by Jake Elwood
But.
Karen Sharpe, one of the most capable military commanders he'd ever seen, was in a crashed vehicle less than thirty meters away. He didn't like her. He didn't think she was an especially good person. But if Novograd was ever to be liberated, Sharpe had to survive. She was worth a thousand regular militia.
She was worth the lives it would cost to extract her.
“Turn around!” he bellowed. Then, remembering the helmet radio, he lowered his voice. “We're going for Sharpe.” There was plenty of room in the mostly empty truck to extract everyone.
He expected to waste precious time arguing. The truck, though, immediately straightened out. Kress could read the situation as well as Tom could. He was from Novograd. He wouldn't want to leave Sharpe behind.
A quick glance backward showed the other trucks bouncing along behind, and Tom nodded, impressed. These Prairie Dogs had nerve.
The turret on the tower to the left swung away, pointing toward the lake a couple of hundred meters away. The mortar fired, and Tom flinched reflexively, but the explosion was far off. The trucks weren’t the target. The distraction has begun.
O’Reilly and a handful of troops would be coming out of the water in amphibious submersible vehicles designed for fish farms. The vehicles were clumsy things with no space for a real attack force. Their role was simply to sow confusion and draw fire.
For the moment, it was working.
The guns on the right tower couldn’t bear on the diversionary attack. Those guns tilted down as far as they would go and fired a quick burst at the Mother Hen. A figure in the ship’s turret ducked, but the rounds passed close overhead, hitting nothing but rocks and dirt. The aircraft was just inside the dead zone close to the walls. The tower gun couldn’t depress far enough to hit it.
It’s going to make fleeing difficult. Tom shrugged to himself. One problem at a time. He watched with grim fatalism as the turret’s four gun barrels tilted up and swiveled sideways until he was staring right down the barrels.
The gun on the Hen opened up, energy blasts slamming into the armored front of the turret. One of the four barrels twisted sideways and up, deformed by a lucky shot. The rest of the barrage raised sparks and laid down a pattern of scorch marks, but did no real damage that Tom could see.
But it must have made the gunner flinch, because the remaining three barrels didn’t fire for a few precious seconds. The truck covered several more meters, and the gun had to move, trying to track it.
In that moment of almost calm, Tom arrived at a couple of grim conclusions. The convoy could pick up Sharpe and her people in the Hen, but they couldn’t retreat. They’d take devastating fire from two turrets and the mortar. Even now the other tower turret was swinging around. O’Reilly must have broken off his mock attack.
We have to take the compound. It’s the only way. Retreat is suicide. It’s victory or death.
“Kress,” he said. “We need to go straight at the wall.”
The truck rolled past the crashed aircraft without stopping. Tom glanced back and saw militia troops pouring out of the Hen, running across the grass beside the line of trucks. Dead ahead, troops appeared along the top of the wall. Helmeted heads and armored shoulders popped up, and Dawn Alliance soldiers leaned out, taking aim with blast rifles.
The truck slid to a halt with the front grill almost touching the wall of the compound. Tom grabbed the handles of his machine gun and shoved down, tilting the gun up as far as it would go. The screen showed a targeting reticle, and he lined it up on the edge of the wall. Then he squeezed the triggers and hosed the gun from left to right.
For a moment it was glorious. The gun thundered, the vibration coming through the handles and making his whole body tremble. Metal sprayed from the barrel in a lethal storm, and a score of soldiers flinched back. The gun clicked empty and he let go of the triggers with a sigh. He had no idea if he’d hit anyone, but they wouldn’t be leaning out again any time soon.
The rest of the trucks rushed in, a couple of drivers showing a little foresight and coming in at a curve so they’d be able to flee without making an awkward three-point turn.
Tom scrambled up out of his makeshift turret and leaped down onto the hood of the truck, then to the ground. “Bombs!” he shouted. “Bombs, now!” They were going to take lethal fire from the top of the wall at any moment. Either that, or a convoy of armored vehicles would pour through the gate in the side wall, round the corner, and slaughter the whole lot of them.
