Desperate Fire (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 4)

by Christopher Nuttall

  They’re using our own compassion against us, she thought. The Theocrats had succeeded in preventing the Commonwealth from liberating the other occupied worlds simply by threatening to destroy them. Now they were killing their own people in the hopes of dissuading the Commonwealth from advancing further. And yet we cannot stop. We cannot even pull back and abandon the spacehead.

  She closed her eyes, trying to banish the images from her mind. Women and children, herded into a church and gassed. Why had the gas even been prepared? Had the Theocrats planned to slaughter their entire population if there was a risk of losing control? Or . . . or what? A pirate attack might be more savage, yet there was something unrelentingly horrible about what the Theocracy had done.

  But we have to push on, she told herself as she rose. The Theocrats could not be allowed to hold their own population hostage. There’s no going back now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Duck!”

  Pat dropped to his knees as the hovertank came into view, firing burst after burst of plasma towards the marines. Bolts of brilliant light flashed over his head as he crawled backwards, careful not to attract the tank’s attention. The rifles and machine guns the militia were armed with couldn’t harm the marines, but the tank certainly could. And so could the armored men behind it.

  One advantage of hovertanks, he thought. They can be moved to any location at speed.

  “I have a shot,” Corporal Jackson said.

  “Take it,” Pat ordered.

  Jackson stood up on his knees, just long enough to fire a missile towards the tank. The craft jerked backwards, but the missile had a solid lock and plowed into its forward armor plating. Pat’s visor darkened automatically as the plasma warhead detonated, burning brightly as it melted its way through armor. A moment later, the tank lurched to a halt. Any crewmen inside would have been killed the moment the plasma fire burned through the armored shell.

  He lifted his own weapon as the enemy soldiers moved forward, firing a burst of plasma bolts at the nearest target. These soldiers were well trained, he noted, certainly better trained than the militiamen who’d wasted their lives on a desperate and utterly futile bid to stop the marines. They were bounding overwatch, one soldier covering his comrades as they advanced forward. Behind them, four more hovertanks crawled forward, firing.

  Lucky they want to get to us before it’s too late, Pat thought as he snapped out a string of orders. The mortars opened fire, raining shells on the advancing enemy. It would take a direct hit to smash an enemy battlesuit, but even a near miss would shake them up while stripping their cover away. If they tried to dig in, life would get a great deal harder.

  He hit an enemy soldier, the plasma pulse burning through his target’s armor and incinerating the victim inside. Other enemy soldiers returned fire, lobbing grenades and sweeping stunners towards their position. Pat puzzled over the latter for a moment, then dismissed the thought as two of his marines were killed. The best personal armor the Commonwealth had been able to produce still couldn’t stand up to a plasma pulse.

  “The tanks are charging,” Bones snapped. “Missile teams, front and center!”

  Pat watched as the tanks thrust forward. Their armor could stand up to his plasma rifles, although not to the plasma cannons his men were hastily deploying behind the front line. The battle was rapidly turning into a free-for-all, both sides advancing and retreating depending on the situation. He had to admit that the enemy tactics, as wasteful as they were, were well considered. If they punched through to the rapidly expanding spacehead, they could cut the marines off from their reinforcements and wipe them out to the last man. It was worth any cost, as far as the planet’s leadership was concerned, to exterminate the landing force. They had to know the Commonwealth wouldn’t be too keen on sending another.

  He sucked in his breath as the lead tank died, but two more moved around it and kept coming, their weapons sweeping through the thin layers of cover protecting his troops. The marines crawled backwards, abandoning their lines; the hovertanks charged forward, only to impale themselves on the plasma cannons. Pat was silently relieved the enemy didn’t seem to realize the potential of their own long-range guns. They were firing thousands of shells into the spacehead, wasting artillery in hopes of scoring a single hit, but trying to use them to clear the way for their ground forces would have been far more effective.

