“Keep trying.” Chuikova now felt a presence behind him, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His earlier reservations were now confirmed. His robed “advisor,” as he called himself, was now standing directly behind him.
“The attack is being stalled. This is unacceptable,” the black-robed figure said. “I thought your bombardment erased all military opposition.” The black-robed figure moved silently before the large panoramic view screen. Chuikova stood still, the view screen still capturing his gaze. From space numerous red circles of razed targets were visible.
“Resistance is to be expected, but it shouldn’t take this long to pacify this planet.” the black-robed figure paused, and continued, “no matter what preparations have been carried out.” It was obvious to Chuikova he was being made to feel like a blundering fool.
“So far, the southern part of the continent has been pacified to a satisfactory level up to a large natural river border. North of the border, the defenders possessed better weapons than originally thought,” he replied curtly. Getting no response, he continued, albeit more calm.
“Reinforcements will catch up and secure the rear areas as planned. Because you did not desire to use orbital weapons on the final push, ground forces will bear the brunt of the assault. Your wish to push the clone battalions without proper support will be costly. Unnecessary confusion is manifesting at the front. I warned you of that.” He wanted to choke the figure and tell him I told you so, but he thought that probably wasn’t the best idea.
The figure’s face was hidden by a shadow within the depths of his black robes. The figure hissed back, “If the supreme chancellor’s will is not carried out, you will answer with your life, and I will have to answer to my master. That is something I do not wish to do.” The figure turned and exited the bridge, leaving Chuikova to himself with an intense look of hatred on his face, and wondering if his thoughts perhaps his mind had been read.
“I think he’s back!” the technician yelled.
Chuikova again stood by himself, with a bustle of activity around him.
“Put it through.”
Transmission static again came through loudly. Faint sounds of gunfire could be heard in the background, as well as a few random explosions. A faint moan drifted throughout the bridge.
“Captain, report!” Now only a faint moaning answered the marshal. The explosions and gunfire seemingly died out. The technician indicated that the communications line was still open. Chuikova heard a sickening crunch, like the one a bone makes as it breaks, shattered the static. A thick, droning voice filled the bridge.
“Destroy. Kill and destroy.” The communications line went dead. The technician tried in vain to get it back up, but to no avail.
“He’s not going to answer. Shut it off.” Chuikova said. The clones were unstable, and if the advance units were being held up, or worse, tearing themselves apart, the offensive would be over. “What is the status of the forward units?”
“Clone battalion Four, Five and Six were committed for the northern offensive. We are unable to establish contact with any of them.”
“What is the status of the reinforcements?”
“Fighter Squadron One is deploying. Three assault infantry regiments from Mycla’s Hammer are enroute plus a penal battalion.”
“Where is Matthias?”
“He is with regiment “Dreadwolves” taking part in the southern offensive,’ the technician replied quickly. Chuikova frequently asked the location of his close comrades and the technicians learned quickly to keep tabs on them.
“Send a priority one message. The Dreadwolves are to redeploy to the northern offensive immediately.” Chuikova turned and hurriedly exited the bridge, headed for his quarters. “It has begun,” He muttered to himself. “We still may lose this thing after all.”
CHAPTER 42
Roman sat between Petor and Chana as the 1st and 2nd teams bounced around in the confines of their APC. About thirty minutes ago, it had broken away solo from in a long convoy of vehicles heading north. The air was incredibly hazy, making visibility low. For a civilization that discovered or borrowed the ability to travel faster than light, Roman thought it was reasonable to have figured out a decent suspension. Once out of the drop ships, Penal Battalion 7 had been broken down into squads. After the 1st and 2nd had been stuffed into a sardine can APC and headed to who knows where. Attempts at getting any information out of Lon were futile, as he had no clue. Even if he did, Roman thought he probably wouldn’t share it anyway. He was the type of person who enjoyed having power over others, no matter how insignificant it may seem. Roman assumed that the crew of the APC was regular army, as they were already in the driver’s compartment when the squads boarded at the landing site.
