by Jay Allan
“Acknowledged, colonel. We are forwarding your suggestion to army HQ.” The voice on the com was shaky. The air corps had been so badly battered, even the control center staff was at the breaking point. “Good luck, Iron Hand.”
Desmond pushed down on the throttle. He was already well above maximum safe velocity for this altitude, but he wanted more speed. He needed it if he was going to outfly these God-forsaken robots and their anti-air defenses. He’d taken up a double load of PBS modules – a massive violation of regulations - and his plane was handling like a pig because of it. He had the reactor at 115% already, which meant he was running a good 10% chance of turning into a miniature sun before he even got to the drop point.
He arced around at a tight angle and felt the blood draining from his head. He was maxed out on stims and antipressure meds, but he still had to fight to keep from blacking out. A second of unconsciousness would be fatal. His altitude was 100 meters, moving now at 3,700 meters per second. There was no margin for error.
He was coming in parallel to the enemy front line. He swooped down even lower, his plane streaking along barely 40 meters over the ground. He zigzagged wildly as he came in, then flew straight through the heart of the enemy formations. He dropped the first batch of PBS modules, leaving a trail of billowing hellfire behind him, consuming anything in its path. Bots, Reapers, heavy weapons…they were all vaporized by the superheated clouds of plasma.
Normally, he’d already be arcing up, climbing away, trying to escape the defensive fire. But he had a second payload, and he intended to deliver it. He swung around and targeted another cluster of Reapers. The anti-aircraft fire was intense. He zigzagged wildly, but this time he was hit. A hypersonic particle ripped away a section of his wing. The plane lurched wildly, but he managed to keep it in the air. He pulled the release and dropped the second load, then he pulled back on the throttle and climbed as quickly as his damaged plane could go.
The plasma erupted below him…it wasn’t the targeted drop he’d wanted, but it still caught dozens of enemy bots in its deadly clouds. He tried to fly in an irregular pattern, but he didn’t have the control anymore. The plane was blasting almost straight up, and half a dozen Reapers targeted it, tearing it to shreds with hypersonic fire.
Desmond waited until the last second, and he pulled the latch, engaging his escape pod. The small capsule fired out of the cockpit, throwing Desmond clear of his disintegrating aircraft. He had figured he was dead, but now there was a spark of hope in the back of his mind…a flickering light that grew dimmer as he looked at the positional scanner. He was coming right down in the middle of the enemy army…and dead center in the target area for the nuclear strike he’d called in.
“Goddamn it, hold your places. Maintain fire.” Kyle Warren was losing control of his forces. It had started with 15th Battalion. They just broke and fled from their trenches. Some of their officers tried in vain to rally the shattered unit, but there was no holding them back. Then it started to spread, from one green unit to another. Now, half of II Corps was in full-scale rout, and the whole center was caving in.
Warren stood there, dead center behind the crumbling front line, shouting into his com, trying to reach someone…anyone…in command of the broken units. But most of the officers were dead. Warren hated to admit it, but a few of the unit commanders had joined their men and women, throwing down their weapons and fleeing along with everyone else.
“Rally on me.” Warren’s plea took on a note of desperation. A few of the routers responded, but most just kept running, though it did them little good. The enemy was raking the fleeing forces with hypervelocity rounds and bombarding them with cluster bombs. They were taking heavier losses than they had in the trenches. But panic knows no reason.
Warren gathered up every man and woman he could find, mostly his staff and about 50 of the routers who’d heeded his rally call. “Forward…we have to hold the line. We have reinforcements coming.” Warren knew Cain had sent reserves. He just had to hang on for a few more minutes. He pulled out his mag-rifle and heard the click as the autoloader slammed a clip in place. “Follow me! We need to hold for ten minutes. Just ten minutes.” It was a battlecry…and a plea. He didn’t know how they were going to do it, but he couldn’t let the line cave in…not when help was a few minutes away. If the enemy broke through it would compromise the rest of the position…and the units still holding would be flanked and destroyed.