A pair of Prairie Dogs rushed up with an improvised breaching charge, a barrel with reinforced sides and bottom, the top cut away. They pressed the top of the barrel against the base of the wall, hammered a couple of stakes into the ground to hold it in place, then backed away.
A horn sounded right behind Tom, and he jumped. He was in front of the truck he’d arrived in. He stepped out of the way, and the truck rolled forward until the bumper hit the bottom of the barrel. The bumper bent, the truck stopped, and a hand closed on Tom’s shoulder. “You need to get your ass out of the way, buddy. It’s going to go boom.”
Tom let the militia man drag him around to the side of the truck. A courageous soldier peeked over the top of the wall, then flinched back as a couple of Prairie Dogs snapped quick shots at him.
And then the bomb went off. The truck bucked, dust flying from the sides, and the engine growled in an unhealthy way. Then the truck rolled backward.
The breach in the wall was a good meter and a half across, a ragged hole that showed a mix of concrete and rebar in a barrier almost half a meter thick. A man stepped forward with a thermal lance and burned away a section of rebar that still crossed the breach. “Mind the ends,” he said, “they’re hot.” He stepped back, and a Prairie Dog named Luke squatted in front of the hole.
“No visible threats,” he said. He passed his rifle to the man beside him, took a deep breath, and then launched himself through the breach in a flat dive.
The next man tossed two rifles through the hole, his own and Luke’s, then scrambled through. A slim woman popped through with a blast rifle in her hands. A man went through on all fours behind her, swearing as his shoulder brushed one of the hot pieces of rebar. Burned fabric mixed with the smell of dust and explosives and gunpowder, a heady blend that made Tom’s heart race like a jackhammer. He kept expecting gunfire, screams. Explosions, if someone on the walls had a grenade and thought to drop it on the invaders.
For that matter, there should be grenades dropping on this side of the wall. He squinted upward. Where was the defensive fire?
Two more militia went through the hole. Then Luke appeared on the far side. He stuck his head and shoulders through the wall, looked at Sharpe, and said, “Karen? There’s nobody here.”
Tom never did go through the breach in the wall. He walked around the compound and went in through the main gate, which stood open. There was still dust in the air from the vehicles that had poured out of the compound and raced west, somewhere in the scant few minutes between when the last soldier had peeked over the wall and when Luke had gone through the hole.
They panicked, he realized. They held it together as long as they could. But when we charged right up to the wall they broke. They ran for their vehicles and they headed for the hills. They had us completely outnumbered. All they had to do was stand their ground. But they saw four huge trucks coming at them, and they knew it had to be an overwhelming attack.
“Explosion in five!” someone shouted. A few people repeated the cry, and then everyone in sight put their hands over their ears. Tom followed suit. The blast, when it came, wasn’t too loud, muffled as it was by the sheet metal walls that surrounded the planetary defence gun. But he felt it through the soles of his boots as the ground bucked, felt it in his breastbone and in the air that puffed against his face. A door flew off its hinges, bouncing across the dirt until it hit the compound wall. Smoke billowed from the doorway, and from the muzzle of the massive gun barrel that pointed toward the sky.
T
om lowered his hands in time to hear a ragged cheer. A moment later the compound was a scene of organized chaos with militia fighters hurrying back and forth, each focused on a different mission. There was no celebration of their unexpected victory, beyond the single cheer. The compound was a treasure trove of supplies and equipment, and the clock was ticking. They didn't have long to pick it clean.
A couple of trucks rolled in through the main gate. As militia members converged on the trucks, loading them with boxes and crates and heaps of random stuff, O'Reilly came sauntering through the gates with a couple of spacers behind him. Tom expected his friend to be smiling, but O'Reilly looked grim. He stopped beside Tom and said, “We lost Fenwick and Dodds. Also a couple of the militia. Jameson and Truong.”
“You saved us,” said Tom. “It was a near thing.”
