by Jay Allan
“Thank you for your understanding, Ambassador.” Then, abruptly: “So, what do we have to do to get the Eurasian Union to recognize the Haven Republic? To intervene?”
Kutusov stared back at Damian for a second, a stunned look giving way gradually to an amused one. He glanced over at Danforth and grinned. “You were right, Mr. President. I believed you when you said he was direct, but still I find myself surprised.”
“Yes, General Ward does not mince words.” Danforth looked a bit uncomfortable at just how quickly Damian had come to the point, but the general didn’t care. He didn’t have the time to care.
“I am sorry, Ambassador, but I do not know the niceties of the diplomatic arts. I am a soldier and a farmer, and my skills are limited to those trades. I mean no disrespect. Indeed, I seek not to waste your time with pointless nonsense. If the aid we need is not a possibility, there is little reason to prolong ultimately futile negotiations.”
Kutusov smiled. “No need to apologize, General Ward. I find your demeanor refreshing, if somewhat . . . blunt. It should come as no surprise that I am a great admirer of your cause. I respect what your people have achieved to date against the federals, and, while I could never express this sentiment at home, I will tell you I have read of your exploits in the last war, and I am very impressed. If the Federal America forces had too many more like you, I daresay the conflict would have ended rather badly for my side.
“But,” he said, the grin fading from his lips, “I’m afraid there are many factors that need to be addressed before my government could commit to meaningful support—beyond, of course, the weapons we have already provided through Captain Nerov. My sympathies with your rebellion are not sufficient.”
“No doubt, Ambassador, and please do not take my soldier’s manner for a lack of appreciation for your own efforts, or what your government has done already.”
“Of course, General. I will take your lead, and perhaps be more direct myself than I might have been. It cannot be any great secret that the Union would be glad to see Federal America humiliated and weakened. Yet we are barely more than five years from the last, very costly, war. There is a split among those on the Ruling Council, with perhaps a third of the members hawkish, and ready to openly support your rebellion.”
“With two thirds against?”
“No, General. Not against, not most of them, at least. But not ready at this time to make a commitment that could risk a widespread renewal of the general war. I do not believe there is a single member who wouldn’t like to see Haven embarrass Federal America. There is just some level of . . .”
“Of?”
“Of concern that your revolution will fail. That we will openly recognize your nascent government only to see it fall. It would create a dangerous crisis, one that could lead to widespread war for a lost cause. It would be one thing to support a rebel-controlled Haven, and quite another to take it from the federals. We must know that you are able to sustain this fight as long as necessary. That we will be assisting you, but not fighting the war for you.”
Damian nodded slowly. “And the fact that we have been chased out of our capital less than a week after the federals landed does not especially build confidence.”
Kutusov looked back, a somber expression on his face. “Please understand, General. I follow your tactics, and, as far as my limited knowledge of the military arts extends, I’m inclined to agree they are correct. But, I’m sure you can see how the situation would appear to those already . . . skeptical . . . of your chances. I’m afraid if I returned home now, assuming I could even get there, of course, I would have very little chance of persuading the Ruling Council to take immediate action of the kind you desire. That said, I did have some contacts with the Hegemony government before I left, and I have limited authority to treat with you on their behalf as well. If they agree to join with the Union, I believe it would make a difference with some of our wavering Council members. But the Hegemony is no less cautious.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I need more, General. More to convince my own government, and possibly that of the Hegemony, to openly assist your rebellion.”
Damian nodded. “I understand all you have said, Ambassador. If you will excuse my clumsy soldier’s ways again, I would ask you another direct question. What do you need? Specifically? What would make a difference?”
“General, your strategy of wearing down the federals is no doubt tactically valid, and the wisest move in your situation. But raids against supply lines and ambushes of small groups of soldiers do not translate well in reports and entreaties to intervene.” Kutusov sighed softly. “I need a military success, General. I need your forces to meet the federals in battle and secure a victory. Then perhaps I could convince the skeptical members of the Council that your army is indeed a capable fighting force and your rebellion has sufficient strength to justify the risks of recognition and open support.”
Damian just nodded silently at first. He’d known the answer before the ambassador had spoken, and he’d dreaded it. His entire strategy was based on avoiding pitched battles, and he had no idea how his citizen soldiers could openly defeat the more experienced and better trained and equipped federals. But he also knew hit-and-run raids wouldn’t be enough to win Haven’s independence, at least not for a very long time. He needed the Union’s support—and that meant he had to find a way to defeat the federal forces, his old comrades, in a straight-up fight.
“I understand,” Damian finally replied, “and I appreciate your own directness and honesty.” He stood silently for another moment. “I will get you that victory, Ambassador. We will prove to your government that Haven is a force worthy of their support.”
Damian looked over at Danforth and then back at Kutusov. He’d never been one to make promises he wasn’t sure he could keep, but the rebellion had led him down more than one untraveled path. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have much work waiting for me.”
