by J. J. Green
THE GALLANT
Star Legend Book Three
J.J. Green
Cover: Warren Designs
Sign up to my reader group for exclusive free books, discounts on new releases, review crew invitations and other interesting stuff:
https://jjgreenauthor.com/free-books/
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Author’s Notes
“I drew this gallant head of war
And culled these fiery spirits from the world.”
Shakespeare, King John
Chapter One
Wright was in deep shit, in more ways than one. His platoon had penetrated too deeply into an EAC-held district of Kingston, and now they were cut off from the rest of the Britannic Alliance forces. If they didn’t fight their way out soon, they would all be killed.
Almost as bad, Brigadier Colbourn was furious with him.
He’d given Corporal Taylan Ellis a compassionate discharge without following proper protocol, and from the way the brigadier had reacted, he might as well have sold the BA’s Caribbean assault plans to Dwyr Orr. We are at war! the brigadier had thundered. You don’t have the authority to give her a discharge.
True.
Her connection with Arthur could make her vital to our plans.
Also true.
Now, his snap decision, taken out of sympathy for Ellis’s plight, could mean his court martial, imprisonment, and even execution—after the Alliance finished retaking Jamaica.
An alarm blared, echoing from the surrounding buildings.
All around him in the factory where they’d taken refuge, the Marines instinctively ducked. He’d guessed the same—it was an ‘incoming’ alarm. They were about to be bombed by their own side.
Great.
Kingston’s power had been out ever since they’d landed a week ago, but pulse fire from enemy troops broke the overwhelming darkness of a cloudy night. The EAC hadn’t moved on their position yet. They were keeping them pinned down, though, maybe waiting for reinforcements.
C-RAM kicked into life, spurting salvos of tracer slugs, trails of smoldering sparks. The juddering report of their firing shook his teeth and bones. Where the slugs destroyed the Alliance shells, explosions lit the sky like macabre fireworks.
This industrial sector of the city, where armament manufacturing plants abounded, was inevitably hotly contested. The Crusaders’ automatic defense systems had been triggered. Would their troops be withdrawn? Nice idea, but unlikely.
Boom!
The wall on the opposite side of the street exploded, spraying masonry into the air. A chunk of it crashed to the ground outside and shattered. Flames licked up in the bombed building, quickly growing brighter and taller.
Wright’s comm sprang to life.
“SITREP, Major,” said Lieutenant-General Carol, the officer coordinating the Royal Marines’ role in the offensive.
“Still pinned down, sir.”
Every attempt they’d made to leave had been met with heavy pulse fire. They were in a stinking situation, and that was before their own side started bombing them.
“Well, you’d better unpin yourselves,” said the lieutenant-general. “The army are shelling the area.”
“I’m aware of that, sir,” Wright replied tersely.
Another missile made it through the C-RAM fire. The ground shuddered.
“They’re aware of your presence,” said Carol, “but securing that section of the city is vital. They held off as long as they could. The latest report says EAC presence south-west of you is minimal. Try to get out that way.”
“Check.” Wright had more to say but held his tongue. The previous report had stated the EAC had abandoned the industrial area. When they’d encountered resistance upon entering it, Carol had told him to press on. It was only rearguard action, he’d said. Then the enemy had closed in behind them.
He didn’t place much faith in the reports.
“You’re on your own, Major,” said Carol. “Unfortunately, no one has any spare capacity to help you. When you get out, go to the Prime Minister’s Palace.”
“Understood, sir.”
Carol closed the comm.
The Alliance’s determination to win back Jamaica came easy when its military leaders were many kilometers distant. Carol was safely tucked away aboard HMSS Gallant in high Earth orbit. Wright wondered if he would be so bullish if he were here, hunkered down while death dropped from the sky.
He had no choice except to take the report at face value and attempt an exit to the south-west.
“We’re leaving in two minutes,” he told his platoon.
He ran to the relevant outer doorway, crouching low, dodging bench legs, half-built armaments, and production belts. A barrage of pulse fire was flashing at them. The EAC was redoubling its effort, predictably not trying to escape the shelling.
Propping his shoulder against the door jamb, he peeked out. They were in the center of a disaster zone. Abandoned vehicles, upturned dumpsters, and smashed-up food stalls littered the streets, along with the occasional corpse. The avenue leading south-west was a straight line. They would be able to travel fast down it, but they would also be easy targets for every EAC soldier watching from the surrounding buildings. It would be like running down the target end of a shooting range.
He gauged the intensity of enemy pulse fire coming from different locations and spied out what wreckage, recessed doorways, and overhangs would provide cover. Splitting the platoon into teams, he gave detailed orders. Sergeant Elphicke and Lance Corporal Patel would lead the teams that left first. The sergeant had been with him through many campaigns. Patel was new to her position, but she’d proven herself competent and trustworthy, if a little too eager.
