Crimson Worlds: Prequel - The Gates of Hell

by Jay Allan

  “Incoming!”

  Tremont’s head snapped around. It was Corporal Connors on the com. An instant later he heard the whoomp sound of mortar rounds exploding. The Caliphate mortars were similar to the Alliance’s. They could be highly effective against an unarmored enemy, but troops in modern fighting suits were well protected against anything but a direct hit. The Marines rarely bothered with the weapons except in special situations, but it was all part of the theatrics so central to the Janissary way of war.

  “It’s just the enemy’s popguns, people.” Tremont kept his voice slow and calm. “Maintain rifle fire. You can’t see it, but we’re taking these fuckers down while they’re hiding in those clouds throwing water balloons at us.” He glanced at the scanner. The mortar rounds had been mostly ineffectual, as he’d expected. Mostly wasn’t entirely, though. It looked like two of his people had taken minor hits…nothing their suits couldn’t patch up, but a wound didn’t do anything to increase a Marine’s combat effectiveness.

  Tremont was snapping another clip into his assault rifle when he saw it. The first Janissary, pushing forward, out of the swirling green mist and into the open, less than 100 meters away. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. Always when I’m reloading, he thought. The enemy soldier was running quickly, heading straight for Tremont, firing away at full auto with his own rifle. Then there was another just behind him…and more to the left and right.

  He crouched low, pushing himself forward against the front wall of the trench, his rifle in front of him. He fired at full auto, sweeping the area directly in front of him. The first Janissary went down, struck by at least three projectiles. Then another, stumbling forward, crashing hard into the yellow mud. There were at least a dozen still heading for him, and they’d covered at least half the distance. He aimed at another, letting his guard down for just a second and lifting himself up a few centimeters to get a good shot.

  The impact slammed into him hard, knocking him backwards from the edge of the trench. He landed on his back, splashing wet muck all over as he hit the ground. His shoulder was hit. It was a glancing blow, not a serious wound, but it hurt like hell. He struggled to focus, and he held his rifle up with his good arm just as the Janissaries reached the edge of the trench. He was shooting wildly, spraying the whole area with fire. He took out another enemy, maybe two, and then he was hit again. It was worse this time, somewhere in the abdomen. There was pain, then a rush of painkillers and amphetamines. Tremont wasn’t done yet, and his suit would do everything possible to keep him in the fight. He flipped the switch in his right glove, activating his blade. The weapon thrust out from his suit’s arm, an almost impossibly thin shard of iridium, honed to an edge barely a molecule wide.

  He thrust himself upward, slashing hard. His extended blade sliced through the leg of the closest Janissary, sending the enemy soldier crashing to the ground. Doug Tremont wasn’t finished…not yet.

  Chapter 13

  Marine Lander A34-V111

  Upper Atmosphere

  Planet Persis – Iota Persi II

  Day Thirteen – Afternoon

  The lander bounced around wildly. Worthington was bolted in firmly, but he still felt like he’d go flying off any second. It had been years since the Marines’ celebrated field commander had ridden a first wave landing sled. The first Marines to hit dirt had the roughest ride…the follow up units and headquarters elements came down in larger, more comfortable shuttles. Worthington had never forgotten what a rough ride the front line troops endured, but it was still a shock to re-experience it after so many years.

  He was regretting the sandwiches he’d eaten after Thomas’ people had freed him. There’d been no time for intravenous feeding periods or most of the other pre-landing protocols. He’d barely allowed a few minutes for the doc to administer the anti-emetics and other standard injections to the attack force. For the guys who’d celebrated the short-lived peace with greasy pizzas and sloppy burgers, it was just so much bad luck. A number of his officers pleaded for more prep time, but Worthington’s response was simple, and he repeated it to anyone suggesting delay. “There are Marines dying down there Goddammit.” He didn’t think any more needed to be said…and neither did anyone else.