  They don’t trust their own people to call down fire, he thought as he picked off another armored soldier. They’re not allowed to be flexible, even when their own homeworld is under attack.

  The ground shook violently. He feared a nuke, just for a second, before a note popped up in his HUD. The fleet was firing KEWs towards targets on the ground, even though their accuracy was appallingly bad. Pat had authority to call for “danger close” strikes if he had no other choice, but he wouldn’t care to risk such moves if they could be avoided. There was too great a chance of accidentally bombing his own people.

  “Orbital images say the KEW took out four tanks,” Major Harold said over the datanet. “But they’re still coming.”

  Pat nodded and concentrated on holding the line as the enemy threw in attack after attack while shellfire rained down on the spacehead and KEWs struck targets to the west. The Theocrats seemed to have realized the futility of sending in aircraft, after losing several dozen to ground-based fire, but they were still aiming missiles and drones into the spacehead. Pat picked off a drone with a plasma shot, then inched forward as the enemy attack started to lose its momentum. Had they run out of men, he asked himself, or were they simply regrouping for another assault?

  He glanced at the nearest tank, silently comparing it to the Commonwealth’s vehicles. It hadn’t shown any obvious inferiority, although there was a crudeness about the design that suggested it might have a few hidden weaknesses. But then, the Commonwealth had been able to afford a certain elegance the Theocracy had disdained. Pat recalled reading broadsides in various military journals arguing over the strengths and weaknesses of the latest designs. Some older military officers claimed that the elegance was a mistake in a weapon of war.

  “The enemy are regrouping in the nearby town,” Major Harold added. “General Winters requests you scatter them.”

  Pat nodded tersely. They’d overrun a number of towns before the enemy had mustered a major counterattack, discovering scene after scene of horror as they pushed through the settlements and out the far side. A number of women had survived, he’d been surprised to discover, but they were so fearful of the marines that they kept trying to hide, despite announcements inviting them to come into the light. He was just relieved that the Theocracy hadn’t managed to brainwash everyone.

  “Sergeant,” he said, “status report?”

  “Seven dead, nine wounded,” Bones said. “I recommend sending the wounded back as soon as the reinforcements arrive.”

  “Leave Charlie Company to guard the lines,” Pat ordered. “Alpha and Beta Companies will take the offensive.”

  The sound of shellfire grew louder as he led the marines through the field, heading straight towards the town. It was three or four times as large as the previous settlement, but there was something about its design that made the locale look cramped. He checked the live feed from the stealth drones as they orbited the town, picking out defenses and potential ambush sites while hiding from enemy gunners. A trained sniper with a plasma rifle could easily bring a drone down if he could see it.

  “The enemy is mustering their forces at a road junction,” Major Harold stated. “KEW strikes are inbound.”

  Idiots, Pat thought. The Theocrats simply weren’t used to operating without top cover, certainly not on their own homeworld. They needed to keep most of their forces either close to the spacehead or buried under their force shields. Putting them out like that is asking for trouble.

  He gritted his teeth as the marines advanced towards the town, moving from cover to cover as they closed in on their target. The buildings in front of the
m looked like large warehouses, but someone had been cutting makeshift murder holes in the walls . . . despite them, it didn’t look as though the enemy had been expecting trouble in advance. But then, merely getting the planet ready to resist an invasion would have been an admission that the war wasn’t going their way. Radio intercepts suggested that the Theocrats were ordering their people to stay put, but not telling them exactly what was going on. Rumors, if he was any judge, would be spreading wildly.

  “Incoming,” Bones snapped.

  Pat nodded, ducking low as the defenders opened fire. No plasma weapons, just machine guns and rifles. His marines returned fire, putting a dozen plasma bursts into the building before it collapsed into a pile of flaming debris. Pat barked a command, then rose and ran towards the ruins, hoping to get into a firing position before the enemy could do something.