Eventually the ride smoothed out, leading Roman to believe they might now be on a highway. The limited display in his helmet indicated only that they were headed in a northerly direction. This lack of information and equipment was just one of the limitations of being a Penal Battalion trooper. The limited ammunition and grenades, in particular, would make this a fun excursion after all. When he, Petor, and Chana did break away from Lon and the others, Roman thought that getting a regular army trooper’s helmet would be beneficial.
The APC suddenly halted. For a few moments, Roman couldn’t hear anything except the soft whine of the engine, soft enough that Roman suspected the interior sound amplifiers were turned off. A few minutes later, Lon’s voice came over the helmet net.
“1st team will exit here and will provide cover until Cheem gets his troops off the APC. We are to rendezvous with a sizable force up ahead and assist clearing a small town.” The net went silent, and within a minute the rear hatch of the APC dropped. 1st team exited and formed a small perimeter around the hatch. The squad leader, Cheem, exited and dropped to one knee, pointing to a nearby cluster of burned out automobiles. His half a dozen troops broke into a low run towards a small amount of cover presented to them. As the APC’s hatch began to close, Roman caught a quick glimpse out of the rear of the APC of what appeared to be the remains of a highway that was jam packed with abandoned cars. Swirling smoke did its best to obscure the sun. Within seconds, the APC was mobile again.
“Once our team exits,” Lon’s voice said into the helmets of his personnel, “we will find cover and I will establish a marching order. Lock and load.”
Like I needed to be told that, Roman thought. He glanced over at Petor, giving him a quick inspection. Petor lay unmoving, with his face shield down. Roman was actually impressed with the guy. He had turned out to be a good soldier, considering the circumstances. Roman glanced over at Chana and got the same impression, even if she didn’t speak. Chana met his gaze. He couldn’t see her eyes through the closed face shield, but somehow he knew he could trust her.
“Contact!” Lon’s booming voice broke over the helmet net, waking Roman from his brief nap. He hadn’t had time to collect his thoughts when he had the odd sensation that he was suddenly being tossed onto his back within his seat harness. Reality soon took over as Roman realized that the APC was indeed skidding on its side. A large hole had been blown in the side of the vehicle, obliterating two troopers that were seated there, leaving only their torsos in the seats. Roman looked out through the hole and could see grey sky as well as a shower of sparks.
The APC finally skidded to a halt. The troopers frantically releasing themselves from their harnesses. Three members of the 2nd team, including Lon, unfortunately were sitting on the side of the APC that took the hit, and they had to drop down as they were strapped in their seats on what was now the ceiling. Roman, Petor, and Chana were on their backs, and were covered with most of the bloody remains from their two former colleagues.
One of the troopers hit the manual release lever, dropping the rear ramp.
“Roman, check it out,” Lon ordered.
“Check it out yourself. As far as I’m concerned, it’s every man for himself.” Roman put one hand on the side of the APC t
o steady himself and used the other to level his rifle toward Lon. “You check it out and be a hero.”
Lon turned to the trooper who had opened the rear hatch of the APC. The trooper was crouched down, his rifle aimed out of the hatch.
“Lestor, you check it out. The rest of you, establish a perimeter.” Lon’s voice faltered. Trooper Lestor turned his head toward Lon and shook it from side to side.
“Not taking orders from you anymore. The crew is wasted.” Lestor resumed his watch out of the back hatch, and continued, “We need to come up with something quick, though, before the next attack does us in.”
Lon took up a position behind Lestor and brought his weapon up to bear over Lestor’s shoulder. “To hell with all of you. Anybody who doesn’t wish to hang can come with me.” Lon stepped around Lestor and peered wearily out of the hatch. After half a minute, he turned to face the remainder of the squad in the APC, and turned again and exited the hatch solo, disappearing into the swirling black smoke outside.
