The Fall: Crimson Worlds IX

by Jay Allan

  “Third Orta, advance.” Farooq turned and joined the third wave, following the marching soldiers into the heavy clouds.

  His people were heading for the enemy’s most important position, a 2 kilometer section of the line covering the main approach to Weston. If the attack succeeded, the Shadow Legion forces would be split in two, and the Janissaries would control high ground that dominated both flanks.

  Farooq stepped into the opaque clouds, moving carefully forward. He knew his lines were slowed by their own camouflage system, but that couldn’t be helped. You couldn’t even see your feet in a Smoke could, and it wasn’t going to do anyone any good taking a nasty fall in armor.

  He could hear the enemy fire up ahead. He knew his display was next to useless – the Smoke obscured the Janissaries’ scanners as effectively as the enemy’s. He wouldn’t know how effective the enemy fire had been until his people emerged from the billowing clouds, right on top of the enemy line.

  His people were holding their fire as they advanced. It was a standard Janissary tactic. Their method of war tended toward the theatrical and, coupled with their fearsome reputation, it undermined the morale of their enemies. Unless, of course, they were facing Marines, who tended to ignore the scary show and hold firm despite the Janissaries’ best mind games. Or worse, when they were fighting a group of clones designed to be copies of the Marines, but conditioned to remove all fear and human weakness.

  Still, Farooq had ordered the usual tactics. Firing while they advanced would only give away their positions within the rolling clouds, and that would increase their own casualties far more than any damage they could hope to inflict on the entrenched enemy. The best chance was to close as quickly as possible, and to break the line by sheer force.

  The Janissaries had their orders, and Farooq couldn’t change them now, even if he wanted to. The Smoke obscured communications as well as scanners. His people would move forward and break the enemy line. Or they would falter and rout. And he knew if his men broke, that would mean that at least half of them were dead already.

  He pushed steadily forward. He guessed he was about halfway across the field, which meant his front line was already engaging. His external speakers were picking up heavy fire from farther forward, confirmation that the fight was underway.

  He checked his directional display, making sure he wasn’t straying too far inside the thick green clouds. Nothing worked in the Smoke except a basic compass, but that was enough for him to keep his bearings. In another minute or so, he guessed, he’d be up on the line, three full ortas of his troops pushed forward into the fight. Then it would be a brutal struggle to see who broke first.

  “OK, Marines. It looks like the Janissaries are breaking through.” Callahan was crouched behind the edge of the makeshift trench. He’d been following the attack of the Caliphate troops on his display, and he could see they were pushing forward. He could feel them breaking through.

  “Prepare to advance.” He turned back toward Paine and White, who were both prone beneath the lip of the trench. “I want you guys to stay back when we go in.” His eyes panned up and down their battered suits of nearly-ancient powered armor.

  “With all due respect, sir, we’d prefer to advance with your forces.” There was an edge to White’s voice, not resentment exactly, but it was clear he had no intention of cowering in a trench while the Marines went in.

  “I mean no disrespect to your fighting abilities, but you are emissaries from General Tyler, and…”

  “Don’t worry about it, Major. General Tyler knows us, and he’d expect us to be in the front line of any attack.” It was Paine this time, and he had the same slightly crazy tone to his voice. Callahan suspected Paine and White were two of Tyler’s best soldiers, and probably his worst discipline problems too.

  “As you wish, gentlemen.” They weren’t in Callahan’s line of command anyway, so there was no point in arguing when it was clear he wasn’t going to get anywhere. “But keep your heads down. I don’t want to explain to General Gilson how I got you both killed.”

  “Fair enough, sir.” White nodded. “We’ll be careful.”

  Callahan returned the nod, but he didn’t feel much better. He had the distinct impression that caution was something in neither man’s skillset.