  The landing wasn’t as well planned as most of his ops had been…indeed, it had been the most seat of the pants thing he’d ever done. But he was going to get help to his men and women on the surface, whatever it took. Whatever happened, he was resolved those Marines on the surface would not die alone and abandoned.

  The repercussions would be ugly; he knew that much. His career would be over…there wasn’t much doubt of that. Alliance Gov had approved the hateful terms of the peace, and Worthington’s actions were in direct violation of orders from the highest level. Court-martial was almost certain, and a firing squad wasn’t out of the question. He’d escaped from an internment approved by Alliance Gov, left a trail of dead intelligence agents behind, and rallied the Marines on Belleau Wood to follow him on an unauthorized landing, heading right back into the fight on a world they’d just left. His actions, which he considered profoundly justified, threatened the new peace and risked a return to full-scale war. Worthington knew the risks, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t leaving his people behind, no matter what the cost.

  The Marines had behaved exactly as he’d expected. He hated involving them in this, but there was no choice. He’d been straight with them all. They were going into another blast furnace, where their deaths were far likelier than a successful rescue. They could end up alone, with no one coming to their aid as they were coming to Holm’s. There was no way to be sure any of the forces on the other ships would follow their lead…or that they’d even be able to now that Alliance Intelligence was alerted. The 300 Marines from Belleau Wood might find themselves trapped and overwhelmed just like the forces they were trying to rescue. And even if they somehow made it back, they’d likely face disciplinary action. Their careers could be destroyed…they might even do time in a penal facility. But none of that mattered. Every one of the 400 Marines on Belleau Wood had volunteered to go. Worthington ended up drawing lots…for the 100 who had to stay behind for lack of landing craft to get them to the surface.

  His comlink crackled to life. “Charles, what the hell is going on?” It was Admiral Clement, his voice barely audible over the growing static.

  “I’m going to help my people, Tom.” Worthington’s voice was calm, though he had to yell to be heard over the interference. “Those pigfuckers at Alliance Intelligence bought their peace with the lives of my Marines…and I’m not going to allow that!”

  “What are you going to do with 300 Marines?” Clement was pleading with Worthington, his voice thick with concern. “Abort this insanity, and we’ll deal with the situation together. You know you’ll have my full support. If you do this it won’t make any difference. You’ll all die…and you’ll just be tried for mutiny even if you do somehow manage to make it back.” He paused for an instant and added, “Don’t throw your life away, my friend.”

  Worthington smiled. Clement was a good man, a friend. “My people don’t have time, Tom.” He spoke simply, matter-of-factly. “It’s no different than you’d do if one of your ships was in trouble…and you know it.”

  Clement paused, sighing hard, but not responding.

  “If you’ve got anything else to say, old friend, now is the time.” Worthington knew he wouldn’t. Clement had to try to convince him, but deep down the admiral felt the same way. He’d led his ships and people from one murderous fight to another, and cutting them loose, abandoning them to the enemy…it wasn’t in his DNA and more than it was in Worthington’s. “We’re taking as wide and approach as we can, but we’ll be clipping the EMP area in a minute. The ships will make it through, I think, but we’ll probably lose our com channel with the fleet.”

  Clement sighed again. “I know I’m not going to change your mind, Charles. I’ve fought alongside your stubborn ass long enough to realize that.” There
was a long pause, only the growing static on the line. “So, let’s cut the crap. How can I help?”

  Worthington smiled again. He’d always respected Clement, but the crusty old admiral would never know how much that last sentence meant to him. Still, he wasn’t going to drag his friend down with him. “Stay out of it, Tom. You tried to convince me to come back. You did your duty. Now you and your people lay low, stay out of it. I’m not taking you down with me.”

  “Bullshit,” Clement roared loudly enough to rattle the speaker in Worthington’s helmet. “We fought a war together, and by God we’re going to finish it that way. And if you tell me again to cower on my bridge while good men die, I’m gonna show you just how an admiral can kick the shit out of an uppity Marine general.”