Warren ran forward, up over a small ridge toward the trench line the routers had just abandoned. He’d known what was waiting from his scanner, but actually seeing it was another thing entirely. There were hundreds of Reapers, advancing in extended order, at least 50 ranks deep. He couldn’t even see the end of the column, though his scanners confirmed it was almost 5 klicks from front to back.
He almost stopped. He felt weakness in his legs, looseness in his stomach. He was scared…more afraid then he’d ever been in his life. Kyle Warren stood, for a brief second, on the precipice…then he shouted into the com and ran forward to the trenchline.
“To the trenches! We’re going to hold this line!” His hoarse screams tore at his raw throat. He raised his arm, rotating it like a windmill. He’d lost some of his people. The sight of the enemy had been too much for them, and they froze…or turned and ran after the routing troops. But half had stayed with him, and they were already leaning forward, pouring fire into the advancing enemy forces.
“Man the heavy weapons.” They were facing Reapers, and Warren realized small arms weren’t going to do the job. The broken units had left behind their SAWs and HVMs. “Team up in twos and get some of these weapons firing. Now!” He turned and moved to the right, powering his way through the waist-deep mud and water in the partially-collapsed trench. There was a heavy autocannon a few meters away, and it looked like it was set up and ready to go.
The fire coming in was thick, and Warren bent over, making sure to stay below the front lip of the trench. A few of his people were less careful, and he heard their cries on the com line when they were hit. He dove the last two meters, splashing muddy water all around as his hands gripped the 500kg weapon.
A few of his people had other weapons firing – at least one other autocannon and two HVMs. A couple enemy bots went down, but Warren’s people were just too few, their fire too light. They weren’t making a difference, not enough of one. The enemy was coming…they’d be in the trench in a few seconds.
He grabbed the autocannon, pulling hard and ripping it from its stand. It was a massive weapon, designed for a two-man crew, but Kyle Warren held it like a rifle and stood up, firing out at the advancing enemy. He was strong enough in his armor to hold the thing, but the kick almost knocked him over. He dug his back foot deep into the mud, finally reaching solid ground, and he sprayed the oncoming battle robots with hypersonic death. They went down under his unrelenting fire. Two, five, ten…maybe a dozen. His shooting was deadly accurate, and for an instant…an ephemeral, passing second…it seemed that he might hold his tiny section of trench.
The first shot hit him in the shoulder. He felt the pain, but only for an instant. The trauma control system flooded his bloodstream with painkillers and stimulants. He managed to hang onto the autocannon, barely. He kept firing, but only for a few seconds more. The second hit took his arm off clean. It was a heavy round from one of the Reapers, and the force of it knocked him off his feet.
There was still no pain…he had the drugs to thank for that. But he could taste the blood in his mouth. He tried to get up, and he made it to his hands and knees. He paused there a few seconds, trying to force himself to his feet. He raised his head, just in time to see a battle robot standing on the edge of the trench leveling its rifle.
The shot took him in the chest, and he fell back into the mud. He lay there, almost buried in the muck, feeling the blood pumping from his body, the slickness inside his suit. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, but time lost its meaning. He was adrift, not sure where he was, his mind
floating, vague images moving in and out of his fading consciousness. Fleeting thoughts…Cain…the battle…failure…defeat.
The trauma control system tried to save him…futile attempts to close the wound, treat the blood loss. But the damage was just too extensive. He took a last breath and his watery eyes looked up through his visor, one last glimpse at the sky. Then he was gone. Kyle Warren - general, revolutionary hero, Marine – was dead.
“Match up those lines! Get those HVMs deployed. Now!” Major Grant was running forward as he fired out commands. He flipped his com to the command line. “Terrell, your people need to form up on our flank. I’ve got my line refused on the right, but you need to cover the left or they’re going to sweep around us.”
