Homefront: Portal Wars III

by Jay Allan

  Had I known I faced an adversary as capable at Jinto Akawa, I might have changed my plans, reconsidered this strategy. But I was blissfully unaware, indeed almost confident that our enemies were led by a political appointee, one who could never match our martial skill. I have providence alone to thank that he complied with my wishes and met us in open battle, and it was only much later I learned he would not have chosen to fight of his own accord, that he’d been compelled to engage by the Secretariat and by Anton Samovich. I perhaps owe gratitude for my army’s survival to these politicians, and the egos and fear that made it impossible for them to allow their gifted commander to put his skill to work.

  General Akawa’s battlefield instincts served him well and, had he been allowed to make his own decisions, they would have led him to the strategy I most feared. For if he’d had his way, he would have fallen back, yielded the Kirov-Kazan line and given up Moscow, blooding us each step of the way before again retreating and further stretching our already long supply lines. And then he would have sent more divisions against our flanks, pounding away until they broke through…and cut us off from the Portal.

  I had no counter for such a plan, for to all my military knowledge there was none. The only option would have been to remain in the frozen wastes, huddled around the Portal while UNGov raised more and more troops to face us. I relied on the hysteria of the politicians—rightly—and on the anticipated inability of their general—wrongly—to force a decisive battle, one where the skill of my veterans could prevail and spread panic throughout UNGov…and encourage the people to stand for their own, to join us in defeating their masters and regaining their freedom.

  I knew we would be outnumbered, and I realized very well what a gamble I was taking. Defeat meant almost certain destruction, and the continued rule of UNGov. And a battlefield success would only be a step toward total victory. But it was a step we had to take. It was all we had time for. To wait was only to allow UNGov to mobilize greater forces, to send more soldiers against us…tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions…

  It was a battle we needed, and one we were ready to fight. And it was a holocaust beyond my worst imaginings. Over the eight days of sustained combat, I saw men dying by the thousands, veteran officers of ten years’ service breaking down and sobbing, even my Erastus Supersoldiers pushed to the very brink of defeat and despair. My oldest comrades and I had always held that Erastus, the sunbaked hell where we were turned into combat veterans, was the truest test of man’s endurance. Years later, I added the great battle at Kirov-Kazan to stand alongside Gehenna with that distinction.

  And to me, the great struggle at Kirov-Kazan was something else. It was the place I lost another of my oldest companions, a friend who had served at my side since the beginning. And it was there, on that bloody field, amidst the images of hell itself unleashed, staring into the cold dead eyes of a friend, that, on the brink of victory I came closest to defeat, to dropping my weapons, pulling the stars from my collar, and walking off into the wilderness.

  Taylor stood atop the rugged hillside, watching his soldiers march out of the mountain pass and onto the great plain below. The location of the Portal had been ideal to allow Taylor to complete the army’s transit before they had faced any significant resistance, at least on the ground. But now they’d paid for that with a long march through an almost-uninhabited wilderness. He could not destroy UNGov sitting in the frozen wasteland…he had to take the war to them, to threaten vital population and production centers and force them to fight.

  He’d considered moving south, invading the areas that had once been the Chinese Hegemony, but he’d rejected plan that in favor of a westward move. His forces would advance on Europe, toward the centers of world government, but also an area whose inhabitants had once enjoyed considerable personal freedom. If the people were going to rise up and come to his support, he knew it would begin in places that had a history of at least limited liberty, where living memory still recalled a better time. He knew he’d have enough trouble combating UNGov’s lies and propaganda, and he wanted every advantage he could get.

  That was all true, all part of the thought process that had led to his choice of action. But there was more to it. Taylor had decided to move not just into the old European democracies, but directly toward Geneva. He intended to take the UNGov capital, to end his war by cutting the head off the snake. The destruction of the Secretariat and the central government’s headquarters would leave UNGov functionaries still in ruling positions throughout the world. But they would be detached, without the support structure that kept them in power. If Taylor could eliminate the masters, he was confident his people could mop up the lower levels.

