A Small Colonial War (Ark Royal Book 6)

by Christopher Nuttall

  They’ll run out of air sooner rather than later, he thought, savagely. The SAS had had problems extracting a breathable atmospheric mix and they’d prepared specifically for Clarke. If they run off into the wild, we might stumble across the bodies a hundred years from now.

  ***

  “They’re trying to make a stand at the pass,” Boone observed. Penny had slipped to the rear of the vehicle as his aides returned, but he kept tossing comments her way. She had a private feeling that they actually helped to gather his thoughts, yet it was hard to care. All of her observations would be going into her post-war book. “We’re going to need to clear the way before we can proceed.”

  He glanced at one of his aides. “Inform the Royal Marines I expect them to move up to support the Paras, then start planning a heavy bombardment of the Indian trenches,” he ordered. His tone admitted of no doubts about the outcome. “I want them smashed flat before we advance.”

  “Aye, sir,” the aide said.

  Penny nodded to herself. The Indian outer defence line was already being weakened; now, they’d break through and ram their way towards the colony itself. And then ... she’d never been particularly religious, not after the floods that had battered her country, killed her mother and forced her to flee to a refugee camp, but now she found herself praying that the Indians would see sense and surrender. They couldn't hold out for long.

  And thousands of people might be killed, she thought, numbly. These days, it was always the hostage-takers who were blamed when the hostages were killed in a botched rescue mission, not the would-be rescuers. India’s reputation would be lost forever. Their name will be mud for a hundred years.

  ***

  “They’re calling in the bombardment now,” Lance Corporal Fisher said. He sounded pleased, too pleased. The Royal Marine tankers hadn't had a chance to test themselves against a real enemy in years. “We’re going in immediately afterwards.”

  “Aye, sir,” Driver Bob Pankhurst said. He checked his console as the Marlborough light tank readied itself for combat. “All systems go.”

  He smiled darkly as he rested his hands on the wheel. The Marlborough had been designed for quick deployment to trouble spots, on or off Earth, including places where the enemy might deploy everything from poison gas to biological weapons. Scaling up the seals until the tank was practically a spacecraft in its own right hadn't been hard, particularly when there had been a very real risk of deployment to an alien world. Clarke might not have been the intended destination, but so far the tanks had performed splendidly.

  The ground shook, violently, as HE shells slammed down among the Indian positions. Giant fireballs rose into the air, fading slowly; another volley of shells landed, hoping to cut down the Indians who might be popping their heads back up after the first salvo. Bob didn't hate the Indians, not like he hated the terrorist scum who should all be strangled at birth, but he would sooner see them dead than his comrades. Besides, unlike most terrorists, the Indians might well be armed with weapons that could burn through the tank’s armour and explode inside. They’d be dead before knowing what had hit them if that was the case.

  “Go,” Fisher ordered.

  Bob gunned the engine and the tank roared forward, followed by the rest of the troop. Andy Perham, the gunner, hunted for targets as they charged right into the remains of the Indian position; thankfully, it looked as though the heavy weapons had been smashed by the long-range shellfire before the tanks entered range. A handful of Indians threw down their weapons as the tankers approached them, but there was no time to take prisoners. Bob heard Fisher calling in the enemy location to the following infantry, warning them that the Indians might take up their weapons again and try to engage the Paras. They’d get roughly handled if they did, Bob was sure - the Paras were almost as tough as the Royal Marines - and the British would become more reluctant to take prisoners. He hoped the Indians would be smart; these days, a single fake surrender could lead to a massacre.

  A flash of light shot over the tank and vanished somewhere in the dark mountains. Bob cursed and evaded rapidly as the hidden plasma cannon came into view. The Indians let rip again; Bob evaded the blast, but one of the following tanks wasn’t so lucky and exploded into a colossal fireball. There was no way any of the crew could have escaped in time. Perham fired a long burst from the machine gun into the enemy position; there was a brilliant flash of white light, followed by a colossal fireball as the magnetic containment field shattered, releasing a burst of superheated plasma. An Indian, his suit blazing with white fire, staggered into view, waving his hands desperately. There was nothing anyone could do for him.

  “Cut him down,” Fisher ordered, quietly.

  “Aye, sir,” Parham said. He fired a single burst from the machine guns. The Indian disintegrated. “He’s dead, sir.”

  Bob felt a flicker of sympathy for the Indian, then turned his attention back to the path through the mountains. An Indian tank charged at them, firing madly; he yanked the tank to one side as Parham fired back, slamming two armour-piercing shells into the Indian vehicle. It skidded to a halt, two crewmen bailing out before the vehicle exploded; he wondered, absently, why it hadn't gone up immediately as they engaged two more tanks. The Indians seemed surprised by the encounter, which puzzled him; they had to have known the British tanks were on their way.

