by Jay Allan
One by one, his troopers, their faces stricken, looking almost lost, followed his orders. They trickled across the road, the first five or so making it without any enemy fire. The shooting started, sparse and disorganized at first, then increasing in intensity. A few of his people slowed and brought their own weapons up, returning the fire.
“Keep moving!” He waved his arms toward his troopers in the open, even as he was still pushing others forward. “Don’t stop, don’t worry about returning fire.” There was no chance of winning this fight, only of escaping it. And every fighter who stops in the middle of the street to shoot is not getting away.
His thought was confirmed as one of his troopers dropped, followed by another. The others stopped firing and ran, more than one of them actually dropping their rifles. He knew there was a difference between retreating and routing, but right now he didn’t care, as long as they kept running.
I’ll yell at them about their weapons when we survive.
He turned and looked behind him. All his troopers had moved out across the street. He hadn’t counted, not exactly, but he was pretty sure he’d lost more than half his people. Some were dead. Others, he knew, were wounded. The idea of abandoning those too injured to move on their own ate at him. But his orders were clear, and disobeying would serve no purpose.
He looked out one last time. The street was full of federal soldiers, now in something resembling a formation. They were moving forward, and the street was under withering fire.
It’s too late. I’ll never make it across. He leaned forward, trying to overcome the fear, to make a dash toward escape. But it wasn’t fear, he realized, it was analysis. There was no chance of making it across the road, not now. He was too late.
He took one last look, watching as his final few troopers moved down the alley and around the corner. Then he reached to the belt on his chest and pulled off a grenade. He couldn’t escape, at least not with his people. But maybe he could do them some good.
He spun around, throwing the grenade as far as he could, and then pulled out his rifle, firing a burst at fully automatic. He lunged back, just in time, as a blast of fire slammed into the wall, sending shards of shattered concrete in every direction.
Then he turned and ran, not after his troops, but back the way they had come. His path led deeper into the city. But at least he was still alive, still fighting. His only other option was surrender . . .
The hell with that.
North wouldn’t have given up, even if there had been a possibility of any result except summary execution . . . or worse, what the federals called “aggressive interrogation.” No, he’d come this far. He damned sure wasn’t going to surrender now.
He raced as quickly as he could, even as the enemy fire zipped past him. For a moment, he felt he might get out of this particular jam, but then he felt the impact of a bullet slamming into the back of his shoulder. He stumbled forward a few steps, but he regained his balance and he pressed on, putting every last bit of strength he had into it.
The tunnel was up ahead. With any luck, the enemy hadn’t discovered the route his people had taken to the target, not yet. The underground passage wouldn’t lead him out of the city, but it might get him out of immediate danger. And at the moment, that seemed like a pretty good option.
He plunged toward the darkness, as tracer fire illuminated the way behind him.
Chapter 21
Woods Near the Old North Road
44 Kilometers North of Landfall
Just Outside Dover
Federal Colony Alpha-2, Epsilon Eridani II (Haven)
“Are you sure, Damian? Perhaps we should retreat deeper into the woods. Green Hill Forest stretches at least fifty kilometers to the north.” John Danforth rarely interfered with military decisions, but the republic’s president looked concerned.
“I agree, sir. If that is a large force of regulars approaching, can we really face them?” Luci Morgan glanced at Danforth and then back toward Damian.
“Am I sure?” Damian almost laughed. “What surety is there in war? What I’m sure of is that our best chance of securing Haven’s independence is to convince the Union or the Hegemony, preferably both, to recognize us and intervene. And that’s not going to happen unless we can prove our forces are capable of defeating the federals.” Damian’s words were virtually the opposite of anything he’d proposed previously. His plans had always been based on retreat, on restricting engagements to hit-and-run attacks and avoiding pitched battles. But his talk with Kutusov had affected him deeply, and he’d realized his hopes of wearing down the federals were tenuous at best. Union involvement in the war was a far likelier route to success, and his only chance of gaining that would be to fight a field battle . . . and win.
He was far from certain his people could do it, but now was the best chance. By all accounts, Killian’s people had Landfall in a state of utter chaos. Thousands of troops were still tied down there. If Damian waited, his army would only face greater numbers . . . and his own supply situation would deteriorate. The guns and ammo Nerov’s daring journeys had provided were not infinite, and whatever chance he had of securing a win would be completely gone when the ammunition ran out.
After a long silence, he continued, “I don’t like committing to battle, but I believe this is the best course of action.”
Morgan looked doubtful, but finally she nodded. “We’ll do everything we can, General. We’ll find a way.”
“That’s all I can ask. We can’t win this by ourselves, and no one’s going to help us unless they think we can win. Even a draw, something we can use to show we can face the feds . . .”
“It makes sense, Damian,” Danforth said. “You’re our leader. If you think it’s the right move, the army will be with you. I’m with you.” Danforth extended his hand, smiling as Damian took it. “We’ve been through a lot to get this far, my friend, and if you think this is what we need to do, then that’s what we do.”
Damian nodded. “We stand. We will meet them here. Colonel, I want your forces in the center.”
