Someone must have stockpiled batteries ... or even a fusion core, he thought. He wouldn't have expected an insurgency to hide a portable fusion core somewhere within their territory, but the insurgents on Thule had already pulled off a whole series of surprises. They’d clearly been planning the uprising and consequent civil war for quite some time. But their commander knew, all-too-well, just how his counterparts would think.
Gritting his teeth, he twisted the hang-glider slightly, altering course, his gaze tracking their destination. It looked almost completely defenceless from high overhead, which was almost certainly an illusion. Unless they had been grossly mistaken, the rebel HQ would have plenty of hidden defences, even though having the defences out in the open would have told the enemy gunners precisely where to aim. His altitude dropped rapidly as he fell towards the building, feeling a rush of the old tension and excitement from when he’d carried out his first parachute jump. He’d once been told that a number of Boot Camp recruits managed to make it as far as their first jump and stopped, dead. If they couldn't jump out of a plane, they didn't have a hope of performing a combat drop on a heavily defended planet.
“Get ready to deploy the gas grenades,” he ordered. Using microbursts this close to the rebel HQ was a risk – he dared not assume that the rebels didn't have equipment capable of picking them up, no matter what the techs claimed – but there was no choice. A few seconds of warning wouldn't make that much of a difference. “Drop them as soon as we land.”
The roof came up towards him at terrifying speed. Joe twisted the hang-glider once again, slowing his fall, then dropped the last few metres onto the roof. A pair of guards, half-hidden under the awning, came into view, gaping in horror at the men who had just landed on top of the building. Joe picked them both off before they could react, then led the way towards a hatch in the rooftop. Underneath, the rebels were waiting for them.
“Grenades away,” one of his Marines said. There were a series of pops as the grenades fell down around the building. Unusually, the gas was clearly visible, even in the darkness. But its purpose wasn't to stun or kill, merely to keep the enemy penned up inside the house. Assuming, of course, that their intelligence wasn't completely wrong. “Sir?”
Joe smiled. “In we go,” he said. He activated his communicator. “We’re entering the house; I say again, we’re entering the house.”
***
Pete had long ago mastered the trick of sleeping, despite the sounds of gunfire and explosions from outside the house. His Drill Instructors had pointed out that sleep was so important that the Marines would have to sleep wherever and whenever they could, even if there were shells and bullets whistling all around them. They’d meant it too, Pete recalled; one of the more sadistic training drills at the Slaughterhouse had played the recruits the sound of combat while they were trying to sleep. Later, on training deployments, they’d slept in places as varied as muddy fields and captured enemy houses. He still had nightmares about the foxhole that had caved in on him during the first live-fire combat drill he’d endured.
But he was also a very light sleeper, much to the amusement of his wife. If something moved too close to him, he jerked awake. He’d always woken her in the middle of the night, normally after she snuggled up to him and shocked him out of his rest. Now ... he jerked awake, convinced that something was badly wrong. His training had included lessons in listening to his intuition, even though it wasn't something that could be quantified. The human mind often picked up danger signs without quite realising what it was picking up.
He sat upright and reached for the pistol he’d hidden under the bed. It wasn't uncommon for an insurgency to come apart into civil war; Pete knew that quite a few of the other leaders didn't appreciate his plans or trust him without reservation. Stone, among others, might have decided to launch a coup. They all had men who were loyal to them personally, rather than the movement as a whole. But if it had been Stone, she would probably have blown up the whole house rather than risk trying to take him alive.
Stumbling to his feet, pistol in hand, he ran over to the far wall and pressed his hand against the plaster. There was only one door into his bedroom, something that had bothered him when he'd first seen it. Long experience had taught him that having only one way in or out of a room could turn the room into a trap, so he’d looked for an alternate way out as soon as the building had been designated one of his headquarters. The plaster was thin, thin enough for him to smash with his bare hands, if necessary. It ran the risk of making noise, but there was no longer any choice. Outside, he could hear the sound of running feet and gunfire. It was quite clear that someone had decided to take him out.
Bracing himself, he struck the plaster and smiled as it broke under the blow.
***
The interior of the building didn't match the plans they’d been given, Joe noted, as they spread out through the building, but he wasn't particularly surprised. They’d designed the buildings for rapid reconfiguration if necessary and, when it had become clear that they would be trapped in the Zone for the foreseeable future, the original inhabitants had started to redesign it to suit themselves. The Marines would just have to search the building floor by floor.
“Got several small units running towards the building,” his communicator hissed. The drone, high overhead, was watching the building and providing top cover. “Gunners standing by.”
“Tell them to engage,” Joe ordered, as he entered another room. A pair of young men scrambled away from him, only to be shot down before they could escape. “And tell them to be damn careful where they aim their weapons.”
The building shook violently, seconds later. Joe swallowed a curse as they plunged into the next room, discovering a handful of datachips, a paper map and little else. He marked the room down for later attention, if they had time before they had to run for their lives, then moved into another room. Outside, the gunners had dropped antipersonnel rounds into the area surrounding the building, catching the rebels on the hop. Or so he hoped. Between the shellfire and the gas, the rebels should have real problems responding to the sudden intrusion.