He ordered all who could be spared from defending the factory to assemble at the exit.
Elphicke’s group began laying down cover. Wright sped with his Marines toward an overturned truck. Their movement provoked a volley of shots from the enemy, despite the efforts of the covering team.
They made it to the truck.
Nestling his back against the truck’s axle, he gave the signal. Patel’s group burst out and sprinted for a dumpster farther down the street while Wright’s sprayed fire at the hidden EAC troops.
It was time for Elphicke to leave. His te
am had the farthest to go—a bus shelter had miraculously survived the fighting unscathed. The metal shell wouldn’t withstand solid rounds, but the enemy had stuck to pulse fire so far.
Wright gave the order, and the sergeant took his turn at being a moving target, along with his men and women. Patel’s group helped provide cover, and the next team made ready to leave the factory.
And so the retreat began, each set of Marines leapfrogging another, gradually making their way down the street.
Meanwhile, the shelling had continued. The EAC’s C-RAM was effective about three-quarters of the time. The final quarter of BA missiles was getting through, gradually turning the industrial district to burning rubble.
The last team left the factory and raced to the dumpster where Patel’s group had briefly sheltered a few minutes before. Now it was Wright’s turn.
“We’re moving,” he said to his team. “Stay tight and low.”
Firing rearward at the enemy closing in on the now-deserted factory, he and his Marines left the truck and sprinted for the bus shelter, which was now little more than a smoking ruin.
Streams of tracer fire lanced across the sky. A missile screamed overhead and flew into an upper story window, exploding and blowing off the building’s roof. Burning confetti showered down.
“Sir,” came Patel’s voice through his comm.
“What is it, Lance Corporal?”
“There’s a barricade across the street. They’ve cut off our escape route.”
He silently cursed. “How many hostiles?”
“Hard to tell. Not more than fifteen, I guess. We experienced less fire the farther we went, but now we’re stuck.”
So there had been some truth to the report. He synced with Patel’s vidfeed. Blocking the street in front of her, turned side-on, were an armored personnel carrier, two jeeps, and an ice-cream van. All were piled high with debris from the streets, weighing them down. The ice-cream van stood in the center of the barricade, sporting the slogan The Creamiest Ice in Jamaica and, underneath, Stop Me and Buy One.
Emblazoned over the van’s signage in massive letters was a single word of graffiti:
RESIST
The window was closed. There would be no iced treats for anyone today.
“Do you have any survi-drones left?”
“Uh...five, sir.”
“Send them over the barricade.”
Her vidfeed shifted as she complied.
The marble-sized drones activated and connected with his suit’s system. Their visual and scan data amalgamated and played on his HUD, displaying the line of vehicles growing closer and then moving below. They reached the other side of the barricade. Eight EAC soldiers were near it and four or five more crouched in doorways. Then the display flashed red and cut out.
The Crusaders had an anti-drone device. It was to be expected. But the brief view he’d had of their setup was sufficient.
It was time for his team to leapfrog to their next position. They moved, attracting heavy fire. The troops to the rear were closer and becoming bolder. He thought about the barricade. If he delayed too long, his entire platoon would be caught against the barrier, sitting ducks. He made his decision. He would prefer to be there for the attempt, but he had no choice.
“Wait for Sergeant Elphicke to arrive, Patel, then try to break through. Keep me updated.”
“Yes, sir.”
He comm’d Elphicke.
He hoped Patel and the sergeant could do it.
To the rest of the platoon, he said, “Double time, Marines. We have business ahead.”
Colbourn’s wrath seemed a better alternative to what lay in store.
Chapter Two
Taylan peered through binoculars over the rounded summit of a low hill in West BI. The grass beneath her was long, cold, and wet. She’d been lying in the same spot for hours. It was nearing midday, and she hadn’t seen anything noteworthy. Though her waterproofs mostly protected her, rough blades poked in at her neck and ankles, chafing her exposed skin, and the chill from the ground had seeped into her bones.
From the numerous piles of crumbling sheep shit, she guessed the hill had once been used for grazing. But, judging by the length of the grass, no sheep had been here for a while. Had the Crusaders eaten them? Doing something so stupid and destructive would be right up their alley. They must have closed down the meat culturing factories or they were too dense to operate them. Sheep were for shearing, not eating.
Idiots.
In this case, the EAC’s stupidity was to her advantage. The tall grass provided excellent cover while she spied on the orphanage.