“Yes, sir. I better go and get them ready.” Morgan stood at attention for a moment, and then she turned and walked out of the tent.
“John, I know you’re probably going to want to stay near the front, but you’ve got to go north . . . just in case. You’re the republic’s president, in effect its entire government since Landfall was taken. If you get killed, it will hurt the rebellion worse than almost anything else that could happen.”
Danforth looked for a moment like he was going to argue, but then he just nodded. “Good luck, my friend,” he said softly, before he followed Morgan out into the muddy main street of the makeshift headquarters camp.
Damian looked over at Withers. “You’ve been quiet,” he said, moving back toward his desk and sitting down.
“What is there to say? You know everything I do. We’re not likely to win a pitched battle, but if we’re going to try, now is the time. We’re just going to get weaker, at least for the foreseeable future.” Withers hesitated.
“Say it. There’s no time for niceties.”
“I understand the gamble, Damian, but we need to hedge. We need to be sure to keep the retreat route open. If the federals win, at least we can pull back into the deep woods, away from any air cover, and over difficult ground they’ll have trouble crossing quickly. A long shot to try to grab a victory is one thing, but we can’t bet everything on it.”
“I couldn’t agree more, old friend. That’s why I want you to do exactly that for me.”
“Sir?”
“I want you to take some of the reserves and pull back. Make sure the path of retreat is clear and ready, in case we need it. And while you’re waiting, get ready to drop trees, lay traps . . . everything we can to slow any enemy effort to follow up.”
Withers had looked like he might object to being sent away before the battle, but then he said, “Yes, sir. I will do everything I can.” The ex-noncom stood up, his eyes still focused on
Damian. “I’d better get moving. It looks like the battle is almost here.” He walked toward the door, and then stopped and turned back. “Good luck, sir.”
“Good luck to you, too, Ben.”
“Send all reserves forward, now!” Colonel Morgan was crouched down behind a bank of recently disturbed dirt, a makeshift defensive line her people were still struggling to complete.
The battle had been raging for nearly four hours. The rebel forces had held firm, for a while, at least. But their losses had been high, the training and equipment of their adversaries showing. A few of the Havenite units, including Morgan’s battalions, were more or less solid formations, consisting of veterans from the prior year’s fighting. Much of the rest of the army was filled with troops who’d received at least some level of training, but few had seen battle before. Then, of course, there were the masses of troops who had rallied to the flag in the days following the arrival of the federals. Most of them had gotten no more than a week or two’s basic drilling, and they were raw. Those who had been filtered into experienced units had done well enough, but half a dozen green battalions had already thrown down their arms and fled.
Morgan’s people were dealing with the repercussions of that right now. They’d stood, and beaten back two federal assaults . . . but then two of Tucker Jones’s three raw battalions broke, and Morgan had been forced to spread her veterans out in extended order, desperately attempting to fill in the gap in the line.
Morgan had kept a single company in reserve, a testament to her belief that the side that committed their last reinforcements first had lost the battle. But now she had no choice. Her battered veterans had a dozen gaps in the line, and the next major federal assault would slice through them like a knife through butter. She was far from sure her last company would be enough to stop that, but it was all she had.
We’re losing the battle anyway . . .
Morgan was proud of her people, and of the army as a whole. Damian had decided to take the risk, to see if the rebels could win in the field against their enemies. The army had performed, perhaps better than she’d thought possible, but they weren’t enough.
Her concerns about facing federal soldiers had been exactly on point, but one thing had surprised her. She’d thought it would be difficult to face her former comrades, to fight against those with whom she had once served. And it had been. But she realized now that there was little motivation more powerful than someone shooting at you. She’d quickly forgotten who they were when their formations advanced, and she’d urged her people on, directing their fire, using all her knowledge to kill as many of her enemies as possible.
No doubt, later she would feel the guilt, the pain. But now, nothing mattered but victory, and if that was not possible, then an orderly retreat with minimal losses.
She stepped up along the small berm, peering cautiously over. There was fire, fairly heavy, and she could see movement in the distance. The woods were moderately dense here, nothing like the deep forest farther north, but reasonable cover nevertheless. Yet cover worked two ways, and she knew the advancing federals would also be protected. She needed an open killing ground, and she didn’t have one. Her people would inflict casualties, but not enough to repulse a serious federal advance.
She reached down and grabbed her comm unit. “HQ, this is Colonel Morgan. HQ, do you read?” Nothing but static. The federals were jamming.
She’d been ready to hold back the federals for as long as possible, but now she was thinking she should pull back. The effort to win the battle was futile, and if more of the units around her force fell back or retreated, her veterans were going to be in deep trouble. Damian had wanted to fight, to try to win a victory, but Morgan knew now that wasn’t going to happen. The overall federal effort might be disorganized, but the forces leading the attack were crack units. She’d even heard rumors that Colonel Granz was leading the advance. She remembered Ian Granz from the war against the Union and Hegemony. He’d led her unit, the Third Assault Regiment. He’d been echelons above her then, but his reputation as a professional, and as a gifted tactician, had been well known.