  He threw himself down again as a bolt of plasma fire scorched his armor. Two red icons flared up in front of him—two men dead—as he hit the ground, cursing under his breath. The enemy had tricked him, luring his men into an ambush. He lifted his arm, launching a pair of grenades towards the enemy position as their fire intensified. Moments later, a thunderous explosion shook the ground and the enemy fire abruptly stopped. But his suit’s audio sensors could pick up howling in the distance.

  “Another mob,” Bones warned as the dust cleared. “Here they come.”

  Pat couldn’t be sure, but it looked very much as though the mob was hopped up on something. Their eyes were wild, even as they charged towards the marines waving makeshift weapons in the air. Behind them, using their own people as human shields, he could see armed and armored soldiers. And, depending on what they’d been drugged with, stunners might not be any use against the crowd.

  Bastards, he thought as he snapped orders. How many of their own people are going to die?

  “Another mob riot, sir,” Lieutenant Fletcher said.

  General Winters nodded, chewing his unlit cigar thoughtfully as the latest stream of reports came in from the front. The enemy was definitely falling back, although they were taking care to set traps and destroy as much of the surrounding infrastructure as they could before retreating. And they were carelessly sacrificing their own civilian population, using them as human shields and mob rioters to wear down the marines.

  The mobs can’t hurt us, he thought. But they can wear down our souls.

  “Send reinforcements to the town,” he ordered. The enemy was getting better at separating the real shuttles from the sensor decoys, damn them. “And then expand the POW camps again.”

  He made a face as another report popped up in front of him. The enemy might be falling back, but his advance units weren’t moving forward as fast as he’d hoped. He’d known that nothing could be guaranteed, yet taking out the nearest PDC was vitally important. His units had to disable the structure or the campaign would be drawn out for months, if not years.

  “Major Harold reports more enemy units retreating behind the force shields,” Fletcher added. “KEW strikes are of limited value.”

  “Ask the spacers to keep dropping them anyway,” Winters snapped. That far from the front lines, the odds of striking a friendly target were minimal. Besides, KEWs were cheap. His marines were not. “As soon as the 45th is on the ground, start feeding it into the front lines.”

  He cursed under his breath as a shell landed right on top of the spacehead, the blast taking out two shuttles and damaging a third. The enemy had been crafty enough to place their guns just under cover, ensuring that there was nothing he could do to stop them from firing shell after shell into his defenses. And one or two getting through would be enough to do real damage.

  But they have to run out of ammunition sooner or later, he thought. And when they do, we will be ready.

  “Signal from the flag,” Fletcher added. She sounded puzzled. “Commodore Falcone would like to know if we can receive Eagle Eye.”

  Junayd, Winters thought sourly. He must really want to return home.

  To be fair, he admitted to himself, Admiral Junayd hadn’t made any promises, unlike some of the other defectors he’d had to work with during his long career. He still boiled with rage whenever he thought about just how many politicians on Cadiz had made promises of vast popular support, none of which had actually worked out in practice. Junayd hadn’t done that, not yet. But there was no role for him on the surface. His seat could be taken by a marine or a medic or someone else who was actually useful.

  “Tell them that we don’t have room for him yet,” he said. “We barely have enough room to bury our dead.”

  “Their spacehead appears to be holding,” Speaker Mosul said. “I thought it was going to be destroyed!”

  “They are being worn down,” Inquisitor Samuilu said. “Our men are fighting bravely to kill as many of the unbelievers as they can.”

  “Indeed,” Lord Cleric Eliseus said. “And clerics are driving the civilians out to fight!”

  “And killing everyone who tries to flee,” Mosul said. “There are reports of guns being turned on Inquisitors, are there not?”

  Speaker Nehemiah kept his face impassive, even though Mosul had put his finger on a very sore spot. No one in their right mind wanted to issue plasma weapons, let alone suits of armor, to men who might rebel against the government, but that meant that the weapons they did have were largely ineffectual against enemy troops. Grenades and explosives did have some effect, and they certainly slowed the enemy down, yet those types of attacks came with a very high cost. Even the stupidest civilian had to realize that he and his friends were being expended for nothing.