  Maybe their superiors weren't telling them anything, he thought, as the tanks punched through the final part of the defence line and paused to wait for the infantry. The command net was buzzing with news of surrendering Indians; he allowed himself, just for a moment, to hope that the war was coming to an end before a hail of missiles lanced overhead. Some Indians, it was clear, were still holding out. They must not realise that they’ve run out of time.

  “The Paras have taken seventy prisoners,” Fisher commented. “I think we banged them up a little.”

  “Definitely, sir,” Bob said. The Royal Artillery might have softened up the Indian position, but it had been the tanks that had crushed the defenders. At least the Indian POWs - the lucky bastards - would be out of the fighting and well-treated. They’d probably see India before Bob saw Britain. “What now?”

  Fisher hesitated, checking the updates. “We’re going to ready ourselves for the final push,” he said. “Once the reserves catch up, we should be able to strike hard at the Indians and end the war in a single blow.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Clarke III, Pegasus System

  “We’ve taken seventy-nine prisoners,” an aide reported. “The reserves are taking them into custody now.”

  Penny leaned forward as images started to appear on the display. A handful of suited men, holding their hands in the air, watched at gunpoint by more suited men. It was hard to tell the difference between British and Indian soldiers; she hoped, watching the display, that the soldiers themselves could tell the difference. Standardising everything made a great deal of sense, Percy had assured her, but there were times when it was a menace.

  “Move them back to the POW camp,” Boone ordered. “Keep them well away from the landing zone, just in case.”

  “Aye, sir,” the aide said.

  Boone cleared his throat. “Move the remaining tanks through the gap, then prepare to advance to the colony,” he added. “Try and raise the Indians again. Repeat the standard surrender broadcast.”

  “Aye, sir,” the aide said.

  Penny blinked in surprise as Boone glanced at her. “The Indians have a number of other outposts, but they’re immaterial now,” he explained. “Once the colony falls, those outposts can either surrender or be left to starve. Either one would suit us.”

  “Yes, sir,” Penny said. “Why aren't they surrendering?”

  “I wish I knew,” Boone said. “But all we can do at the moment is press the offensive.”

  He turned his attention back to the map display; Penny followed his gaze. The Indians had dug hundreds of trenches around the colony, but they couldn't hope to hold out when he could
rain shells on their heads before sending in the groundpounders. Honour, she was sure, had been more than satisfied. No one in their right mind would expect the Indians to do more, now the British had landed troops and cut the garrison off from all hope of rescue. But the Indians were still not surrendering ...

  “Bombarding the trenches will almost certainly do considerable damage to the colony itself,” Boone mused. “They may be hoping we’d refrain from hammering their positions before advancing to the attack.”

  Penny eyed him. “And are you going to refrain?”

  “I can't,” Boone said. “We cannot set a precedent of allowing human shields to impact on our operations. We’d only see far too many more hostage situations.”

  “That’s a little harsh on the hostages,” Penny observed, sharply.

  Boone shrugged. “Once you pay the Danegeld, you never get rid of the Dane,” he countered, sharply. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but the Indians cannot be allowed to set such a precedent.”

  “Even if it means killing our own people,” Penny said.

  “Yes,” Boone said. “Even if it means killing our own people.”

  ***

  Percy couldn’t help feeling as though he'd come home as the troop scrambled up the mountain, finally returning to the original observation point they’d chosen when they’d first reached the moon. The Indians, it seemed, were scrambling to defend the colony; troops and armoured vehicles were streaming into the trenches from all directions, while a handful of light aircraft - specially adapted to fly in the poisonous atmosphere - were buzzing overhead.

  “They don’t look as though they’re preparing to surrender,” he said.

  “No, they don’t,” Drake agreed. He cleared his throat. “Snipers, start your work; everyone else, cover them.”

  “Aye, sir,” Lewis said.

  Percy nodded to himself as he peered down at the colony. All of the SAS men were excellent shots, but their snipers were practically inhuman. They were three kilometres from the colony, yet they were able to pick off officers and men with ease. The Indians would probably guess where the snipers were, eventually, but taking them out would prove a major challenge. By now, it was unlikely they had any patrols close enough to intervene.

  And sniping at them has to ruin their morale, he thought. But how long can they hold out?

  ***

  Governor Brown had been a very simple man, Vasanta considered. His office had been very simple, decorated only with a picture of the man’s grown up kids and a portrait of the British Royal Family. Vasanta privately approved - he preferred the Spartan design himself - but right now he suspected he could have used a distraction. No matter what he did, there was no way to prevent the British from attacking the colony at will.

  He stared down at the map, silently calculating how quickly the British could advance into the vacuum. By his most optimistic assessment, it would only be a few hours before they were in position to attack directly - and he couldn't hope to hold them off. Morale, already low, had collapsed completely when the British had started sniping at his men; a number of officers were already dead, further weakening his grip on events. If he hadn't expended most of his ammunition earlier ...