There were two battalions in the center of the battlefield, just over 1,000 seasoned Marines in total. Two full brigades of routers had streamed by, the dour veterans watching in stunned silence. Now the full center of the First Imperium army was bearing down, a maelstrom of death following just minutes behind the flight of the broken formations. The attackers had been savaged by plasma bombardments and a barrage of tactical nukes, but they still outnumbered the grim defenders at least 10-1.
“We’re on the way, Cal.” Major Terrell Carson commanded 6th Battalion. His Marines were already marching toward Grant’s 5th Battalion, trying to close the gap between the two units before the attack came in. The two forces originally intended to march forward and reinforce the front line…but that line no longer existed, and now the two lone battalions were virtually all that stood in the path of the enemy.
Carson and Grant were both majors, but Grant had seniority, and with it the overall field command. “When you get in place, refuse your left.” Grant was watching his own Marines deploy on his scanner as he spoke. “We can’t even come close to covering this frontage. We’ve got to form a square.” A square was an ancient formation, not something Marines did on the modern battlefield. But the only chance to hold off the First Imperium forces was to hose them down with heavy fire…and if the Marines gave the enemy a flank, the whole thing would be over in a few minutes.
“Got it, Cal.” Carson didn’t question Grant’s directive. He knew the chain of command, and now wasn’t the time for the two of them to argue. Besides, Grant had been on the scene and had more time to evaluate the situation…and he was a rock solid officer Carson trusted completely. “I’ll make the hinge on that refusal closer to the center. We’ll need enough force to cover the rear if it comes to that.”
“Perfect.” Grant’s voice was getting edgier. “You really need to get here APAP. They’re going to hit us any minute.”
“Hang on, Cal. We’re on the way.” He flipped the com to his own battalion line. “Let’s step it up, 5th Battalion. The 6th is catching hell. Doubletime…move it!”
The air was thick with foreboding, the mood stark. Carter wanted to double over and retch, but he summoned the strength to stand firm. He’d never seen Cain like this, and it was an experience he knew he would never forget. No matter how hard he tried. He didn’t dare speak…not a word.
Erik Daniel Cain, full general and the commander of 1st Army walked into the chamber. It was a cave, really, a manmade one. Carved out of the solid base rock to hold fighter bombers, it was empty now. All the planes that had been based here were gone, shot down over the battlefield. Most of the pilots who’d flown missions from here were dead as well, though a couple had managed to eject and get back…two, maybe three of them.
Cain was wearing fatigues, but for once they were neatly pressed and spotless. Four polished platinum stars gleamed on each shoulder, and an officer’s cap covered his wavy brown hair. Along the walls of the room were Marines, a hundred on each side, and they snapped to attention as one when Cain entered, the clicking from the heels of their boots echoing off the high stone ceiling.
“Major Sawyer, bring in the prisoners.” Cain spoke matter-of-factly, but his voice was cold, like the depths of space. His eyes blazed like frozen fire.
“Yes, sir.” Sawyer turned abruptly and walked toward a closed hatch. “Lieutenant Sand, have the prisoners brought in.
Sand acknowledged and opened the hatch, relaying the command for the captives to be marched in. A ragged line of Marines stepped forward. No…no longer Marines. Cain’s decree had stripped them already of that distinction. They were prisoners, deserters, cowards. Thus had Cain proclaimed them and, therefore, thus they were. Their names would be expunged from all records. To the Corps, they will never have existed.
They stumbled forward slowly, broken men and women, their feet shuffling, scraping on the rough stone floor. Their misery was palpable, and they moved with hunched shoulders, gradually herded into line by alert-looking Marines carrying assault rifles. At least a dozen of them were wounded, and they hobbled in as well as they could manage. They’d been dragged from Sarah’s hospital by Cain’s order and against her angry objections. She’d protested, and his response had included the harshest words he’d ever spoken to her. She’d loved him for years, but now she didn’t recognize him, the man he had become, and the darkness she saw in his eyes chilled her blood.
Sawyer snapped a series of orders, and the guards moved up and took positions around the prisoners. There was a loud clang as the armored hatch slammed shut, leaving 140 men and women standing raggedly, pathetically…awaiting Cain’s judgment.