The gray stain on the verdant landscape sat about a kilometer away, gouged from the bottom of the valley. A narrow road snaked toward it, ending at the gates. Within the perimeter fence sat ten pre-fabricated blocks with flat, asphalt roofs. The windows of nine of the blocks were curtain-less, and through them rows of child-sized bunk beds, tables, desks, and chairs could be seen. The tenth block appeared to be for the staff. Vertical blinds concealed the interior.
A high, chain link fence topped with razor wire enclosed the site, regularly patrolled by armed guards. Not a blade of grass nor any other green thing grew within the space. Outdoor play areas for the children were entirely absent.
What a place for kids to grow up.
It was more like a prison camp than an orphanage. But then, it wasn’t really an orphanage because not all the kids were orphans. At least a few of the children’s parents were probably still alive. Like her, their children had been lost or torn from them in the aftermath of the invasion, when the rush of refugees trying to leave the island had turned into a rout. Now most of the Britannic Isles’ digital data had been destroyed by the EAC, parents had to rely on legwork and word-of-mouth to find their kids.
That was how she’d heard about the orphanage. Angharad, leader of the West BI Resistance, had put out feelers as soon as Taylan had told her of her predicament. Poor Angharad had died, but word had arrived of two kids who fit the description of her own at the orphanage.
Taylan rubbed her eyes with a finger and thumb. Nothing had stirred within the orphanage for ages. She placed the binoculars carefully on the ground, turned onto her back, and stared at the sky. Clouds were scudding past, dark and gravid with rain. A cool, humid wind was blowing, carrying the lingering odor of sheep as well as the faint scent of wildflowers.
It was good to be home.
It would be even better if her home wasn’t infested with cockroaches.
Light raindrops began to fall, dampening her face. She rubbed her eyes again. Sleeping rough for two weeks had left her tired from the moment she woke up. And she was hungry. The West BI Resistance had given her rations along with the binoculars and other equipment she felt quite guilty accepting, considering such items were in short supply, but her food had nearly run out.
She had to find Kayla and Patrin soon before she was forced to steal to survive. In the current situation she had no ethical qualms about stealing, but if she was caught she would end up dead, sooner or later. Preferably sooner. Dwyr Orr knew who had shot her in Jamaica, and now she was after her blood. The Dwyr would not dispense death quickly to Taylan Ellis.
The rain grew heavier.
She’d been watching the orphanage for three days without a glimpse of either of her children. In all her hours of scrutiny, she’d only seen the captive kids thirty or forty minutes in total. They rarely left their dorms, and when they did it was only in order to walk to another block. Dressed in a uniform of dark jacket and pants, the kids walked with their heads bowed.
What did they do all day?
Undergo indoctrination, Taylan answered herself. Even Crusaders weren’t sufficiently depraved to murder children. Instead, they lied to them and misled them, twisting their minds, turning them into true believers who forgot about their parents and their past lives.
Had Kayla and Patrin already forgotten about her?
She drew in a deep breath.
A tinny sound came to her ears, like the distant noise of a door opening. She spun onto her front. The binoculars contained a directional mic, and when she’d put them down, she’d pointed them at the orphanage.
One of the doors in the staff block was ajar, and a man and a woman were about to descend the wooden steps.
Taylan centered the mic on them.
“I hope my transfer comes through soon,” said the man. “I’m sick of this place. I hate teaching those whiny brats.”
The woman quietly shushed him. They didn’t speak again until they were several meters distant from the block.
“You should be more careful,” she said. “What if someone heard you? You know what they’re like.”
“Yeah, and that’s another reason I want a transfer. They’re watching us as much as we’re watching the kids.”
“They have to be sure we’re teaching them the right stuff in the right way. It’s confusing for children to go from one system of beliefs and thoughts to another. They’re being careful we don’t slip up.”
“Stop making excuses for them. You’re as bad as they are.”
“I just understand their point of view.”
“I’m glad someone does,” the man said sarcastically.
They had nearly reached another block. Taylan chewed her lip. The pair’s conversation was useless to her. Couldn’t they at least mention a couple of names? Did they even know the kids’ names? Maybe they gave them new ones.
As the couple reached a corner, the man grabbed the woman’s elbow and pulled her around it, out of general sight. He said something, but the mic didn’t pick it up. Taylan cursed and quickly adjusted it. Even so, after re-focusing on the couple, she only barely made out what was said next.
“I don’t see what there is to be afraid of,” the woman said.
“You know as well as I do we’re a prime target for insurgents. People will do a lot to get their kids back.”
“Then it’s fortunate for us all their parents are dead.”
“Don’t be naive. Plenty of them are still hiding out in the hills.”
“All right, maybe there are a few. But the patrols will get them all eventually. No one would dare to attack us.”
