by Jay Allan
“Yes . . . Captain.”
Was that hesitation she heard? Or was she just imagining it?
She wasn’t so naïve to think there wasn’t support for the rebellion among the colonial forces on the station . . . and even some among her navy staff. Hell, if she’d allowed herself, she might have felt the same thing—she had friends who’d mustered out and retired to Alpha-2. But there was no room for such considerations. She would do her duty, and so would her people, whatever personal feelings they might have.
And God help any of them who forgot that.
Danforth had never felt anything like the panic that threatened to take him. He’d prepared for years, recruited his neighbors, drained his family fortune . . . all to get to this day. And now all he wanted was to keep running . . . deep into the woods until all he could hear were the leaves rustling in the wind.
He heard the fire from the feds along the edge of the woods. He felt as though any second one of those bullets would rip into his back, take him down short of the cover he was running toward with all the energy and adrenaline his body could produce.
The trench was just ahead, and he lunged forward, diving clumsily over the small pile of logs in front, landing hard, feeling the pain of impact vibrate through his body.
“Open fire!” He screamed as loudly as he could. “And pass the order down.” For all the years he’d planned revolution, he’d never imagined his soldiers would have to fight without basic communications. Danforth knew something about the energy cost a planetwide jamming effort required, and he couldn’t understand how the federals were maintaining it. Not that it mattered at the moment. The only thing that mattered was his inability to issue orders other than through the power of his voice.
He could hear the gunfire erupt all along the rebel line, and he could see the bullets tearing into the woods. The federals continued their fire, but Danforth could see they were taking losses now. Many of his people were poorly trained, inexperienced at firing weapons, especially in battle. But some of the rebels knew their way around a gun, and they were scoring hits.
So are the federals, though.
Danforth looked down the line, leaning forward in the trench. It was hard to tell, but he could see at least a dozen of his people down already. And that was just in the small area within his line of sight.
He reached around, pulling his own rifle from his back. He wasn’t an especially good shot, and he didn’t think one more weapon firing would make much difference.
But the rest of them seeing me on the line, alongside them firing . . . that just might mean something.
He knelt down between two of his people, bringing the rifle to bear. He paused for just a few seconds. Then he aimed and opened fire.
“Command Central, this is Jaybird One, on position over the action. Forces are heavily engaged below. Requesting permission to commence attack run.”
“Jaybird One, you are authorized to attack.”
Vincent Perrin gripped the gunship’s controls, moving the throttle to the side, bringing the aircraft around. The Talon-class gunship was a small infantry support craft, part plane, part helicopter, with a bit of hovercraft in the mix. It was a light weapon on Earth, dwarfed by the heavy, nuclear-powered airships the powers deployed in war. But out in the colonies, it was a superweapon, and its quad chain guns were the deadliest anti-infantry weapon on Alpha-2.
“Gunners ready,” he said, pushing down on the throttle, beginning the dive.
“Ready.” The two men replied almost in unison.
Perrin pushed the controls harder forward, bringing the gunship down in a steep dive. He could hear the four rotors on the craft’s underside, and he could feel the shaking as he pushed the gunship to the extent of its abilities. He’d been told the rebels didn’t have any antiair capability, but he and his people weren’t colonial security, or even anti-insurgency forces. They were from the real military, and Perrin was enough of a veteran to realize that all intel was best greeted with at least some skepticism. One surface-to-air missile could knock his bird out of the sky, and even an inexperienced operator could get lucky. That meant he was doing this by the book.
“Commence firing,” he snapped, pulling back the throttle and leveling off the gunship. He’d positioned the bird perfectly, right above the rebel line.
He could hear the sound of the chain guns firing, and he almost felt sorry for the rebels on the ground. Each gun fired fifty rounds a second, spewing out death on any bodies of troops unfortunate enough to be in its target zone.