He paused, but only for a moment. He walked forward, climbing up on a small platform that had been assembled about 10 meters from the line of prisoners. He stood at attention, or close to it, and looked out over the miserable captives. He was the embodiment of judgment, of vengeance. These former Marines, these cowards…they were responsible for Kyle Warren’s death.
Another friend lost…another great Marine dead. Warren had served the Corps and the cause of liberty all his life – on the battlefields of the Third Frontier War, on Arcadia during the rebellions. And here, when all was lost, standing with his last breath between the First Imperium and their victory over humankind. He was gone now like so many others, dead because these cowards had broken and run in the face of the enemy. Now they were going to pay the price. Cain had initially wanted to punish the entire division, but he knew that wasn’t possible. He still needed those troops, though he no longer considered any of them Marines. These 140 were the ones who broke first, the ones who started the rout. They would carry the guilt for all who had failed in their duty.
“You are here, all of you, because you are guilty of cowardice in the face of the enemy.” He owed them no preamble, no ceremony, and they weren’t going to get any from him. He would accord them no hint of respect, no pity. “Of desertion in the face of the enemy.” He stared straight ahead as he spoke, and there wasn’t a sign of emotion in his expression. “Of gross dereliction of duty that resulted in the death of your commanding officer and hundreds of your comrades.”
The prisoners stood in place. A few tried to meet Cain’s stare, but most of them looked down, eyes focused miserably on the floor. Some were crying; two or three lost the strength in their legs and fell to their knees.
Cain knew what he was going to do. Carter and Sawyer knew as well, and they realized they couldn’t stop him. No one could. Jax might have, but Jax was gone. Holm could have ordered Cain not to proceed, but he was on Armstrong, unreachable through the enemy blockade. Erik Daniel Cain was the final arbiter of all things on Sandoval.
“There can be only one punishment for your actions.” He didn’t move his head; he wouldn’t dignify any of those standing before him with so much as a glance. “You are hereby sentenced to die by firing squad, punishment to be carried out immediately.” He turned and nodded to Major Sawyer before he snapped around and stepped off the platform.
“Major Sawyer, carry out the sentence at once.” In his voice there had been no trace of pity or mercy…perhaps not even humanity.
“Attack force Alpha…this is General Erik Cain.” Cain’s voice was deep, his iron determination clear in every wo
rd. His words were relayed to every man and woman now formed up in the tunnels and sally ports of the great underground defense system. “We are about to launch the attack that will determine the outcome of the battle for Sandoval. You have been held in reserve, and I know many of you have ached to get into the fight. Now is your time.”
Cain was addressing the entire attack force…1st Division, Commander Farooq’s Janissaries, the Martian Marines. Elite troops all, they’d bristled at being held back for so long. Now Cain’s words filled them with fire, and they longed to get at the enemy, to avenge their comrades already slain in this and the other combats of the war.
“This battle may well determine the outcome of the war…even the fate of mankind.” His voice was rising in volume, its energy building. “I know you all understand what is at stake. You are veterans of past battles, all of you, warriors who have bled on the battlefield before. Some of us have fought against each other, but that was then. Now we are all brothers and sisters, comrades in arms…united against a new and terrible enemy.”
Cain paused. He was standing in one of the access tunnels, ready to step out onto the surface. He knew it wasn’t the wise thing to do, but was going to lead this attack himself…and no one was going to stop him. The men and women of the special action teams were lined up behind him, the reformed elite of the Marine Corps, veterans of fifteen or twenty years in the line…ready to follow Cain to hell if he commanded it.
“We march now to the relief of heroes, the men and women of the 5th and 6th battalions, comrades of ours who held back the enemy when the rest of the line collapsed and defeat loomed over us like a shadow. We march now to erase the stain on our honor, the shame of our units that covered themselves with disgrace. We march now to victory, to at last drive the First Imperium from one of our worlds. We march now to insure that the Line will hold!”
