking the politicos and their families to relative safety to the west and south.

  Now he knew the city was about to fall, and he had no idea how the CEL would treat anyone who stayed behind. The two Powers had been bitter enemies for 150 years, and the fighting had been brutal even before the nuclear exchanges inflicted their devastating losses. He couldn’t imagine the CEL troops were in the mood to be gentle with an occupied city.

  He’d sent his own family to his relations in Brittany, getting them out just before the mass panic started, but he’d stayed behind, unwilling to abandon what remained of his gendarmes.

  He’d heard there were problems in other areas as well. Europa Federalis was a political entity that controlled a dozen previously independent nations, and the consolidation that created the Superpower had not been a gentle one. Many regions had been pushed into the amalgamation by force, and resentment still simmered throughout the provinces. The brutality of the National Police had kept these complaints in the shadows, but now many areas were in open revolt, rising up as the oppressive national government fell deeper into its death throes.

  Ravennes turned abruptly, the sound of a fight catching his attention. He ran over, pulling out his com unit and calling for a squad of his men. He reached down toward his pistol, but his hand stopped halfway there. No, he thought, I need to keep things calm, not start shooting people. It was a departure from normal procedure. According to the book, any civilians who became unruly threatened the public good, and they were to be stopped by whatever means necessary. But Ravennes knew in his gut the old ways were gone. The day of the Superpowers was passing and, without truly understanding, Gaston Ravennes had an idea that things would never be the same.

  “Please, please, citizens.” He ran forward, waving his arms. “Please keep order. You will be able to move more quickly if you simply stay in your place.”

  “It’s one of them!” The cry came from somewhere in the crowd. It was repeated, again and again, coming from all around.

  Ravennes suddenly felt a coldness move through his body, a realization that all authority had broken down. He was a symbol of the old regime, his uniform a beacon signaling to all, here is the focus for your rage.

  He knew he was in trouble, that the uniform that had for so long almost assured him of obedience now marked him as a target. He thought about drawing the pistol, but there were thousands around him. He might shoot three or four before they took him down, but the violence would only enrage them further.

  He moved slowly away, as if pulling back from a wild animal. But it was too late. The shouts grew louder and more violent. The mob was screaming for his blood. He turned and ran, trying to find a place to hide, just as two of his men jogged up to him.

  “Run,” he cried to them. “The mob is out of control.”

  The three of them tried to push down the clogged street, past a stream of people unaware of the mob’s focus. “Let’s get to the precinct building. It’s not far.” There was desperation in his voice as he pushed his way forward.

  He could hear the mob behind him, chasing, shouting to those closer to him. He felt a punch. Then another. The people in the streets right around them were turning angry, feral, becoming part of the bloodthirsty crowd.

  There was a sharp pain in his ribs. Someone had hit him with something, a stick or a rod of some kind. He lost his breath, but he kept pushing forward, desperately trying to escape.

  He felt hands grabbing at him, trying to hold him back, but he struggled
free and kept going. He saw one of his men go down under the surging mass of people and, a few seconds later, the other. He still drove himself forward, through the pain and fear. He was an animal now, driven by pure instinct, trying to escape any way he could. He pulled out the pistol and started firing, shooting at anyone near him.

  A roar rose from the crowd, a merciless sound of pure hatred, as they closed on him from all sides. He fired as quickly as he could. He’d hit five, six, maybe seven of the enraged citizens, but then he felt arms grabbing him from behind.

  His body fell hard, slammed into the pavement, and he could feel the pain from dozens of blows. He was surrounded, and the crowd was kicking at him and throwing things, at least a dozen of them right around him, howling for blood.

  He tried to roll over, to protect himself anyway he could, but he couldn’t move. He coughed, and a huge glob of blood sprayed out of his mouth. The pain was unbearable, and he screamed in agony and rage. He tried to crawl free, but then he just stopped. Everything was quiet now, and the pain was gone. The light became dimmer, and he felt himself fading slowly, until the darkness took him.

  Axe waded through the waist-high water, moving as quickly as he could through the ancient, crumbling tunnel. The stolen flashlight was down to the last of its power, shining a dim light that was only useful for about a meter in front of him. “I think we’re almost to the Queens side. My people are waiting there.”

  The girl followed right behind him. She’d been skittish at first, afraid to get too close to him. But he’d taken her to the kitchen and helped her find some food that hadn’t spoiled. She was a little waif of a girl, but she’d have given Tank a run for his money packing away the food. He had no idea how long she’d been locked up with nothing to eat, but he knew he wanted to kill whoever had left her there, whoever did what had been done to her.