Slowly the spacers gathered, forming a knot of green uniforms in the middle of the compound. Alice, he was relieved to see, was unhurt. Bridger had a black streak down the side of his face that turned out to be soot.
Alice looked at Tom. “Did you run out of ammo and decide to use your fists?”
He gave her a blank look.
“You've got a hell of a shiner forming.” She pointed at his left eye.
He touched the eye and winced. “I think I got it bouncing around in the turret. It’s not a bad spot to shoot from, when the truck is parked. It’s a lousy place to ride.”
“The box was no picnic,” Bridger said. “One of those mortar shells bounced off the side of the box and exploded on the ground.” He held up a thumb and forefinger, not too far apart. “That much to the left and it would have gone off on top of the box cover. We’d all be hamburger.”
“It was bad enough as a near miss,” Ham said. “It blew all six tires on that side of the truck. You think it’s a rough ride with tires? Try it without.” He grinned. He’d been tortured by the Dawn Alliance. A bumpy ride wasn’t really going to trouble him much.
“At least it’s over,” said Bridger. “We can hole up somewhere safe and wait for the blue-” He glanced at Tom. “Sorry. Wait for the UW marines to land.”
The engine of the nearest truck revved loud. The truck backed out of the compound, and Tom waited for it to turn east, back the way they’d come.
The truck turned west.
The remaining truck backed and filled until it faced the gate. Sharpe walked over to stand beside the tailgate. She’d injured her left arm in the crash. It was in a sling now, the sling strapped tight across her abdomen. She held a pistol in her right hand, and showed no sign that the injury pained her. “Everyone who doesn’t want to join the Dawn Alliance military had better get aboard. It’s time for Phase Two.”
Tom said, “Phase Two?”
“We have a policy in the Prairie Dogs,” she said. “We strike while the iron is hot. This is too good an opportunity to pass up.”
“What is?” he said.
She gestured at the abandoned compound. “The panic. The fleeing. Panic is contagious.” She stretched a hand up, and a man in the back of the truck grabbed her wrist and hauled her aboard. “If we give them time to regroup, they’ll make a stand. Probably even a counter-attack. But if we hit them while they’re still running, they’ll just keep on going.”
Tom said, “Do you know where they went?”
“Greenport is just up the road. There’s a garrison there, and a factory. They’ve been retooling it to make shells.” Her smile made Tom think of a piranha. “We’re going to run them out of town, and smash the factory.”
Tom looked at his crew. Alice wore a fierce expression that told him everything he needed to know about her opinion. O’Reilly shrugged and said, “Well, there’s nothing interesting happening here.”
They jogged over to the truck and clambered aboard.
Chapter 15
The outpost burned.
The concrete building stood on the crest of a ridge, smoke billowing from the windows and pouring out through a ragged breach in one wall. Two stories high, it was no more than ten meters wide, an ugly square shape dominating the skyline. Tom leaned against the fender of a truck and watched the smoke dissipate as it rose into the sky.
“Looks clear. Let's move.” Karen Sharpe led the way up the ridge with half a dozen Prairie Dogs spread out around her. Tom shrugged and followed.
A body lay in a doorway near the breach where the militia rocket had struck. Burned beyond recognition, the corpse could have been a man or a woman. No doubt there were more bodies inside. Tom grimaced and shifted his attention to the crest of the ridge and the view beyond. He mimicked Sharpe and her guerillas, keeping low with his head below the highest part of the ridge until he could look down on the town of Greenport.
At first glance the scene was idyllic. Greenport lay in the midst of rolling plains, a cluster of about two hundred buildings in an endless ocean of grass. The factory was the largest structure he could see, a three-story rectangle on the far side of the town. He was too far back to make out any details.
O'Reilly settled onto his stomach beside Tom, took in the view, and said, “Nice town. I bet it's a boring place to live.”
“It's about to get more interesting.”
O'Reilly chuckled. “That’s for sure.” He looked around. “That's a strange place for a mortar.”
Tom followed the direction of his gaze. There was a gun emplacement a dozen meters down the ridge, an ugly contraption with support legs splaying out like a metal octopus and a single fat barrel pointing at the sky above the town.