“Of course, General.” Kutusov rose and extended his hand, grasping Damian’s. “I believe you will do just as you say. Your people are fortunate to have you to command their army.”
“Thank you, Ambassador, though I fear you are too kind. We will speak later, I trust.”
“Of course, General. I look forward to it.”
Damian flashed a glance at Danforth, who nodded back to him. Then he turned and slipped out of the tent, deep in thought, leaving his comrade to continue working on the ambassador.
He knew what he had to do, but he had no idea how he was going to do it. No idea at all.
The sentry was walking slowly, back and forth across a line of perhaps ten meters in front of the nondescript building. He was a federal regular, fully armed and clad in armor and exos, but it was clear from his posture he wasn’t as alert as he should have been.
Jacob North crouched down in the alley, peering cautiously around the edge of one of the buildings across the street. The whole area was deserted. The new military governor had declared martial law and imposed a curfew. Any citizens found on the streets after dark were subject to summary execution. North didn’t doubt the brutal edict had enraged the people of Landfall, but it had also served its purpose and driven them from the streets.
He turned and looked behind him. He had ten troopers, all veterans of the previous year’s fighting. Each of them had a black cloak covering their coarse brown uniforms. They were good, loyal soldiers of Haven, he knew, but they were out of their element in this kind of warfare. He would do as much of what had to be done as possible, relying on his people mostly as backup in case more federals appeared.
North looked up at the single small floodlight on the edge of the building, casting a tentative illumination right in front of where his soldiers were lined up. It was dark everywhere else, overcast, the thick clouds blocking what scant moonlight might have lit the late night.
He gripped his assault rifle tightly in his hands. The armored soldier would have been a difficult target for a li
ghter civilian or militia weapon, but North, like most of the rebel—no, Haven—army, was armed with leading-edge military weapons, courtesy of Sasha Nerov’s desperate smuggling runs of the last few years. The same Sasha Nerov who’d rescued North at the last moment, while the shattered orbital station was falling into its final death throes.
He glanced quickly at the weapon, grateful not only to Nerov and her crew, but also for the limited support of the Union and the Hegemony, both of which were anxious to see Federal America humiliated by its rebellious colony world. He’d once considered himself a citizen of Federal America, but all vestiges of any loyalty he’d felt were gone now. He detested the Washington government, and the fact that the Union and the Hegemony were just as totalitarian didn’t matter. They didn’t have soldiers here trying to enslave the Havenites. Federal America did.
He was tempted to take the shot, to gun down the guard from his hidden position. He had the advantage, and he was a crack shot. But he held his fire. The guard seemed a bit careless, easy pickings, but he couldn’t assume there were no other federals nearby. If there were, a gunshot would bring them all running, and worse, it would sound the alarm. North and his people weren’t here to get into a firefight they couldn’t win. Their job was to blow up the warehouse and destroy the ammunition and supplies the feds had stored there.
Can’t risk the noise . . .
He reached down to his belt and pulled out a long knife. It was a nasty-looking thing, the blade more than a quarter meter in length, notched about halfway up from the hilt. North had killed with the thing more than once during the previous year’s battles, but it hadn’t drawn blood—yet—in this new stage of the conflict. He’d expected to use it on the station, fighting to repel boarders, but the federals had just blasted the fortress to atoms, without the slightest attempt to capture it. Now it was time.
“Stay here until I deal with the guard. Then check down the streets and make sure nothing is coming before you come out and follow me. Understood?” North’s voice was a raspy whisper.
The men and women behind him responded with a collection of nods and whispers. They looked tense—he suspected they were scared to death—but they were what he had. At least they had all seen battle before. They knew what to expect, more or less.
He looked back and forth one more time, and then he moved out into the street. His steps were soft, silent, but his body was tense. He didn’t think the federals had yet managed to deploy the detection grid throughout the city, but he couldn’t be sure. If he was being picked up by some scanning device, even as he killed the guard, dozens of federal soldiers could be on the way to crush his small group.
Nothing to be done about that . . . just have to hope for the best.
He held his breath the last few steps, angling to come up directly behind the soldier. He was a single step away when the man heard him and started to turn.
But it was too late.
He lunged forward, swinging one arm around the man’s head and jerking it to the side. He drove the knife hard, into a small opening between the helmet and the shoulder section of the soldier’s armor. Patrick Killian had trained his people extensively in every aspect of federal armor. Most Haven soldiers would fight the enemy at longer range, firefights and bombardments of the sort common in modern war. But the rangers fully expected to engage in hand-to-hand combat, and they were as prepared as their remarkable leader could make them.
The soldier shrieked, North doing the best he could to muffle the sound with his hand. It was still louder than he liked, but it was short. The blood poured out of the gaping wound, the wet warmth all over his hand and lower arm. He felt the man’s body go limp, and he pushed his body into his enemy’s, letting the federal’s corpse slide slowly to the ground.