  Worthington paused for a few seconds. He felt a wave of guilt for dragging Clement into the whole mess. He struggled with it briefly then pushed it aside. Tom Clement was his own man. What he did, he did because he knew it was the right thing to do. And nothing would change that. “You’re a good man, Tom. And a good friend.” The static was growing louder. Worthington glanced at the positional display. He was going to lose contact any second. “We need more strength down there, Tom.” He was shouting as loudly as he could, trying to overcome the almost-total interference. “Get the word to the other ships. Tell the rest of my Marines we need them.” There was a loud burst of static and then the line went dead.

  Chapter 14

  Anvil Force Perimeter

  Yellow Sand Valley

  Northern Continent

  Planet Persis – Iota Persi II

  Day Thirteen – Late Afternoon

  It was over. He knew that much. Tremont was on his back again, two more slugs in his body. His right arm had been hit, a random shot that shattered the bone. There was more pain, but he ignored it. The suit was still pumping him full of drugs, keeping the agony at least moderately under control. His blade was still extended, but the deadly weapon lay half buried in the yellow mud, the arm that had wielded it sprawled uselessly at his side. Even with the nuclear-powered servo-mechanicals of his suit, there was no way to move the obliterated arm.

  There were Janissaries all around him, like angels of death floating over his dying body. He could see at least two bringing their rifles around to finish him off. He knew he was looking at his end. He’d been afraid earlier, waiting for the assault to come. But now, lying in the mud, facing the reality of his own death, the fear was gone. There was something else there in its place, regret possibly? He ached for his Marines, for the rest of Third Battalion, abandoned on an alien world, facing almost certain destruction. He couldn’t understand how this had happened…how it had been allowed to happen. How long a fraction of a second can be, he thought, watching his impending death as if it was unfolding in slow motion.

  He gritted his teeth, waiting for the pain of the kill shots. At least they would be mercifully quick. Death now was better than a few more hours of life…watching the battalion slowly destroyed. But those shots didn’t come. He saw the shadows looming over him, watched as they moved away…falling, landing in the mud around him. He was groggy, weak. Realization came slowly…figures running down the trench toward him…firing. Marines! His Marines, shooting at his attackers, taking them all down. Saving his life.

  “Get that weapon set up, private!” The voice on the com was rough, hoarse. “We’ve got a second wave coming, and we’re gonna need that SAW fire.”

  Tremont was wavering on the edge of consciousness as he listened. Mueller, he thought. “Corporal Mueller? Is that you?” His voice was weak, throaty.

  “Yes, sergeant. We’re here for you. Just relax…we’ve got things under control.”

  That was a lie…Tremont knew that much. But however bad the situation, Mueller’s people had this section of line better defended than he had by himself. Maybe, he thought…maybe they’ll hold. At least for a while. He lay back in the mud and took a deep, painful breath.

  Mueller fired off another series of orders. Tremont tried to move his head to see, but he couldn’t do it. Finally, he looked at his display. Mueller had nine Marines, including himself. Less than half the starting strength of his section, Tremont realized grimly. Still, they could put out one hell of a lot of fire. Nine Marines and two SAWs could hold a section of trench for a long time…even against Janissaries. But what were they holding out for? A single battalion, alone on an enemy world, low on supplies and hopelessly outnumbered…what chance did they have?

  Burke was crouched low as he shuffled along the back of the small berm. It was a weak defense, desperately put in place. The Janissaries had hit hard in this sector, and they finally drove the Marines back from their trenches. The defenders had held to the last, and the Caliphate’s elite troops paid a heavy blood price to break through. But they had reserves, and the Marines didn’t. No more than a quarter of Captain Clinton’s company were still in the line when the fallback order finally came. They retreated, fighting all the way, and hastily erected a fallback position. Clinton had given the order to retreat, but he wasn’t with his people when they followed it. He’d been fighting in the ranks with his Marines as wave after wave of Janissaries threw themselves at the trench line. He was one of the last to fall, seconds after ordering the retreat. He lay on the line, under a pile of bodies…a handful of his Marines who’d desperately tried to reach him instead of pulling back, only to discover he was already dead. They’d sacrificed their chance to escape, and run head on into the main enemy attack. They had died to a man, bravely, but in the end, vainly.