  The direction of his movement made that intention clear, as he’d intended, and that helped in another way. Fear of his army reaching the capital had compelled UNGov to make a stand sooner rather than later, to meet his forces in battle. Their maneuvers made it clear they had taken the bait. Taylor’s aircraft and drones gave him excellent reconnaissance, perhaps not the same as UNGov got from their satellites, but sufficient nonetheless, and there was no question about it. There was an army forming in front of his, positioned to block his advance. A big army.

  Maybe too big.

  He was impressed with the force UNGov had managed to assemble in such a short time. They were waiting, less than a hundred kilometers from his army, 250,000 strong, with more units arriving every day. He looked out at his own men as they continued to march past him. Their morale was excellent, their faith in him only stronger since they’d won the first victory in the air battles that raged over the Portal.

  A victory I owe to Tegeri technology, not to any skill of my own.

  He had promised to lead his soldiers back to Earth, and now they were there. Taylor knew the worst lay ahead of them all, but to the troops, the men who had followed him from world to world, it felt like they were close to victory. And he would let them believe that, as long as it lasted.

  “They look good, don’t they, Jake?” Bear Samuels stood next to his commander, the big man towering over Taylor’s own, not inconsiderable, height. “How many times have we imagined this day?”

  Taylor took a deep breath. “A long time, Bear, a long time. And they do look good. A little tired, perhaps, but otherwise as fit as any army that ever marched to battle, I’d venture.”

  He knew his people were fatigued. He’d force marched them hard, given them little rest. There had been no choice. He had to move quickly, get through the mountains before UNGov’s army was able to advance and catch his people as they were emerging from the narrow passes. And now that they were so close to the massive enemy force, there was no choice, no time to stop. He’d have liked to rest his people before sending them into battle, but he knew it wasn’t to be. He’d already given the order, the only order his troops needed. Attack.

  “Have you seen the latest drone reports, Jake?” There was a slight hitch in Bear’s otherwise confident tone.

  “I saw them.” Taylor paused, still staring out over the columns of troops. “We always knew we’d be outnumbered, Bear.”

  “I know, Jake. I know. They’ve just managed to get more troops together than I expected. I’m sure the boys will get the job done, even outnumbered so badly…but our losses are going to be bad.”

  Taylor sighed. He agreed completely. His soldiers would get the job done…but they would pay for it in blood.

  “Yes, Bear. They’re going to be bad.”

  * * *

  “I want the 73rd and 74th divisions to move forward now!” Jinto Akawa stood in the battered building he’d chosen as his headquarters. It had been a Russian noble’s house one day, he suspected, a lingering vestige of an age long ago, one that had survived world wars and the forced relocation of those who had lived around it. It was broken down more by age than the battle Akawa’s forces were fighting, though the UNGov commander knew that could change any time. The invaders had hit his forward positions hard, and his lead div
isions had thrown down their weapons and run. For a while it had looked like nothing would stop Taylor’s onslaught, that his entire army would be rolled up and destroyed. But Akawa had raced up to the weakest section of the front, bringing with him one of his strongest units, a group of MBTs he’d found in a UNGov storage facility…and held in reserve for just such a moment.

  They were old American tanks, weapons from the last war between Earth’s nations, great behemoths that had somehow been stored instead of scrapped after UNGov dissolved the world’s military formations. Over one hundred of them had turned out to be functional with a minimal amount of repair, and when Akawa discovered their existence, he requisitioned them at once. He had shipped them to Moscow by train, hidden from surveillance by great tarps, and then he sent them forward to smash into the AOL’s lines, stopping the advance cold and buying time for him to pour new divisions into the growing maelstrom.

  “Yes, General. Both divisions confirm receipt of your orders. They will be on the move within the hour.”