  There's no time to worry about what might have been, he thought, sharply. The whole concept of the war had clearly been fatally flawed - never mind that it would have been classed as a brilliant scheme if it had actually succeeded - and India had lost. He was in command, he was expected to fight to the last ...

  And it will only get my men killed, along with a number of British civilians, he reminded himself. There was no point in trying to avoid the truth. If we hold out, the British will kill us all. And it will be for nothing.

  He cursed under his breath. He’d been told about the political rationale for the war and he agreed with it, but the war was lost. Any hope of being acknowledged as a Great Power, let alone as the sole owners of Pegasus and Vesy, had been lost with the war. To continue to fight would merely lead to a disaster, all the more so as the British would be unable to overlook the death of so many of their people. They might not be able to attack India itself, but they’d damn well take India’s extra-solar possessions and bring immense pressure to bear against the Indian economy. No, the war was lost - and the sooner it came to an end, the better.

  And that only left pride. He didn't want to surrender. It was a point of pride in the Indian military that no officer had surrendered since the final Indo-Pakistan War and he had no wish to be the one who broke that streak. But what was pride when measured against the loss of his men and the terrible punishment the outside world would heap on India? Who gave a damn about a loser? They could have gotten away with it, he told himself, if they’d actually won. Losing, on the other hand ...

  He tasted bile in his mouth. The government would start looking for a scapegoat - he’d met the Prime Minister once and he had a fairly good idea of the man’s character - and he would almost certainly be their choice. There would be a show trial; he probably wouldn't be executed, not when the military might take exception to someone being blamed completely, but he’d certainly be forced out of the service. His wife and children would be outcasts; his sons would probably be forced to leave the service too. And then ... he’d be expected to eat his own gun.

  It was tempting, very tempting, just to dig in and force the British to come for him. He’d be dead long before any of the negative consequences struck his country. But that was a selfish attitude, one that revolted him even as it rose up in his mind. The only thing he could do now was surrender and take the blame on himself. Who knew? Perhaps he’d live long enough to be able to write his own account of the war.

  He rose and strode into the command centre. “Lieutenant,” he ordered. “Raise the British Commander. Inform him that I wish to surrender.”

  “Aye, sir,” his aide said.

  Vasanta turned to another officer. “Captain, contact the trenches,” he ordered. “They are to fire only in direct self-defence; I say again, they are to fire in direct self-defence. Once we agree on surrender terms, they are to put down their weapons and ready themselves to go into the British camps.”

  The captain looked pale, but nodded. Vasanta wondered, sardonically, just what he had to worry about. There was no way a junior officer would wind up taking the blame for the whole disaster, even though there would be quite enough of it to go around. But he should make sure of it.

  “Make a final entry in the occupation log,” he ordered. “The decision to surrender was mine and mine alone. I consulted with no one else before issuing the orders.”

  “Colonel,” the Lieutenant said. “I have Colonel Boone on the line for you.”

  Vasanta took a long breath as the British officer’s face appeared on the display. “Colonel,” he said. There was no point in wasting time with pleasantries. “Please state your terms for the surrender.”

  Boone studied him thoughtfully. “Your men are to disarm themselves and wait to be collected,” he ordered. “You may destroy your classified files and encryption codes, but everything else is to be left intact - including the remaining mass drivers and industrial equipment. All of that is to be considered spoils of war.”

  Which will not look good when I get home, Vasanta thought, ruefully. The plan to stake a partial claim to the system had floundered too. But there’s no choice.

  “Very well,” he said, finally.

  “We will endeavour to return your men to India as quickly as possible,” Boone added. “It would be greatly appreciated, however, if you ensured they behaved themselves. Rounding up the shipping to get them home will not be easy.”

  “I understand,” Vasanta said. He wanted to say something else - to congratulate the British officer, perhaps, or to curse him - but the words wouldn't come. “I’ll see you when you arrive at the colony.”

  ***

  “We won?”

  “It looks that way,” Boone confirmed, once the Indian officer’s face had vanished from
the display. “But accepting so many surrenders isn't going to be easy.”

  He keyed his console. “Move the Paras forward with orders to accept the surrenders,” he said. “They are to ensure the Indians are disarmed and that the colony’s vital installations and locations are secured. If necessary, the Indian barracks are to be turned into makeshift POW camps.”

  “Aye, sir,” his aide said.

  “And signal Admiral Fitzwilliam,” Boone added. “The Indians have surrendered.”

  Penny breathed a sigh of relief. She’d lived through the war - and so had Percy, unless he’d been killed in the last few minutes. There’d been forty casualties, as far as she knew, but none of them had listed as being SAS. She shuddered as it struck her that Percy might not be listed as being SAS ... the thought chilled her before she pushed the sensation aside. If Percy had died, she'd hear about it soon enough. God knew they were each the other’s next-of-kin.

  She looked at Boone. “Doesn't the Indian CO have to surrender to you personally?”