Desperate Fire (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 4)

by Christopher Nuttall

  And we’re going to be punching through, she reminded herself. Clearing a normal minefield was easy, but picking their way through one in hyperspace would be much harder. It might be time to write a new will.

  General Gerry Winters took the stand. “Once the fleet has cleared the high orbitals,” he said, “we will attempt a landing on the planetary surface. This will be a very difficult task. Long-range scans indicate that the planet is heavily fortified. We do not want to get into a duel with ground-based defenses, particularly as we do not want to damage the planet itself. Once we have isolated a potential landing zone, we will send the first body of marines through the firestorm and establish a base camp, funneling in supplies and expanding our grip on the local settlements.”

  He paused. “I do not pretend that this will be easy,” he warned. “The enemy will move at once to crush our landing parties before they can be reinforced. We expect them to deploy nuclear weapons, as a last resort, to obliterate our footholds. They may also deploy chemical or biological weapons, despite the risks to their own populations. Any failure to reinforce our forces may result in their destruction.”

  Kat shuddered. She’d seen the medical reports after the refugees from Ahura Mazda had been examined. They’d had no genetic improvements at all, not even the enhanced immune systems that were commonplace almost everywhere else. A biological weapon might be largely harmless to the groundpounders, but run riot among the Theocracy’s own population? Billions of people could die.

  Chemical weapons won’t be any better, she thought. They could poison their own world for generations to come.

  “Our current plan is to reinforce to the maximum possible extent, then advance directly on the Tabernacle,” General Winters stated. “However, a great deal depends on the situation we find when we land. I am reluctant to commit ourselves to any definite operational plan when we may find anything from a disintegrating society to a fanatical refusal to give up any ground. Our plans may have to be updated or even dumped entirely at short notice.”

  There was a long pause. “Any questions?”

  Captain Andrew Dawlish held up a hand. “What about the civilians?”

  General Winters looked concerned. “It depends,” he said. “We will not be landing trained Civil Affairs units in the first and second invasion waves. Ideally, we will tell the civilians to remain under cover and stay out of the way. Practically, we may see anything from millions of people trying to flee the war zone to thousands of fanatics doing everything in their power to steer the civilians towards us. The . . . issues . . . with feeding millions of civilians will be quite serious.”

  Kat nodded. Ahura Mazda was, if anything, overpopulated. Food was one of the many things in short supply, even though mass-producing ration bars wasn’t exactly difficult. The Theocracy could have bought or stolen the technology years ago. But an invasion—and a full-scale war—would almost certainly disrupt food shipments so badly that entire cities would starve. The Theocracy kept its population under tight control, yet the threat of starvation would undermine the government’s power. And who knew what would happen then?

  “Our first priority is to end the war,” General Winters said. “Taking care of their civilians . . . is very much a secondary priority.”

  “The media will love that,” someone muttered.

  “We’re not here to please the press,” General Winters said bluntly. “We’re here to win.”

  Admiral Christian returned to the stand. “We will certainly do everything in our power to assist the locals, once the war is over,” he said. “Until then, winning comes first.”

  Kat kept her face impassive through sheer force of will. She had no compunction about killing enemy fighters, even ones who couldn’t return fire. They were the servants of the Theocracy, men charged with enforcing its will. But slaughtering countless innocent civilians, directly or indirectly, was something else. Rebuilding Ahura Mazda and putting its economy on a more stable footing would be an utter nightmare. And after everything the Commonwealth had suffered in the war, public support from Tyre would be minimal.

  Rebuilding our own worlds comes first, she thought. And any government that says otherwise is going to lose power very quickly.

  She listened quietly as Admiral Christian ran through the final details, including a grueling exercise schedule that would hopefully work all the bugs out of the system before the fleet departed for its final mission. Then, he dismissed the remainder of the officers. Kat watched, unsure if she should be pleased or concerned by being asked to remain behind. She’d played a major role in planning the operation, but it was now out of her hands. Everyone would be trying to add their own wrinkle to the final plan.

  And we’ll probably have to improvise when we find out what the enemy is planning, she thought as she joined Admiral Christian under the display. It was repeating the original plan, showing countless starships heading towards their targets. They’ll do everything in their power to throw us off their homeworld.

  “Kat,” Admiral Christian said, “do you have any final comments on the plan?”

  “Nothing I haven’t already said,” Kat told him. “We have enough firepower to accomplish our objective, and even if we don’t, we can still accomplish our secondary objective.”

  Admiral Christian nodded. “I’m assigning our remaining stockpiles of the new missiles to the StarCom squadrons,” he said. “They’re going to need every edge they can get.”

  Kat nodded in reluctant agreement. Losing the missiles was annoying, but losing the opportunity to take out the enemy communications network would be far worse. They couldn’t allow the Theocracy to keep a working StarCom. If nothing else, the Theocracy would shatter if its masters lost the ability to send messages from place to place instantly. The transmission delay would buy the Commonwealth time to start mopping up the other worlds one by one.

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “I’ve had word from Tyre,” Admiral Christian told her. They stepped through the hatch and into a smaller office. A steaming pot of coffee and a selection of pastries were already waiting for them on the desk. “First, they’ve approved my request to make you my second for the operation.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kat said, again.