“Cease fire,” he ordered. Then he pulled back on the throttle, climbing hard. The Talon was a nightmare to ground forces it attacked, but it was also extremely vulnerable to interdictive fire when it was on a low altitude run. Again, intel or no, Perrin had no intention of keeping his bird at less than three hundred meters for an instant longer than he needed.
“We’re at 6 percent ammo remaining, Lieutenant,” said the lead gunner.
Perrin flipped on the comm. “Command Central, this is Jaybird One. Our chain guns are almost dry. Returning to base for reload.”
“Copy that, Jaybird One.”
Perrin brought his craft around, angling it back toward Landfall. His turnaround time for transit, reloading, and refueling was one hundred ten minutes, less than two hours. He wondered if there’d be any rebels left when he got back.
“Stand! Hold your positions!” John Danforth was running along the rebel line, waving a makeshift flag, really a piece of cloth torn from a blanket tied to a long stick. It was bright red, the most visible thing Danforth could find to rally the Guardians.
The two federal gunships had wreaked havoc on his forces. There were dozens and dozens dead, and the morale of the others was on the verge of collapse. The Guardians were rebels, but they weren’t soldiers . . . not yet at least. They were farmers and factory workers and engineers. They had lost at least a hundred of their number to the deadly air attacks, and they were panicking.
“Hold your positions,” Danforth shouted. “You’re safer in your cover than running in the open. Fight these bastards! Avenge your friends. What will you think of yourselves tomorrow if you run this day? Keep fighting, and win your goddamn freedom!”
Where those words came from, Danforth wasn’t sure, because God knew he was as terrified as the rest of these men and women. He’d thrown himself down in the mud when the gunships strafed the line, but somehow he’d pulled himself together. When he’d looked up, he was horrified. And he was equally disturbed when he saw how many of his forces he had lost, beyond those killed and wounded. Perhaps 20 percent of those who had gathered had trickled away, fled into the woods behind Vincennes, running like mad for home.
But as surprised as he was about those losses, he was equally surprised it wasn’t worse, because the bulk of the force remained, however shaken they were.
“To your positions. The gunships are gone, but those troopers are still coming. Get ready!”
Tyler came running down from the northern end of the line. “They’re holding, John. We lost some, but the line is holding.”
“They’re holding down here, too. Get back up there, Ty. They need to see you.” Then, after a short pause: “I’m proud of you, cousin. You’re doing great.”
Tyler forced a smile. “Thanks, John. You, too.”
John could see his cousin was scared, just as he was. But he was doing what he had to do. He was holding it together, and he was keeping his amateur soldiers in the line.
“I’ll see you when it’s over, John.”
John nodded. Then he turned and walked back down the line. “Stay sharp, Guardians.” The federal skirmish line was still firing, but after the nightmare of the gunship attack, it didn’t seem like much more than a nuisance.
But he knew the main assault was coming. And he didn’t know how much more his people could take.
“Hold fast, Guardians.” He was waving the flag, the makeshift colors of the rebellion, and he was moving down the line. �
�Stand firm and fight. Fight for your freedom!”
“Lieutenant Pindry, your company will lead the attack. You are to advance quickly. Do not stop or get involved in a protracted firefight. Those are not veteran troops; they’re glorified civilians, and they just endured an air attack. We need to move on them quickly, forcefully . . . force them to break. Then we can mop things up and get back to Landfall.”
Frasier was focusing on his words, making sure none of his doubts came through in his tone. The highly effective strafing runs against the rebel positions had given morale a boost, but Frasier didn’t kid himself. His troops were shaken, too, unnerved by the deadly ambushes they’d experienced along the road. They needed him to be like granite.
And the only way to give them that is to lie to them.
Major Stein had all but yielded command to Frasier. The CO was back in his command vehicle, halfway to the rear of the line, and he showed no signs of coming closer to armed enemies that had proven themselves to be far more dangerous than he’d imagined. He’d told Frasier to take charge of the attack, and that’s exactly what the colonial officer was doing. He’d snapped out a flurry of orders, many of which he knew he should have run by Stein first. But he didn’t think the force commander would care as long as he got to stay in his armored vehicle.