“If they put it right on the crest of the ridge,” said O'Reilly, “they'd be able to fire on the road.” He jerked a thumb in the direction they'd come from.
“Well, they can cover more of the ground around the town.” Tom frowned, considering trajectories as he looked at Greenport. “Unless …”
“Dear God,” said O'Reilly.
The mortar wasn't there to protect the town. It was there to threaten the town. That's why it's up here on the ridge. Not for better fields of fire, not for longer views. It's up here so the entire town can see it, and be afraid.
Staying in one position was never a good idea when the enemy could have line of sight on you. Tom rose and retreated over the ridge. He looked up at the ruined outpost building.
There was a ladder on the back wall. The bottom section was gone, destroyed when the rocket struck, but the rest remained, metal rungs rising all the way to the roof. Tom looked up at the ladder, considering. Then he walked over to the base of the building, grabbed the lowest rung, braced a foot against the rubble created by the missile strike, and started to climb.
There was another body on the roof, a woman in a Dawn Alliance uniform. She looked unhurt, but she was undeniably dead, her body splayed in an awkward tangle of limbs, her eyes open and staring into infinity. Tom stepped over her and walked to the edge of the roof.
The view wasn't much different with such a small increase in elevation. He followed streets with his eyes, planning how the trucks might roll through the town toward the factory. If I was the Dawn Alliance commander, where what I set up ambushes? What are the choke points?
There was a gun on the roof, and he walked over to examine it. It was a sniper's weapon, a massive laser rifle mounted on a pedestal. There was a fat bundle of electronic equipment on the side of the pedestal, and a screen the size of a dinner plate. Tom pressed a fingertip against the screen.
The word unauthorized appeared.
He examined the gun and discovered that it had an old-fashioned optical scope mounted on one side. He pressed an eye to the eyepiece.
He saw a house. It filled the eyepiece, a wooden structure painted a soft green. He could make out curtains in the window and vines climbing the wall.
The gun was designed to be controlled electronically. The electric motors whined in protest as Tom pushed against the stock. He was able to move it, though, and the view through the eyepiece changed, rising until he could see the grassland behind the town. He pushed s
ideways on the stock and the gun moved to the left until the wall of the factory came into view.
He saw faces pressed against upstairs windows. They would be staring toward the smoke rising from the outpost, wondering what was going to happen. Staring straight at him, in fact. He grinned to himself, fighting the urge to wave.
They must know the factory will be a target. Why don't they evacuate?
He pushed on the stock, tracking the gun sideways until he reached the corner of the factory. He tilted the gun down, then back, until he found a broad set of double doors.
Half a dozen soldiers in burgundy uniforms stood in front of the doors. They had their backs to Tom, all their attention focused inward. One door swung open, and a soldier hurried forward. The soldier blocked the door as a man in a gray smock tried to push his way outside. There was a brief argument with a lot of arm-waving. Another soldier stepped in, raising her rifle and pushing the barrel against the chest of the man in gray.
The man retreated into the factory, and the door closed. Tom watched for a moment, then tracked down until houses went past in a blur. He stopped when he passed the last house. A green smear filled the eyepiece, and he fiddled with the scope until a swathe of grass came into sharp focus. Then he tracked up.
Light glittered on metal just below the first row of houses. Tom stopped, lifting his head for a moment to rest his eye. He returned to the scope and tweaked the focus until he was sure.
A fence surrounded the town, sunlight gleaming on parallel strands of silver wire. The people of Greenport were prisoners.
He found Karen Sharpe just below the crest of the ridge. The Prairie Dogs were setting up a temporary command post, with first aid equipment and weapons laid out on the hoods of the trucks. Sharpe looked over as he approached. “We're holding our position for now,” she told him. “We need time to unlock that gun.”
“You mean the mortar?” said Tom.
She nodded. “We don't even have to take the town. We can shell the factory from here. I'll need your people on hand in case they try a counterattack.”