  She had to fight to keep from showing any reaction. Fleet command at such a young age, even if she was merely the second-in-command . . . everyone would know it was nepotism. Add that to the rumors about Admiral Christian and she being lovers . . . the appointment could cause problems. But she’d just have to overcome the problems. She’d proved herself often enough, hadn’t she?

  “Second, there’s been a development,” Admiral Christian continued. “ONI has, for reasons of its own, strongly suggested that we take Admiral Junayd with us. They believe he might be able to rally support on Ahura Mazda.”

  “They believe,” Kat said. She wasn’t sure she wanted Admiral Junayd anywhere near her ship. “Do they have any reason to believe it?”

  “They insist they do,” Admiral Christian told her. “He’ll be traveling with a pair of handlers. I’d like him to remain on Queen Elizabeth.”

  It was not, Kat knew, a request. And yet she wanted to argue. Admiral Junayd had come far too close to blowing her and her ship out of space. And he’d planned the attack on Cadiz that had started the war. His defection didn’t change the simple fact that he’d fought as hard as he could for the other side. He couldn’t be trusted completely.

  But she knew it was definitely not a request.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, reluctantly. “I’ll make him comfortable.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Sir! Enemy sniper!”

  Pat hit the ground as a bullet cracked over his head. Cursing, he crawled into cover as a hail of machine-gun fire split the air, slashing through the sniper’s estimated position. A body fell off the building and plummeted down to the ground, striking the solid concrete with an audible thud. Pat rose to his knees, hastily scanning his surroundings for more enemy soldie
rs before getting to his feet and slipping forward. Remaining still in an urban environment was just asking to get killed.

  He tongued his voder. “Bring up the reinforcements,” he ordered. “We’re going to need them.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said.

  Pat shook his head as he surveyed the scene. Countless apartment blocks, so primitive they didn’t even have plastic or glass windows, let alone hot or cold running water; dozens of ruined cars and vans surrounded by piles of foul-smelling rubbish. The stench of burning hydrocarbons hung in the air, a mocking reminder that Ahura Mazda didn’t have fusion power cells in common use. It wasn’t something he’d smelled on any of the Commonwealth’s worlds.

  Poor bastards, he thought. Growing up in a place like this.

  He led his men forward, feeling the prickle at the back of his spine that suggested they were being watched. There were just too many open windows, too many dark corners that could be used to hide a sniper . . . or worse. His eyes scanned from side to side, hunting for prospective threats and targets. Intelligence had warned him that the enemy had a terrorist cell operating within the sector, but intelligence had been wrong before.

  A movement. He swung around just in time to see a young girl shuffle into view. She couldn’t be any older than ten, not on Ahura Mazda. The Theocrats would have insisted that she be veiled if she’d been old enough to bear children. He stopped, just for a second, at the helpless look in her eyes. Her clothes were rags; her body was thin, so thin that he doubted that she’d live long enough to make it to adulthood. And then he saw the bomb on her back.

  He threw himself into cover a second before the bomb detonated. A wave of heat passed over his head; he rolled over hastily, bringing up his rifle as fire poured down at them from both sides of the street. He snapped a pair of shots back towards a visible enemy soldier, then dug into cover and glanced back at his squad. Two of his men had been caught in the blast and killed, three more had been badly injured. And there was nothing left of the girl who had carried the bomb.

  Pat felt sick as he removed a grenade from his belt, slotted it into his grenade launcher and prepared to fire it into the nearest building. There was something unbearably filthy about a fighting force that was prepared to use children to carry bombs, pointing them at their targets like a self-guiding missile. The girl hadn’t understood what she’d been carrying, he hoped; they’d sent her to her death without a second thought. And the attack would make his people more paranoid, more willing to shoot at every shadow without verifying their targets. The enemy had plumbed new depths of horror.

  He fired the grenade into the nearest window, then launched two more, readying a fourth as the first three detonated in quick succession. Billowing explosions tore through the building, sending it toppling inwards and collapsing into a pile of rubble. Great clouds of dust drifted up from the remains, floating northwards as the wind changed. Pat allowed himself a moment of surprise—he hadn’t thought the structures were that fragile—then led the way into the other building. Two enemy soldiers, hastily rigging another bomb, were shot down before they had a chance to react. The rattling sound from upstairs suggested that there were more enemy soldiers on the way. They had to know the marines had broken into the building.

  “No grenades,” he snapped. If one apartment block was so fragile, the others were probably in no better state. “Guns only.”

  He shot the first man plunging down the stairs, his body falling the rest of the way and landing badly. The bastard was wearing civilian clothes instead of a military uniform, he noted. No doubt he’d hoped to blend into the crowds and escape. Two more followed, only to be gunned down in turn. And then the entire building shook violently, pieces of dust and plaster dropping from the ceiling. Pat cursed and ordered his men to leave, taking one last look at the lower floor before following them out the door. How could anyone live like this?

  Simple, his own thoughts answered. They don’t have a choice.