Pindry looked back, nodding, but far less effective than Frasier at hiding his fear. “Yes, sir,” he said in a voice that was less than inspiring.
Frasier nodded. “Go, Lieutenant. And remember, you won’t be alone. I’ll be right behind with the reserve company.” He turned and looked up to the north . . . and then down to the south. He’d sent forces in both directions to flank the rebel line . . . and if he’d timed things right, they should be engaging just as the front assault went in . . .
Pindry paused for a few seconds, as if he was going to say something. Then he just nodded again and turned around, trotting back up to his troops. He’d dismounted his infantry, leaving two soldiers in each transport, one driver and one to operate the vehicle’s autocannon. The attack plan was simple. The transports would advance, the infantry formed up behind the vehicles, using them for cover as they closed the distance. The transports were lightly armored, mostly proof against small-arms fire. But anything heavier than an assault rifle could be dangerous.
Frasier moved forward—farther, he knew, than he should—and watched Pindry position himself at the front of his force. His opinion of the young officer grew. Frasier hadn’t ordered him to place himself at the head of his troops—he’d done that himself.
The transports moved forward, clearing the woods one at a time, the second swinging north and the third south and so on, widening the line of advance. They moved slowly, allowing the troops behind to keep up. Pindry’s company was ninety strong, with eight vehicles.
The autocannons opened up as soon as the transports moved out into the open, raking the enemy line. The rebels had dug a trench opposite the road, with a series of heavy logs deployed in front. It was a fairly strong position, one that offered heavy cover to its garrison. Which was one reason Frasier wanted Pindry’s people to keep moving. Stopping out in the open and exchanging fire with the entrenched rebels was a sucker’s move.
The rebels were firing at the advancing troops. When Frasier had first been briefed about the mission on the weapons dump, he had expected mostly a combination of obsolete old guns—single-shot rifles, ancient shotguns, and the like. He understood there might have been a few imported weapons, but certainly not so many.
What the hell kind of smuggling operation had been going on?
His skirmish line had suffered badly from the rebels’ fire, and now he completely understood the importance of the operation. If the rebels had more ordnance like this, his people had to destroy or capture it. At all costs.
Another sound ripped through the air, louder, lower pitched. Some kind of heavy weapons. He leaned out from behind his cover, bringing his binoculars up and scanning the line. It looked like the fire was coming from two spots, and he saw one transport, bracketed by the two emplacements, stopping, and an instant later bursting into flames.
He could see the advancing forces fragmenting. Half the transports were still moving forward, but the two flanking the destroyed vehicle stopped. They were still firing, raking the rebel line, but they stayed in place, their troops huddling behind them.
Frasier watched for another few seconds. The rebels were dug in, but the guns on the transports were taking a toll. He knew if his people pushed hard enough they could break the enemy line. Then a second transport sputtered to a halt, another victim of the rebel’s heavy weapons. The other vehicles slowed, and the infantry squads clumped together behind.
He pulled out his comm. “Keep going, Pindry, goddammit,” he yelled into the comm, turning as he did and waving toward the column of transports lined up behind him. “I don’t care what you have to do, but get those troopers moving. We’ve got to break through. I’m bringing up the second line now.”
“Captain . . .” Pindry’s voice was ragged. “Yes, Captain.”
“Do it, Lieutenant.” Frasier knew his officer was on the edge. And if Pindry lost it the attack would fall apart. “Just focus, Dave . . . I’ll be up there in a minute.”
He turned around again and shouted, “Second company . . . advance.” He pulled the assault rifle from his back and flipped it to full auto. Then he ran out, in front of the second wave toward Pindry’s faltering troops.