“Top floor cleared,” one of his men snapped.
“Down to the next floor,” Joe ordered. “Hurry!”
Some of the enemy soldiers had clearly managed to get organised, Joe realised, as they reached the top of the stairs. They’d set up an ambush, firing madly up towards the Marines. Joe barked orders; the Marines used high explosive to shatter the floor and drop down on top of their enemies. The insurgents barely had time to react before the Marines sliced through them, taking them all out. Joe led the Marines onwards into the next set of rooms. Inside, he discovered several young women staring at the intruders in horror. Judging from their appearance, they were probably rebel coordinators rather than whores or any other kind of sex slave.
“Stay here,” he ordered. It was stupid – the female of the species could be just as dangerous as the male – but he wasn't going to shoot down girls in cold blood. “Stay here and don’t move.”
They confiscated a handful of weapons from the girls, then ran on into the next set of rooms and discovered a small barracks. The beds were empty, suggesting that the room had been occupied by the men they’d killed. Joe muttered a curse under his breath and led the way down to the next floor. They were running out of rooms to search.
And then he heard the noise.
***
Pete forced his way through the plaster and stopped, listening carefully. The sound of gunfire – precise gunfire – from outside suggested that the attack wasn't a coup, but a SF raid on a HVT. Part of his mind was mildly impressed, noting that the attackers had dropped into the centre of the Zone to carry out their attack, the rest of him was horrified. They’d managed to effectively surround his building and isolate him. He heard the sound of running footsteps and turned, beating a hasty retreat towards the emergency exit. If there were shells falling around the building, the only way out would be the underground tunnels.
And then someone came after him.
Gritting his teeth, he turned and found cover. If they wanted him, they wouldn't take him without a fight.
***
Joe Buckley knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the man diving for cover was their target. No Marine could conceal his identity from another, not when they’d had the Slaughterhouse in common. Pete Rzeminski might have retired before Joe himself had graduated and donned his Rifleman’s Tab, but the training remained identical.
“Halt,” he bellowed, reaching for a stun grenade. It would have to be his first resort, even though he wasn't entirely sure it would work. Rzeminski had been out of service for a long time, but his immunisations and enhancements would still be in play. “Halt or I shoot.”
He threw the grenade without bothering to wait for a reply, then cursed under his breath as two shots came back at him. Clearly, Rzeminski was still immune to the knock-out gas. Joe muttered a quick update into the radio, then threw himself forward at breakneck speed. His target had been inching backwards, but came up to fight as soon as he realised there was no point in trying to evade Joe any longer. Joe ducked a punch, then slammed the stunner into Rzeminski’s chest and pulled the trigger several times. Rzeminski staggered, somehow remaining on his feet for a handful of long seconds, then collapsed. Joe let out a breath, then rolled the body over and checked its face against the records, then the DNA. It wouldn't be the first time an insurgent leader had left an underling to take the fall.
But the face was correct, as was the genetic code. Joe hesitated, then yanked Rzeminski’s hands behind his back and bound them with a plastic tie. He wrapped another tie around the man’s ankles, just to make sure he was immobilised, then picked the insurgent leader up and slung him over his shoulder.
“Enemy captured; I say again, enemy captured,” he said. “Requesting immediate extraction.”
“Understood,” the coordinator said. “Choppers inbound now; I say again, choppers inbound now.”
Joe could hear the sound of shooting outside as he met up with the remainder of the Marines and headed back to the roof, taking a few moments to sweep the floors for anything that might be useful for intelligence purposes. Somewhat to his disappointment, there was very little, apart from clear evidence that a paper disposal system had been used to destroy documents over the past few days. Rzeminski, it was clear, had known the dangers and practiced strict communications security. There probably wouldn't be anything sensitive on the datachips they’d recovered, Joe decided. It wouldn't be the first time the Marines had captured datachips, only to discover they were loaded with entertainment programs – or porn.
Outside, the Zone seemed to be seething with anger. The live feed from the drone revealed several more groups of insurgents making their way towards the house, while others were trying to bring mortars to bear on their former HQ. Joe had to admire their determination, even though it was clear they’d given up all hope of recovering their former leader. Maybe their other leaders wanted to get rid of him too, he wondered, as shells started crashing down on top of the mortar positions. This time, there would be nothing held back.
“Keep your fool heads down,” he barked, as bullets started to crack over the rooftop. Thankfully, the enemy didn't seem to have snipers in place to fire down at them, but it was only a matter of time. 1st Platoon had been on counter-sniper duty for the last few days and he had to admit the rebel snipers were alarmingly good. They’d probably been hunters in the countryside, like some of the Crackers. “I don’t want to lose anyone now!”
“Warning,” the drone operator said. “They’re setting the building on fire.”