  “Lies,” Eliseus snarled. “Foul lies spread by our enemies!”

  “I have proof,” Mosul said. “Reports from people I trust!”

  He waved a hand at the display. “The enemy has landed,” he snapped. “And they are already securing their spacehead. Our attacks have proven ineffectual.”

  “Our attacks have bled the enemy,” Eliseus snapped back.

  “But they have not stopped the enemy,” Mosul snarled. “They’re only a few days’ march from the Tabernacle itself, are they not?”

  “The Commonwealth does not have the stomach to keep fighting,” Eliseus said. “Our warriors are primed to fight! We can trade ten of our lives for every one of theirs and still win. How many of their lives are they prepared to throw away?”

  He rose, his flashing eyes sweeping the room. “Victory in this war will go to the side willing to fight for what it believes in,” he hissed. “And I believe that God will grant us victory if we do not surrender our faith in Him!”

  “God will not thank us for wasting thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of lives,” Mosul said. “The enemy has landed. Our entire civilization stands at the cusp of ultimate destruction.”

  “We have a plan,” Inquisitor Samuilu said. “Victory remains within our grasp.”

  “Yes,” Mosul said. “But at what cost?”

  He tapped his fingers on the table as he spoke. “Most of the shipyards are gone,” he said wearily. “The remainder will be destroyed when the enemy boards them. There is no way we can replenish our losses before the Commonwealth launches a second invasion. Even if we win the coming battle, we will lose the war.”

  “The Commonwealth will not press the offensive after their fleet is destroyed,” Eliseus snapped. “This is our darkest hour, but God will grant us victory!”

  “The Commonwealth has more fleets,” Mosul said. “Lord Cleric, the war is lost.”

  “Blasphemy,” Eliseus thundered.

  He strode around the room, glaring at the speakers. “God is testing us,” he said. “There will be hard times. There will be hard times for all of us. But we will hold firm, never giving up no matter what they pile on us. God’s chosen people will survive.”

  Mosul stared at him. “And if they destroy every last world in the Theocracy? We’ve already lost contact with the outside universe. Who knows what’s happening out there?” He looked at Neh
emiah. “They can destroy us,” he said. “And they will destroy us.”

  “God will preserve us,” Eliseus said. “They will not be permitted to destroy us.”

  Mosul sagged. “We believed we could win the war,” he said. “But our plan went off the rails. Now . . . now we are on the verge of losing.”

  He sighed. “I beseech you,” he said. “End this war now, before it is too late.”

  “Out of the question,” Samuilu said.

  Nehemiah glanced up. A dozen armed men had sneaked into the chamber. He tensed, knowing that resistance was futile. Eliseus and Samuilu controlled everything.

  “These are our darkest hours,” Samuilu said. “But with God’s grace, we will survive and march into paradise.”

  Mosul opened his mouth. Nehemiah had no idea what he thought he could say, what might get him out of trouble, but it was too late. Samuilu snapped his fingers. His men grabbed Mosul, yanked him out of his chair, and threw him to the floor. The other four moderates were swiftly arrested too. Nehemiah knew, all too well, that none of them would survive the next few hours. Their families would be purged too, just in case. No trace of heresy could be allowed to survive.

  “Very well done,” he said coolly. He didn’t dare let them see his own doubts, not now. His family was at risk too. “You allowed him to condemn himself out of his own mouth.”

  “Thank you, Your Holiness,” Eliseus beamed.

  He’s mad, Nehemiah thought. He’d kept an eye on the Inquisitors, but he’d missed the Lord Cleric. He’s mad . . . and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  “We will fight a delaying action,” Samuilu said. His voice rose as he spoke. “Once the fleets are ready, we will hit them in space as well as on the ground. They will be crushed! And God will finally grant us the victory we deserve.”