  He glanced back to his display just as his comlink crackled to life. It was Farooq’s voice coming through loud and clear. “Major Callahan, Colonel Venti, the enemy is withdrawing from the central position. You may advance when ready.” The Caliphate commander sounded exhausted. Callahan wasn’t surprised. Farooq had thrown his people at the strongest part of the enemy line, the linchpin of the entire position. It was an unorthodox move, a daring effort to compromise the entire enemy position. It looked like they’d won, but Callahan didn’t even want to guess at their losses.

  “All right, Marines. These people may be cheap copies of us, but now it’s time to show them how the real thing fights. All units forward.” He roared the command through the com, doing all he could to rally his Marines and work them into a frenzy. This was the big fight, the most crucial few hours of the entire campaign. If the enemy was driven back, they’d have nowhere to go. The radioactive ruins of Weston lay to the south and the ocean to the north. The enemy could only fall back to the west, but that led into the mountains, a deathtrap for a retreating army.

  “Let’s go, boys.” He shouted back to Paine and White, and then he slammed his helmet shut and moved forward. He ran about 20 meters and dove down behind a tiny fold in the ground, dropping low and firing a few times as he scouted out his next piece of cover. His units were zigzagging forward, half of each platoon covering the rest as it advanced. The long-range fire probably wouldn’t cause many casualties, but it would keep the enemy’s heads down while the forward group advanced.

  The enemy fire was heavy, but Callahan knew their position was already compromised, with the Janissaries directing fire down on their flanks. His people just had to keep up the pressure, driving forward and taking the ground. Then the enemy would be forced back into the rugged foothills behind their lines.

  He could see Paine and White advancing off to his right, moving quickly, completely ignoring his instructions to be cautious. He’d already decided the two had to be a major headache for General Tyler, but now he was realizing they were tremendous warriors as well. He could see they knew their way around a battlefield as well as he did. He just hoped their luck didn’t run out on his watch.

  He surged forward to the next cover, a pile of shattered masonry that had once been a small building. It was about 20 meters ahead, and he took a deep breath and ran for it. The fire was getting heavier as his forces closed on the enemy line, and he could see Marines down now. He dove for the cover of the debris and did a combat roll, finishing in a prone position with his rifle at the ready. He could see the enemy trench line now, just visible though the haze and smoke of the battlefield.

  He looked up to the right, to the hills in the background. Farooq’s men were there, and as soon as they got set up, they would dominate the ground behind the trenches. If Callahan’s Marines could drive the enemy out of their fortifications, Farooq’s gunners would massacre them on the retreat.

  “Keep moving, Marines!” he yelled into the com. “Take those trenches.” He took another breath, hopping over the broken pile of concrete and running forward.

  “You have waited for this day, my soldiers. You have bled for it.” Tyler stood on a small rise, looking out at the 1,500 troops he still commanded, the last remnants of Columbia’s once powerful army. “You have seen our people driven from their homes, forced to live like animals in the wilderness. You have seen the dead in the streets, civilians…children.”

  He raised his arms in the air. “Well, that ends now!”

  The crowd roared, men and women raising their battered rifles into the air and shouting his name. “Tyler!”

  “Today we take back our world. Today we begin the final campaign, fighting alongside the A
lliance Marines, who have once again come to Columbia to battle an invader.” He looked over toward Mandrake and a small cluster of his officers. “It is an honor and a privilege to serve alongside these men and women, to go into battle with such illustrious veterans and heroes.”

  The shouts of the soldiers were becoming louder, and they cheered wildly every time Tyler mentioned the Marines. It was an angry, excited, screaming mob, ready to march into hell itself to drive the Shadow Legions from their world.

  “Now, we will take our vengeance, my soldiers. Now, we will make the invaders pay for every centimeter of our world and every drop of Columbian blood that has been spilled.” He waved his arms wildly, working the soldiers into a frenzy. “The orders are attack. Attack, attack, attack. Keep fighting until no enemy lives to breath Columbian air!” He held his own rifle above his head. “Now, to your units, and forward to meet the enemy.”