  The building creaked behind them, then crumbled into another pile of rubble. Pat saw a body within the debris, twitching helplessly before it was hidden behind the dust. The poor bastard didn’t stand a chance. Pat gritted his teeth, allowing himself a moment of relief as reinforcements arrived, spearheaded by five light tanks. Compared to most of the weapons the defenders were using, the tanks were effectively invulnerable.

  The marines took a moment to catch their breath, then advanced again. The tanks had left a hell of a mess in their paths, using plasma cannons to clear buildings of enemy snipers. Their blasts had left the buildings burning brightly, incinerating anyone unlucky enough to be trapped inside. Pat kept his distance from the flames, keeping a wary eye on the jumping shadows. The enemy might not be able to match the tanks face to face, but they’d certainly try to get behind the advancing forces and take them from the rear. They’d know the tanks couldn’t be everywhere.

  But the tanks are making a hell of a mess, he thought as the colossal machines crushed their way through a barricade, sending enemy fighters scurrying in all directions. It takes a brave man to stand up to an unstoppable tank.

  He froze as he saw the car, parked on the other side of the barricade. The tank was driving right past it . . . he tongued his mouthpiece to sound the alert, but it was already too late. A giant explosion shook the ground, picking up the tank and hurling it end over end into a building, which promptly collapsed on top of the vehicle. Moments later, mortar shells started landing around the advancing forces, two clearly smart enough to seek out the remaining tanks. Both tanks ground to a halt, one so badly damaged it would have to be dragged back to the repair yard. Pat snapped orders as a line of enemy fighters appeared, rushing towards the marines as if they expected to drag them down by sheer force of numbers.

  He couldn’t help feeling a surge of horror as he saw their faces. Most of the advancing enemy fighters didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to be throwing their lives away. Many of them weren’t even armed with anything more dangerous than kitchen knives! But the red-clad men in the rear were driving them forward, using neural whips to encourage any stragglers not to dawdle. Pat snapped orders, instructing his men to target the Inquisitors, but he knew it was far too late. The pressure of the men behind them would force the ones in the front to keep going.

  “Call in a gas strike,” he snapped. “Knock them out!”

  His men opened fire, trying desperately to keep the crowd from getting any closer. Hundreds of bodies fell to the ground, each bullet striking two or three people. And yet they kept coming, climbing over their comrades’ bodies to get to his men. Grenades fell among the mob, blasts killing dozens. It didn’t slow them. He swore as his rifle clicked empty, then desperately prepared to fight as the enemy reached them.

  “End program,” a quiet voice ordered.

  The scene froze. Pat allowed himself a long breath, then turned to face General Winters. The “dead” men stood up, staggering slightly as they headed for the edge of the training zone. Pat watched them go, silently grateful for the mixture of holographic images and robots that allowed him and his men to train so thoroughly. It was better to make mistakes in a training simulation, rather than on the battlefield. And yet, the image of the dead girl threatened to haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.

  “General,” he said. “That could have gone better.”

  “It could,” General Winters agreed. “Losing pretty much the entire company is not a good thing.”

  Pat nodded, not bothering to deny the statement. The whole disaster wouldn’t have happened if his men had been in armor, but the exercise planners had insisted on deploying without armor, claiming that being unarmored would give the marines a better understanding of their surroundings. Pat had to admit they had a point, yet things had gone spectacularly to hell. But he kept that to himself. General Winters would not be impressed by anything that sounded like whining.

  “We underestimated their willingness to use their own people as expendable assets,” Pat s
aid instead. He’d have thumped any marine who dared suggest using a child as a mobile bomb delivery system. The sheer horror was beyond him. “And we underestimated their willingness to soak up losses just to draw us into a trap.”

  “All our reports suggest that our planners may be underestimating their willingness to expend their own people,” General Winters said. He turned and strode towards the edge of the zone, motioning for Pat to follow him. “They’ve certainly shown no hesitation to risk lives in the past.”

  Pat nodded. No one joined the Marine Corps to be safe. His commanders had known, no matter how little they’d wanted to admit it, that there might come a time when they would have to sacrifice some of their men to save the others. But they’d never wantonly thrown lives away. If nothing else, each marine represented a year’s worth of expensive training that shouldn’t be wasted lightly. And the experience marines gathered, after a few deployments, was worth its weight in gold.

  But most of the civilians are worthless to the Theocrat leaders, he thought, glancing back at the pile of bodies. The exercise coordinators would take great pleasure, he was sure, in telling them precisely how many civilians they’d killed. The Theocrats don’t care about their own people.

  “The planning for the operation continues apace,” General Winters continued. “Based on your experiences, do you have any suggestions?”

  “Only that we try to get as large a force down to the surface as possible,” Pat said. “And ideally we should attempt to establish a landing zone well away from a spaceport.”

  General Winters didn’t look pleased. Landing and unloading the fleet of shuttlecraft would be a great deal easier if they had a spaceport. But the Theocracy had had plenty of time to rig a nuclear demolition charge under any of their facilities. Pat wouldn’t put it past them to let the marines land, then blow them to hell as soon as the spaceport started receiving shuttles. The trick would be enough to defeat the entire operation.