  Akawa stared down at the large tablet on the table in front of him. He had every centimeter of the battlefield under satellite surveillance, but his lack of intel on enemy units reduced the effectiveness of his information. He knew all the soldiers he faced were veterans, at least by comparison to his own, mostly unblooded units. But there were considerable differences between Taylor’s warriors. The rebel general had his Supersoldiers—veterans of at least ten years’ experience, and surgically altered to be stronger, faster, more capable in every way…a force that Akawa viewed with unrestrained terror. Then he had the units from the other Portal worlds, some of those soldiers also seasoned with many years of service, but many relatively recent arrivals.

  “I want a status report on the tank division, Lieutenant.” Akawa’s armor had been a surprise to the enemy. The armies on the Portal worlds had never seen such heavy weapons. It was almost impossible to disassemble an MBT and get it through a Portal. Even Taylor’s veterans had proven they weren’t immune to fear. They hadn’t panicked, but they did fall back in a number of places…everywhere except where the Supersoldiers were positioned. Those grim veterans had held their ground, adjusted their tactics on the fly. They spread out in extended order, surrounded the great tanks, targeting the treads and the rear of the great war machines, where the armor was thinner. One by one they learned how to destroy the great war machines.

  “Sir, General Komack has been killed. Colonel Chang is in command. He reports his forces are bogged down, surrounded by cyborg infiltration teams. The regular enemy units have regrouped, and they preparing to counter-attack.”

  Akawa slammed his fist down on the table. He wasn’t one to broadcast his emotions, but he was angry, frustrated. If it hadn’t been for the damned Supersoldiers, he might just have broken through the lines, and cut Taylor’s army in two. But a few hundred of the cursed cyborgs had stood in the breech…and ground the tanks’ attack to a halt. They had paid in blood, there was no doubt…Akawa suspected the Supersoldier units fighting the tanks had suffered losses of fifty percent. That was hundreds of Taylor’s best soldiers. But the tanks they were destroying were also irreplaceable, the factories that built them demolished forty years before.

  “Lieutenant…the 54th Division is to disengage and turn to the south. They are to advance toward the remnants of the tank division and attack the Supersoldier detachments.” Akawa sighed.

  That will give those damned cyborgs something to think about besides destroying my tanks…

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Lieutenant…notify my transport. I’m going back up there to take a closer look myself.”

  “Yes, General,” the aide replied. But Akawa was already halfway through the door.

  * * *

  “Stay low, dammit. Those things have quad autocannons at the corners.” Emmit Finn crouched down in the shell hole, watching as the massive tank halted about thirty meters from his position. He and his platoon had taken out three of the monsters, but he’d be damned if the fool rookie crews weren’t learning how to handle those things. He’d started with forty-two men, Supersoldiers all. Now he was down to eighteen, and he’d taken more than half those casualties fighting the last tank.

  “We’ve got a clear shot at the flank treads, Sarge.” Emory had always been aggressive, but Finn knew the veteran corporal was letting his rage overrule his good sense.

  “No, Corporal.” The MBTs were tough even on the flanks. Emory could take a shot, but he had maybe a ten percent chance of disabling the tank with a single rocket from the side. It wasn’t just the armor…it was accuracy too. The rocket launchers had been designed as AA weapons, and their hasty conversions to anti-tank use wasn’t without its disadvantages. It wasn’t hitting the giant tank, it was putting the rocket just where it needed to be.

  “But, Sarge…”

  “I said no, Emory. I don’t need another KIA just because you’re fired up to take pot shots. You’re a ten year man, for fuck’s sake. Act like it.”

  Finn shook his head. He was proud of his men…they still had a hell of a lot of fight left for an outfit that had suffered almost sixty percent casualties. And most of those were KIAs. He had four wounded, but even a Supersoldier didn’t stand much chance when his body had been riddled with dozens of rounds from heavy autocannons.