  The soldiers shouted his name again and again. “Tyler, Tyler, Tyler…”

  “To your units, and may even God forsake our wretched enemy.” He stood and watched as the ragged soldiers streamed toward their rally points. He’d reorganized his shrunken army into four battalions, and now he watched his troops forming into those newly-designated groups. They were ready for the fight ahead, as ready as any warriors who had ever lived. He knew they would sustain Columbia’s reputation as a world that would not tolerate invaders. Today, the Shadow Legions would curse the day they set foot on Columbian soil.

  Tyler stepped down from the hill, walking over toward Mandrake and his command group. “Good luck to all of you.” He extended his hand toward the major.

  “And to you, General Tyler, and all of your people.” He grasped the Columbian dictator’s hand. “And may our victory be swift and easy.” He knew it would be neither, but it helped him on some level to imagine it was possible.

  Mandrake turned back to his officers. “To your posts. We move out in five minutes.” The cluster of Marines nodded crisply and trotted off to their units.

  The Marine battalion would be spearheading the attack. Less than half of Tyler’s troops were armored, and Mandrake had insisted the exhausted Columbian warriors form up behind his fresh Marines. It had taken some convincing, but Tyler finally agreed.

  Mandrake had been impressed by Tyler’s strength and tenacity. The Columbian general reminded him of Kara Sanders on Arcadia. The two partisan leaders had the same incredible tenacity, an utter refusal to give up no matter what the odds. Kara had lived through some dark days to see her world liberated, and Mandrake was determined to see Tyler did as well.

  His thoughts drifted back to Arcadia. Kara had made quite an impression on him, and he found himself thinking of her often. He scolded himself when she slipped into his mind, pushing the thoughts back. He didn’t have time for such nonsense now. She was lightyears away, and he had a job to do. Mandrake was a realist. If the Corps was going to defeat the Shadow Legions, not only on Columbia but everywhere, he knew not many of them would survive. His future was more likely death in battle on some colony world than hearth and home with Kara Sanders. But despite his efforts and all his discipline, she kept creeping back into his thoughts.

  “All companies report ready to advance, sir.” Lieutenant Grove was his aide, a young officer who’d come up during the struggle with the First Imperium. “And General Tyler reports his forces are also ready.”

  Mandrake took a deep breath and looked out toward the assembled formations. He turned slowly and stared back at Grove, uttering a single word.

  “Attack.”

  Callahan spun around and fired, his shot taking down an enemy trooper about to fire on one of his people. The battle was a confused mess, both sides swirling in and around the bloodsoaked trenches, the attackers pressing their assault with unwavering fortitude, and the defenders refusing to yield a centimeter.

  The fighting was down to blades in places, the hyper-thin edges of the deadly knives slicing right through armor and the flesh below. The enemy resistance was toughest right around Callahan, which was why he was there. He’d led three assaults up the narrow trench line, trying to break through, but the enemy troopers held on, throwing them back each time. Losses on both sides were enormous, and the forces remained locked in a bloody fight to the death.

  The enemy had tried to reinforce the trench line, but Farooq’s Janissaries had opened fire on the advancing troops, shattering their formations and sending the survivors retreating in a disordered mess.

  Strategy and tactics no longer mattered. The battle was down to guts and determination, and the side who hung on longest, who outlasted the fortitude of their opponents, would have the victory.

  Callahan had been in the thick of the fighting since his forces had streamed into the trenches. He knew his people had to see him, and he did everything he could to set the example and strengthen the will of his beleaguered Marines. He had his assault rifle in one arm, and his molecular blade extended on the other. His back was against the wall of the trench, and he had gunned down at least a dozen of the enemy and killed two with his blade.

  He could see Paine and White, standing back to back, fighting enemy troops coming at them from two sides. The ancient armor the Columbians wore didn’t carry the super-sharp molecular blades, but the two fought on, firing with such deadly accuracy no enemy was able to close to hand to hand range.