Joe swore. If the enemy were reluctant or unable to engage them directly, setting fire to the building was a simple way to kill the intruders. Or maybe the operator was wrong and one of the shells fired to deter intervention from outside had accidentally started the fire. Not, in the end, that it mattered in the slightest. All that mattered was getting out of the Zone before the flames caught them or they had to make a run for it through streets crammed with angry insurgents.
“Helicopters inbound,” the coordinator said. “I say again, helicopters inbound.”
Joe looked up as four helicopters swooped down over the city, firing down into the streets as they approached. One of them came to a halt over the building, then dropped down rapidly until it was hovering just above the roof. The others started to orbit the building, firing burst after burst towards anyone who tried to fire on the helicopters. Joe ran forward, tossed Rzeminski into the helicopter, then motioned for his men to board. As soon as they were onboard, he climbed in and slammed the hatch shut behind him. The helicopter pilot didn't hesitate; the helicopter rose sharply, dropping flares behind it.
Joe felt his stomach clench as he sat down on the metal deck. There wouldn't be a better moment – a worse, from his point of view – for the enemy to reveal a final HVM. They would never have a better shot at a whole platoon of Marines ... and their former leader, who they could expect to be bled dry of everything he knew about the insurgency. But as the helicopter clawed for sky, the only opposition was a handful of bullets, which dinged off the armour harmlessly.
He pulled himself to his feet and peered out the porthole as they raced away from the Zone. Flames were rising up behind them, spreading to a number of other buildings. It was clear, part of his mind noted, that the designers hadn't even bothered to give lip-service to the Empire’s rules and regulations on fire prevention. Not, in the end, that it mattered in the slightest. Either the rebels managed to put out the fire or it would spread, destroying the Zone.
Success, he thought, as he looked over at Rzeminski. The former Marine was slowly waking up, his enhancements countering the stunner bursts. He might have been able to shrug off one or two bursts, Joe knew; he’d hit him several times just to make sure it worked. By the time Rzeminski woke up properly, Joe told himself, he would be in a secure cell. He grasped the stunner in his hand, just in case. If Rzeminski woke up too quickly, he might be able to cause real trouble before they made it back to the spaceport.
And then, Joe thought, looking directly at Rzeminski, we will find out just what made you turn against your oaths.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Nor did they see the details. The mass slaughter of military-aged males (which often ranged from ten years old onwards), the rape and then murder of women (unless the women were lucky enough to be taken as slaves instead), the forced kidnap and adoption of younger children ... all of these details were simply not visible from Earth. Indeed, given what passed for entertainment in the final centuries of the Empire, it is possible that these details were considered titillating rather than shocking.
- Professor Leo Caesius. War in a time of ‘Peace:’ The Empire’s Forgotten Military History.
It had been six years, more or less, since Jasmine had endured the dreaded Conduct After Capture course at the Slaughterhouse. The Empire’s military – at least the part of it that actually fought wars – had no illusions about how captured prisoners would be treated by their captors. It was unlikely, they’d believed, that prisoners wouldn't be tortured and forced to disgorge information, no matter what precautions were taken. After all, the Empire was rarely merciful towards captured insurgents.
She shuddered at the memory as she stared through the one-way glass at Pete Rzeminski, sitting in a metal chair with his hands and feet firmly cuffed and a solid metal band around his waist. The Conduct After Capture course was far from pleasant; she’d been beaten, deprived of food, drink and sleep ... and threatened with all kinds of horrific sexual abuse. It was a mark of some pride to her that she hadn't broken, any more than any of the other Marines, and successfully misled her captors. But Pete Rzeminski would have done the same himself, she knew. It was unlikely they could get him to talk.
“We ran a full physical examination,” the medic said. His voice was very quiet. “He’s physically healthy, in better than average condition for so
meone of his age. No major implants or additional non-standard enhancements, as far as we can tell. There wasn't any sign of starvation rations either.”
Jasmine wasn't surprised. Somehow, the insurgents had clearly managed to stockpile enough food supplies to feed everyone in the Zone. Or had they set up an algae farm? There were none on Thule, she knew, but they were hardly difficult to establish. Hell, the local government could have established a few years ago and used them to feed the poor and starving. It would have cut some of the ground out from under the insurgency.
She made a mental note to mention it to the First Speaker, then looked at the medic. “Does he have any implants that might enable him to resist interrogation?”
“He does,” the medic confirmed. “They weren't removed when he left the corps.”
“I see,” Jasmine said. “Can the implant be removed?”
The medic shook his head. Jasmine sighed. Unless there was something non-standard about the implants, they would activate if they believed Rzeminski was being interrogated, killing him before anyone could react. Everything from drugs to outright torture ran the risk of activating the implants. They were normally deactivated when someone no longer needed to take precautions, but Rzeminski had clearly kept his. What secrets had he had, she wondered, that had made him take the risk?
“Then there’s no way to interrogate him,” she said, out loud. “Unless ...”
Retreat Hell Page 31