“We’d better get out before this thing blows or we take another hit,” Petor said. “I’ll take point.” Before anybody could say anything, his small frame was out of the back hatch.
The remaining troopers emerged out of the still smoldering APC wreckage and leaned against the hull. They saw no sign of Lon anywhere. Roman tactically moved to the side of the highway, between two burned out tractor trailer hulks. A twisted blue highway sign lay on the ground. Roman lifted the sign, noting with curiosity that the blue shield read “Interstate 35.” Looking further north on the Interstate, Roman intensified the magnification in his helmet and noticed a large metal structure that spanned the north and southbound lanes. A bullet-ridden sign read “Sarita Checkpoint, Federal Agents.” Several burned out tour buses smoldered underneath the wreckage. Further north he saw hundreds of oily black plumes of smoke snaking upward from decimated buildings. The death toll no doubt was immense unless, somehow, the buildings had been evacuated.
“What is it?” Petor called out, his helmet visor open.
“The fleet’s handiwork,” he said as he stared at the carnage in the distance. After a minute, he broke his trance and said, “We should get off this highway,” Roman replied into his helmet mic. He was surprised when Lestor responded, “Lead the way.”
Roman jumped down into the ditch ran parallel to the interstate. The rest of the squad followed suit and jumped in after him.
“Cover me,” Roman said. “I’m going check the drivers.”
“Let them rot,” Lestor countered.
“We could use their helmets. They tap into the army grid, whereas ours don’t really do much of anything.” Roman emerged from the lip of the ditch and started toward the APC wreck at a run. “Keep an eye out for Lon. He’s still monitoring our channel.”
Roman dashed back to the APC wreck. It seemed to take longer to get there than it did to run away from it. He ran to the front and peered inside through the cracked windshield. He could see the broken body of the driver up against the glass. He stood up briefly and looked around. He saw nothing except what appeared to be tall fields of cornstalks on either side of the interstate. Glancing at the southbound lanes, he could see several large craters dotting the northbound lane. Burned out hulks and numerous parts that had been blown off the vehicles rested on the interstate, inside and on the edges of the craters, and several feet off the road. Roman still saw no sign of Lon, and he surmised it would be easy to vanish into the cornstalks.
Roman turned his attention back toward the APC and thought against trying the rear or the exposed driver’s door. He kicked his foot against the cracked windshield and felt it give a little. After three more hard kicks, the windshield gave way. Roman slung his rifle over his back and reached inside, grabbing the dead driver by his collar. He was surprised when only the top half off his body came free. He yanked hard and pulled. Coveralls and no helmet. Damn, Roman thought to himself. Roman looked toward the back of the cramped driver’s compartment and saw an armored figure crumpled in a heap by the door to the troop compartment. He too was blown in half as Roman gingerly pulled himself forward into the APC and almost leapt for joy at the body of a regular army trooper. Roman unbuckled the chinstrap to the trooper’s helmet and tugged hard. The helmet came free. Roman also began to unbuckle his assault vest, which was still loaded with spare rifle magazines and grenades. A moan escaped the bloodied lips of the trooper, surprising Roman.
“Help me,” the trooper cried softly. He feebly grabbed Roman’s sleeve.
“Tell me where this APC was headed, and I might,” Roman answered, taking what he could carry from the trooper’s body. He stuffed a small caliber pistol down the back of his pants.
“Rally point,” he wheezed. “Clone staging area.” The trooper’s head lulled to one side. “Don’t let me die,” he pleaded. His glazed over eyes stared at Roman.
“You’re missing your lower body. You don’t have much time left, I’m sorry.” Roman grabbed the trooper’s EMR on the floor of the cab and slowly edged himself out of the APC, breaking the weak grip the trooper had on Roman’s sleeve.
Roman turned and ran back to the ditch. “How did it go?” Petor asked.