  Callahan had lost count of his casualties, but he was sure his people had killed more of the enemy than they’d lost. The Shadow Legions troopers weren’t easy to distinguish from his own people at first sight. They wore the same armor, carried the same weapons. The suit AIs tracked friend or foe transponders, and they warned a Marine if he was about to fire at a friendly target, but looking at the piles of bodies in the trench, it was hard to see whose they were.

  He swung around, firing at a fresh group of enemy soldiers rushing toward him. He’d taken down two when the third managed to bring his rifle around and fire. Callahan felt the impact on his leg. It wasn’t pain, at least not at first. Just a strange realization he’d been hit. The pain came a second later, but it was gone in an instant, as his suit’s trauma control system flooded his bloodstream with painkillers and other meds.

  “Give me some poppers, Ian.” He’d named his AI after his father, who’d also been a Marine. Ian Callahan had died on Tau Ceti III, during the disastrous operation known to history as the Slaughter Pen, and his namesake had accompanied his son into a dozen campaigns.

  Callahan felt the amphetamines flowing through his body, counteracting his exhaustion and the effects of the painkillers. He couldn’t afford to be groggy now. He leaned back into the trench wall, taking the weight off his stricken leg. The soldier who’d shot him was dead already, killed by his own return fire.

  There were enemies coming at him from every direction. He chanced a quick look at his display, glancing up as he fired desperately into the approaching soldiers. He could see it immediately. His people were losing the fight. They had fought with great courage and tenacity, but there were just too many of the enemy. At least half his people were down, and the rest were split up into groups, desperately trying to hold out against the enemy troopers swarming them.

  He knew he was almost done too. It wouldn’t be long before one of his attackers took him down. He gritted his teeth and kept firing, spraying the area around him with hypervelocity projectiles. If he was going to die here, he was resolved to do it well. To die like a Marine.

  He felt another shot, this one on his arm. He sank down to his knees, still firing as yet another round hit him. He could feel the blood pooling inside his armor, and the pain as the medical system tried to force expanding foam into the wounds to stop the blood loss.

  This was it. After all his battles, this was where it ended. He tried to clear his head, groaned as he raised his rifle with his good arm. There were at least a dozen enemy soldiers moving toward him, bringing their rifles to bear.

  Suddenly, one of his attackers fell. Then another. The
rest of them turned quickly, but it did them no good. They went down one after the other, until they were all dead. Callahan wasn’t sure what was happening, and he drifted on the edge of consciousness.

  “Are you OK, sir?” It was Paine, and he was crouching above him, looking down.

  He coughed, trying to clear his throat. He was wounded, but the med system was stabilizing everything and replacing his lost blood with synthetic. He felt another wave of uppers flooding his bloodstream, and his lucidity started returning.

  “I’m alright.” It was a bit of an overstatement, he thought, but he wasn’t dead, and he’d damned sure expected to be by now. “Thanks for the assist.”

  “Any time, sir.” There was a strange sound in Paine’s voice, a ferociousness he hadn’t heard before. “Any chance to kill these Shadow motherfuckers is worth it. Saving a comrade is just a bonus.”

  Callahan felt a little chill at Paine’s tone. The two Columbian officers had been nothing but friendly with him, but now he started to understand what watching your world occupied, its people brutalized and killed, did to a man. There was a hatred in Paine’s voice toward the Shadow Legions more intense than anything he’d ever encountered.

  He pulled himself up, propping his back against the edge of the trench. Paine and White may have saved him, but his people were still losing the fight. He was about to order a retreat when he saw shadows looming over the edge of the trench. Dark forms moved up to the lip and leapt in, molecular blades protruding from both arms.

  It was the Janissaries. Farooq’s men had come around, and they were pouring into the trench from the enemy rear. Callahan let out a wild battlecry, recoiling at the pain of the exertion. The Janissaries had come.

  He looked up at Paine, who was hovering over him. “Go,” he screamed. “I’ll be fine. It’s time to finish these bastards!”

  Chapter 16