I can’t pull back, not without Damian’s orders. But if I can’t reach him . . .
She turned her head abruptly, staring through the trees and underbrush as the intensity of the enemy fire increased. She could hear the distinctive sound of mortar rounds, too, and she knew her concerns about whether to withdraw were moot.
The enemy was coming.
“Captain Grant is to pull his troops back to the extreme left. I want them ready to slip around and deploy to the flanks of the route of retreat.” Damian was standing inside the headquarters tent, pacing back and forth nervously. He hated the idea of sending Grant’s battered forces right back at the enemy, but he’d just fully realized what was happening. There were more federal forces involved in the battle than he’d expected, and even now those unengaged units were moving around both his flanks. The battle was over, a costly defeat, and all that remained was to save the army. If he even could, at this point.
“Yes, General.” Katia Rand’s voice was tentative. She had proven to be an outstanding communications officer for Damian, and she’d been tireless in her efforts, putting her engineering skills to use between normal duty shifts, keeping the army’s old and worn comm gear functional. But sending orders to thrust Jamie Grant into the heat of what was clearly becoming a disastrous battle was a hard job for her to handle.
She did it, though—Damian listened to her passing on the command to Grant, trying to hold back the emotion, and he wished he’d done it himself rather than through her. His own mind was distracted, by the crisis of the battle, by the need to extricate his army from what was starting to look like a disaster . . . and by the realization that his first major engagement as commander-in-chief of the Haven army was beginning to look a lot like he’d led his soldiers into a trap.
“Ja . . . Captain Grant confirms, sir.” A pause. “He reports his forces have lost almost a third of their number.”
“Very well, Lieutenant.” His voice was soft, as comforting as he could manage amid the stress and tension working its way through his mind. He knew Jamie’s losses weren’t as bad as his report made them sound. A third sounded terrible, until you realized that some of them were wounded, and not all of those badly. Some were lost, cut off. Some had probably panicked and slipped away. There would be dead, certainly, and badly wounded, but he suspected that, when the final tally came in, it would be less than half as many as the report suggested.
Of course, that’s still too many. Far too many. But I’ll take whatever positive news I can at this point.
“Get me a line to Colonel Kerr, Lieutenant.” The best thing he could do for Katia was to keep her busy, and even if Grant’s forces made it to their positions in time, that was only one flank covered. He needed to cover the right, as well.
“I’m sorry, sir. We can’t get a signal through. The jamming in that area is very intense.”
Damn.
“Try to raise Major Jones.” Even as he said it, he wasn’t very hopeful. He’d sent Jones’s reserve up to the front to try to plug the widening holes in the line. They’re too close to the enemy now. They’ll be jammed, too.
“I’m sorry, sir. Nothing. I will keep trying. Maybe if we can get some extra power packs in here, it will . . .”
“No, Lieutenant. We don’t have any battery packs to spare, and it wouldn’t work anyway. They’re too close to the jamming sources.” He sighed. “See if you can get me Colonel Morgan.” Contact with Morgan had been spotty, as well, but Damian figured they just might get a brief connection. “Use the reserve power if you have to.”
Damian had sent a runner earlier to tell Morgan to pull back. Her people had held in the center against everything the enemy had thrown at them, and when the forces on both of their flanks withdrew, they stretched out their own lines and still held. But they had paid a terrible price, and her two battalions were easily the most shot up in the army
. Which was why I called them back . . . and now I have to cancel that, send them back in.
“I’ve got Colonel Morgan, sir.”
“Luci . . . it’s Damian.” The first names just popped out, a tell on just how guilty he felt about the orders he was about to give. “I need you to stop your withdrawal.” He paused, finding it hard to even force the words out. “The federals are trying to outflank us . . . I don’t think I need to tell you what will happen if they manage to pull it off before we can retreat. I can’t reach any of the other forward forces through the jamming.” He didn’t need to explain, at least not by the standards of military command. But he did anyway.
“Understood, sir. We’re on our way.”
Not an argument, not even a word of protest or a reminder of how battered her forces were. Morgan couldn’t have struck harder at Damian’s guilt if she’d tried.
“Thank you,” he said. Then: “Good luck, Colonel.”
Chapter 22
Woods Near the Old North Road
30 Kilometers North of Landfall
Just Outside Dover
Federal Colony Alpha-2, Epsilon Eridani II (Haven)
“Are the flanking forces in position yet, Colonel?” Robert Semmes was sitting inside the command vehicle, staring out at his field commander as he spoke. The large ATV had a hard time in the semidense woods, and it was restricted mostly to the road, despite its rough terrain capability. Semmes knew Granz was surprised he’d come up so close to the front. The pompous fool forgot I, too, was a soldier.
“Nearly, sir. The main force on the left has run into some unexpected resistance, which has slowed their advance.”
“That is unacceptable, Colonel Granz. Those soldiers have the advantage in equipment, training and, I suspect in that sector, at least, numbers. I will not tolerate excuses.” Semmes shifted himself, turning to more directly face Granz. I’d swear this fool is deliberately standing back there, only half in my field of view.