Jamie was exhausted, his legs on fire, and his back hurting like he’d never felt before. He’d carried Katia more than five kilometers, and he was coming to the last of his strength. But now he could see the house up ahead, and that gave him a needed boost.
You’re almost home, Katia.
He paused for a few seconds, scanning the area, looking for more federals, but things looked clear—except for one thing: there was a transport parked in the side yard. He recognized it immediately, though, and breathed a sigh of relief.
Damian was there.
He scrambled up toward the front porch, looking around where he’d left Alexi. He was gone.
So were the bodies of the troopers he’d killed.
He climbed the small staircase, and pushed the door open, stepping inside. Alexi was lying on the sofa, half covered with a blanket. Damian and Ben Withers were standing there.
“Damian . . . my God, I’m glad to see you.”
Damian ran up to Jamie, helping him with Katia, setting her down gently on the floor. He turned toward Withers. “Ben, go find some more blankets and pillows.”
“Yes, sir.” Withers nodded and ran out of the room, toward the staircase leading to the upstairs.
“Damian, we’ve got to get out of here. The feds will be back.”
“I know, Jamie. Alexi told me you went after Katia. We just got Alexi bandaged up, and I was about to come after you.”
“How is he?”
Damian turned back toward the sofa. “We managed to stop the bleeding. I think he’ll be all right, but we need to get him a doctor. And as you said, we’ve got to get out of here.” A pause. “How is Katia?”
“She’s pretty banged up, but I think she’ll be okay.” He looked down for an instant, his eyes staring at the ground.
Whatever the hell “okay” means . . .
He looked back up at Damian. “Can you help them? The federals, they’re after Katia. You’ve got to get them out of here . . . somewhere safe.”
“I will . . .” Damian paused, looking at his friend with a troubled expression on his face. “What about you, Jamie?”
Jamie stared back. He couldn’t go back to the farm. He couldn’t go anywhere Damian hid the others either. Katia had been at an illegal protest, and Alexi had just tried to defend his daughter. But he had killed nine federal soldiers. And there was no doubt in his mind the surveillance devices on the transports had captured his image. The federals would hunt him relentlessly. They would never stop, and all he could bring to his friends,
to Katia, was danger.
If they weren’t already in danger.
Which means this won’t end until it’s actually finished.
“I’ll find the rebels, Damian. It’s the only place for me now.”
Damian stood silent for a few seconds, looking back at his friend. Finally, he said, “You can stay on the farm. We’ll keep you hidden somewhere.” But there was no conviction in his words.
“Thank you for all you’ve done for me, Damian. There is no way I can ever explain what it has meant to me.”
“Take care of yourself, my friend.” Damian moved forward, pulling Jamie in a tight hug. He spoke softly. “Stay calm if you end up in battle. And alert. Trust your friends and trust your instincts. Never lose your focus, and you’ll come through it. Believe me . . . I know.”
The two men maintained the embrace for a few more seconds. Then Jamie turned and kneeled down, leaning over Katia and kissing her softly. He looked up. “Take care of her for me.”
“I will, Jamie. Don’t you worry about her. Worry about yourself. Stay alive . . . that’s all you think about. You hear me?”
Jamie just nodded. Then he turned and walked out the door without another word.
John Danforth felt his foot slide out from under him. He reached out, dropping his rifle and grabbing on to the pile of shattered logs along the front of the trench to steady himself. He thought he’d slipped on the mud until he looked down and saw it was a pool of blood and something . . . else. There were at least a dozen of his people lying on the ground right around him. He’d picked fifty of the most reliable men and women among the Guardians to hold the central trench. As far as he could see there were perhaps fifteen left.
He bent down and grabbed his weapon. It was slick with blood, and he tried to wipe it clean with his sleeve, at least enough so his finger didn’t slip around on the trigger. He was trying to get to one of the autocannons. One of them was still firing, but the other had fallen silent. Its first crew had been killed in place, and the two who were supposed to replace them had fled.