  “Captain Holm, I’m up at First Company’s position.” Burke’s voice was scratchy, deep. There was an authority in it, a confidence that hadn’t been there two days before. The nervous-sounding rookie was gone, replaced by a man who’d seen too much, too quickly. He struggled with the horrors he was facing, but he’d done all Holm had asked of him and come back for more. Baptism by fire…that’s what they call it, he thought. Part of him was overwhelmed, longing to give in to the fear, to flee for his life. But there was more inside him than he’d ever imagined. The training appealed to his rational mind. Fleeing would do no good…there was nowhere to go. But in his heart, in the place courage came from, there was a resolve he’d never imagined he’d possessed. “They’re in bad shape, sir,” he continued. “The enemy was badly disordered taking the trenches, and that’s buying us a short break. But as soon as they are able to regroup, I don’t see how Clinton’s people are going to hold.”

  “Who’s in command up there?” Holm’s voice was hard, steady. He already knew Captain Clinton was dead. He and Clinton had been close for years, but he just filed the information and focused on the matter at hand. There would be time to mourn lost friends later…if anyone survived.

  Holm was exhausted, but his mind was sharp, and kept firing out orders, micromanaging every part of his shrinking battle line. The worse the situation got, the calmer the young captain in command seemed to become. He was growing into his responsibilities, and even while his beleaguered forces faced overwhelming odds, their confidence in their commander grew. Elias Holm would one day succeed General Worthington as the Corps’ fighting commander, and his journey to greatness began in those fateful days on Persis.

  “Lieutenant Fargus, sir. But he’s wounded. He’s still on his feet, but he can’t be 100%.” Burke paused, looking up toward the front line. “Sir, I’ll move forward and get a better look at the defensive positions…”

  “No you won’t.” Holm’s tone pre-empted any argument. “I need a live aide, Danny, not a dead hero.” He paused. His respect for Burke was growing. He’d had serious doubts about the young private serving as his aide, especially in a desperate fight like this, but Burke had vastly exceeded his expectations. “Stay the hell back, and get your ass over to 2nd Company’s position.”

  Burke was distracted by chatter from Fargus’ people on the line. He knew what it was immediately. “Captain Holm, the enemy is moving against the fallback position
.” The Janissaries were coming in…and they outnumbered the 50 or so Marines manning the hasty works at least 10-1. The defenders would fight…but that was just a formality. The enemy would overrun them all…and burst into the rear of the entire battalion.

  James Fargus knelt in the deep yellow mud, staring across the flat, featureless plain. His people had fallen back a little more than a kilometer from their abandoned trenches. They’d fought long and hard to hold the painstakingly built defensive line, but ultimately numbers had prevailed…as they usually did in war. Perhaps, he thought, we could have held indefinitely against the regular line troops…but the Janissaries were elite shock troops. The Marines had made them pay dearly, but in the end, there had simply been too many of them.

  The Janissaries were coming again. It looked like a whole orta…at least several times as many as it would take to wipe out Fargus’ battered force. Worse, their formations seemed intact…which meant they were fresh troops, not the battered units that had finally taken the trench line.

  He’d been crouched behind the berm his people had hastily erected, ready for what was almost certainly going to be his last fight. The wound in his side ached, but his trauma control system had packed it in sterile foam and flooded his system with painkillers and amphetamines. He felt a little weakness, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He didn’t think it was going to matter for much longer anyway.

  “Lieutenant Fargus, I am receiving intermittent signals from approaching aircraft.” Fargus’ AI spoke with the same human-sounding tone as the others. “Approximate location 30 kilometers southwest, altitude 9 kilometers.”