He turned and looked around again. Nothing. No signs of anyone approaching, no sounds of alarm. That wasn’t a guarantee, but he’d take it right now. He looked back toward the alley, grabbing with his free hand the small light clipped to his belt. He aimed it toward his troopers and flashed it twice. The signal to advance. Then he reached down and dragged the dead soldier’s body to the side of the building, out of sight.
He could hear his people coming up behind him. He shook his head, frustrated at how much noise they were making. But he realized almost immediately they weren’t really that loud. For a bunch of farmers turned soldiers turned commandos, they were doing as well as could be expected.
“All right, let’s get this done. We’re on borrowed time here.” He gestured toward the large cargo door. “If we have to blow this thing to get in, we’ll have every federal in Landfall here in a minute. So let’s see if we can’t cut our way in.” He waved his arm toward two of his people, who were holding a large device. The plasma torch wasn’t ideal for stealth either, but it was a damned sight better than an explosion.
The two soldiers moved forward, taking perhaps a minute to set up the torch. North knew they’d done it quickly and efficiently, but he was still impatient. He stood behind them, looking back and forth down the street, despite the fact that he already had most of his people doing the same.
The plasma torch made some noise, mostly from the power generation unit, but it wasn’t too loud. The brightness was another matter. Even with the shielding that blocked most of the intense illumination, it was still hard to look directly at the thing when it was in operation. On the dark street, the torch might as well have been a mini-sun, bringing virtual daylight to a ten-meter semicircle in front of the building. But there was nothing to be done about that. Nothing but to hurry.
“As soon as we’re through, you and you”—he pointed to two of his soldiers, both corporals, and the most experienced people he had—“go in first, weapons ready. If there’s anybody in there, you shoot to kill. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir!” The two replies came almost simultaneously.
“Explosives team . . . you’re next. We’re here to plant the bombs, and get the hell out of here. Get those charges planted and armed as quickly as possible.”
Another round of acknowledgments.
“We’re in, sir.” North’s head spun around as the soldier spoke. The torch had cut through a roughly man-sized section of the large metal door.
“Do it,” North said, tensing for the noise he knew was coming but couldn’t be avoided.
The soldiers both kicked at the section of door, and the metal fell inside, crashing loudly on the concrete floor beyond. “Let’s go,” North snapped, unnecessarily, as it turned out. The three soldiers with the bombs were already moving, climbing through the opening in the door, careful to avoid the still-glowing edges of the cutout.
North stayed outside, his eyes panning both ways, looking down the street. Nothing yet, but it was only a matter of time. The guard had been careless, a new recruit perhaps, but Federal America’s line forces were no joke. They’d have redundancy and someone would almost certainly be coming by soon.
“Status?” he asked, leaning back toward the opening in the door.
“Almost done, sir. Thirty seconds.”
North’s head snapped around, almost on instinct. He was sure he saw something, a flash of light. But there was nothing.
“You’ve got twenty. Move your asses.” He stared down the street. He had definitely seen something. He was sure of it. Then he saw it again. A light of some kind. No, two.
A patrol . . .
“Let’s go. Time’s up!” He turned for an instant, looking at his people inside before he jerked his head back toward what he was now certain was a group of approaching federals. “Now!” he added as he saw the cluster of soldiers coming into view. They were advancing in battle order, at least twenty, and maybe a lot more. It was not a random patrol. His people had been discovered.
He turned again to repeat the command, but he saw the explosives team climbing out through the opening in the door. “All done, sir.”
“Move out. Escape route B.” The original planned path was directly toward the ap
proaching soldiers. Even as he spoke, a shot rang out.
Then all hell broke loose.
“Becker, Stahl, with me. Grab some cover. We’ve got to hold those federals back for a few seconds, give the team time to pull back.”
“Yes, sir.” The two men both replied instantly, but Becker’s tone was more gung ho. Stahl sounded, perhaps not scared to death, but something close to it.
North ducked to the side of the building himself. There was a small, waist-high concrete barrier. It wouldn’t stand up to anything heavy like a rocket launcher, but he was pretty sure it was solid protection against small arms.
He whipped around his assault rifle, taking an instant to aim before opening up, firing three shot bursts. One of the approaching figures dropped, and the others scattered, some flopping down to the ground, others diving for nearby cover. Then they opened fire in earnest, and a storm of projectiles slammed into the wall, sending shards of shattered concrete flying.
North snapped his head around, looking behind him for a second. “Get the hell out of here,” he shouted to his troopers, half of whom had paused a few meters from the building. “Now!” He maintained his fire, but there were no more easy targets. His two fellows in the rear guard had both dropped behind the half wall flanking him. They had been behind him, but now they were firing, too.
North turned again, watching as the last of the main force fled down the street. He was just about to let himself believe they’d all gotten away when the last one—Volges, he noted—fell to the ground. North didn’t know if he was dead or wounded, and there was nothing he could do about it, not now. He had to hold back the federals, who were already moving forward around the flanks, surging from covered position to covered position, all the while maintaining heavy fire.