“I got a helmet and an EMR,” Roman said, holding up the helmet like a trophy. “The driver said we were headed to a clone staging area. We should get moving. Petor, you take point; Lestor, get the rear.” Roman put his new helmet on, tossing the old one carelessly away. The five moved quickly through the ditch paralleling the pockmarked interstate. Roman placed the new helmet over his head and activated the army net. Instantly, Roman could hear the radio traffic from other nearby companies and squads in the area. From what it sounded like, the attack had stalled for some reason, and the forces were split up everywhere, almost like the Normandy airborne drops during World War II. Numerous calls for unit commanders to report in went unanswered. As Roman scanned frequency after frequency, more and more came up only as static. Petor dropped down to one knee and gave the closed-fist signal to stop. Roman quickly made his way to the front of the formation.
“What is it?” Roman asked, his voice amplified by the helmets’ internal speakers.
“You find anything out?” Petor had flipped his face shield up, and beads of sweat were streaming down his face from the humid atmosphere.
“Yeah, it sounds like we’re getting our asses kicked, and it’s not from the enemy.” Roman looked a few seconds longer at Petor as he removed a canteen from his vest and took a long pull from it.
“Why are we stopped?” Petor asked.
“Sorry,” Roman answered. “I got sidetracked. External sensors picked up something up ahead. It might be the rally point.” He sighed heavily. “OK. I’ll walk point with you. Let’s move out”
The sun had begun its descent, and the road ahead slid into a surreal darkness. After about an hour of walking, Roman gave some new orders.
“Listen up. We may have the rally point up ahead. Activate night vision and thermo. I’m going up with Petor to check it out. You two watch our backs.”
Lestor and Chana nodded in unison as Roman and Petor continued on.
CHAPTER 43
Roman and Petor moved silently through the cornfield paralleling the highway. Roman’s helmet had locked onto a GPS waypoint that probably had been placed by an advanced scout party. Lestor and Chana were out of sight to the rear but were close enough to lend assistance if needed.
“Should be close in about twenty-five meters,” Roman hissed over the helmet net. He pushed on, with Petor on his right, cautiously navigating the eight- foot-tall cornstalks. Nightfall was rapidly approaching as the team continued on. Sensors on their helmets started to give varying readings of concentrated heat signatures up ahead.
“It’s too quiet, I don’t like it,” Petor said. “We should be hearing something already.”
“Agreed,” Roman responded in grim concurrence. “The clearing should be up ahead.” Roman stopped and within a few moments Chana and Lestor made their way
up to him. Petor halted as well, trying to peer up further ahead. “You guys hold here. I’m going for a look.” Roman pushed the tip of his rifle through the cornstalks and stepped through.
“Well, it may have been a rally point at one time, but not anymore,” Roman transmitted back to his waiting team a few minutes later. “This is definitely the place, but no one seems to be home.”
“Copy,” Petor replied.
Roman stepped into a large clearing created by a drop ship. Two large burn craters were visible. The touchdown seemed to have triggered a small fire, and the advance party most likely widened the cleared area. Several large crates were still stacked, as well as a radio antenna array. It seemed to Roman for a split second that whoever was here had hurriedly abandoned this position sans most of its equipment; some very useful items had been left behind. He was about to give the all clear when he saw the bodies.
He saw six bodies even in the dim light, but it was a little hard to tell. Whatever had gotten hold of them had savagely rendered them limbless and headless. A crude fire pit had two still-smoldering corpses inside it.
“I need you guys to move up. This place is torched.”
The rest of the group soon entered the clearing. Lestor raised his face shield upon seeing the dismembered corpses. Petor and Chana stared blankly at the display of carnage.
“Wha-what could have c-caused this?” Petor stammered out. “It’s so barbaric.”
Roman knelt down and examined several of the corpses. “These were clone minders. I recognize the uniforms.”
“Their heads are gone,” Lestor whispered. “What did they do with their heads?”
Roman stood up. “Chana, I need you to find tracks out of here. We need to find out where they went.”
Chana nodded and started checking the perimeter.
Dawn of the Mad Page 31