  Finn turned to the right, scoping out the terrain. He had to get his people behind that damned tank…but the thing was stopped, and that mean its crew was cautious, looking around. They’d seen a lot of their comrades taken by infiltration teams, and rookies or not, they were definitely learning. Finn didn’t know the specs of the MBTs, as far as he knew, no one in the AOL did. But he didn’t want to underestimate its scanning suite. One wrong move, one careless step, and his whole position would be hosed down with automatic fire. He shuddered to think of how dangerous the tanks had been when they’d been manned fifty years before by trained and experienced crews.

  He winced as he turned his head, his hand moving to his shoulder automatically. He’d caught a round himself in the last fight. It could have been worse…one of the autocannon rounds grazed the top of his arm, just under his exos. It tore a significant gash in his flesh, and it had bled badly for a few minutes. It hurt like hell too. But Emory had gotten a quick field dressing on it, and he could feel the familiar tingling feeling as his implants released nanobots into his bloodstream, the miniscule devices working steadily to speed blood clotting and repair the tissue damage. It wasn’t a replacement for a trip to the field hospital, but a wounded Supersoldier was enormously better off than a normal trooper.

  “Alright…Bern, Estaban…I want you guys to move around to the right. Find a good spot where you’ve got a shot at the thing from behind.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” came the replies, almost simultaneously.

  “Richter, Santini…you guys too. I want you twenty meters behind Bern and Esteban. Get a clear line of sight and get ready. I’m going to want both teams to fire together, got it?”

  “Yes, Sarge.”

  Finn had just started to turn back toward Emory when the tank opened fire, two of the quad weapons firing in his direction of his troops. He ducked down into the shell hole, his knees digging deeper into the waterlogged mud as he dropped down. He could hear the rounds firing over his head and impacting into the ground in front of the hole.

  “Now,” he said into the com unit. “Attack teams, around the back now…we’ll hold its attention. Fire as soon as you’re in position.” He took a deep breath and pulled a grenade from his belt. He lurched to the side, away from where the stream of bullets had been. Then he climbed up the front face of the shell hole, peering cautiously as he threw the grenade, diving back down and splashing mud everywhere. A few seconds later, he heard the blast. He knew the grenade wouldn’t damage the tank, not even if he’d managed to place it right inside the treads. But a second after the explosion, he realized it had done its job. The tanks guns were firing at his position again, hundreds of round
s slamming into the ground in front and zipping by overhead. The crew was fixated on his location. With any luck Bern and Richter and the others would make it into position.

  “Alright, boys,” he snapped into the com. “Let’s buy the attack teams some cover. Hit that thing with anything you’ve got. Emory, you can take that shot now…”

  “Yes, Sarge.”

  Finn could hear the predatory sound in the trooper’s voice. People handled pain and loss differently, but it was clear it manifested Emory as a need for revenge. He was just about to tell the trooper to be careful when he heard the autocannons firing again. He looked just in time to see the private gunned down, the rocket from his launcher flying up and off to the side, meters wide of the target.

  “Emory!” he called. No answer. “Private Emory!” Still nothing.

  Finn sighed, angry with himself for not realizing Emory had been too worked up, too angry at the loss of his comrades. He’d thrown his life away. For nothing.

  His head snapped around at the sound of a rocket…then another. He saw the fiery trails, and his eye caught the impact…both shots slamming into the rear of the great tank. There were two explosions, and the autocannon fire ceased immediately. Then, a few second later, another blast, louder, greater.

  Finn crouched down again as flaming debris came raining down all around him. He flinched as he heard a loud clank. A chunk of hot metal had hit his right exo, bouncing off and dropping into the water at the bottom of the shellhole with a hiss of steam.

  He stayed low for a few seconds, and then he straightened up and looked at the tank…or what was left of it. It looked like the two teams had put their rockets almost exactly in the same spot. The first had blown a gash in the armor, and the second had gone right through it, detonating inside…utterly destroying the massive war machine.