“They hit a medical station,” one of the operators called. “At least seventy men were inside.”
“Shit,” Hampton muttered.
“Yeah,” Ed agreed.
He hoped, desperately, that it had been an accident. The Wolves had been far more ruthless ever since the first attempt at the city had failed - there was no shortage of reports about atrocities committed by their forces - but he didn't think they would be willing to slaughter wounded men. And yet, they didn't know where any of the hospitals were. They were firing at random, hoping to hit something vital. The hell of it was that, statistically, they had a very good chance of hitting something.
No time to mourn, he reminded himself. They’d bury the dead later, if there was a later. We have to focus on the here and now.
“The point defence is working, sir,” Gwendolyn said. “But they’ll start going after the point defence stations next.”
“Probably,” Ed agreed. It was what he would have done, particularly if he had a near-unlimited supply of shells. The Wolves had probably kept the guns so simple just to ensure their MEU knock-offs could keep up with the demands for ammunition. A single hit would be worth the expenditure of thousands of shells. “But we have to keep the generator safe.”
He kept his eyes on the display. So far, the enemy hadn't started a general offensive, but it was just a matter of time. Unless they thought they could win through shellfire alone ... it was a possibility, yet he wouldn't have gambled on a lucky hit if he’d been in command.
They’re trying to soften us up, he thought, grimly. And the hell of it is that it’s working.
***
Ryan sat in a trench, his back to the enemy, fighting hard to keep his entire body from shaking helplessly. He hadn't been so scared the first day he’d seen combat or the day he’d led the charge into the teeth of enemy fire! Part of his soul had been lost along with his manhood, he realised slowly; he no longer had the nerve to stand up and force himself forward. And yet, he knew he had no choice. The presence of armed MPs, to the rear of the trench network, made it clear that any attempt to refuse to advance would be met with summary punishment.
He scowled as he heard two of the soldiers chatting, insisting that the bombardment would have swept the enemy out of existence. Had they learned nothing from him? No matter how many shells were thrown into the city, the enemy would survive! The enemy bunker network would have to be cleared piece by piece. His hands started to shake, no matter how desperately he fought to control them, as he remembered the hellish struggle to gain control of even one bunker. The idiots under his command were going to die, if they were lucky, in the next few hours. And if they were unlucky ...
“The bombardment is picking up pace,” Lieutenant Gordon said. He was standing by the side of the trench, using a pair of binoculars to sweep the enemy positions. Ryan wouldn't have given him good odds of survival - the enemy snipers were very good - but so far the damned fool seemed to have beaten the odds. “They’re taking a beating.”
“Not enough,” Ryan muttered. He wanted to just lie back and cover his ears, but he knew it would just get him killed. “It won’t ever be enough.”
Lieutenant Gordon glanced at him. “Sir?”
“Never mind,” Ryan said. The depression rose up, once again, threatening to sweep him away into numbness. Where was an enemy sniper when one was actually needed? A bullet though Gordon’s head would teach him a short sharp lesson. “Just keep an eye on them.”
He groaned as he heard the sound of tanks rumbling forward, the pressure of their passage threatening to collapse the trench. He’d thought the mere idea of building a trench was absurd, but he had to admit it had helped keep the men occupied and under control. And yet, it wouldn't be long before they had to leave the nice safe trench ...
His hands were shaking, again. Frantically, he clasped them behind his back, fighting to still the tremors. But they refused to face ...
He fought down the urge to start crying. Really, all he wanted was for it to end.
“Twenty minutes,” Lieutenant Gordon said.
“Fuck it,” Ryan muttered.
***
“They’re switching their point defence to cover the shield generator,” Colonel Travis reported. “As you planned, sir.”
Mark glared at him. He was in no mood for brown-nosing. “Start launching the missiles,” he ordered, bluntly. “They are to be covered by short-range fire.”
“Aye, sir,” Colonel Travis said.
***
Mindy gritted her teeth as the bombardment picked up, even though it was almost completely harmless. The shells seemed to be getting smaller, as if the enemy was running out of high explosive ... or, more likely, was using its smaller guns to sweep the fortifications while keeping up the bombardment of the city itself. She didn't fault their tactics. By the time they finally launched their advance, the defenders would be too tired to fight effectively. One hand groped for the injector tab in her pocket, before she thought better of it. She wasn't that tired yet.
She heard a dull whistling sound, followed by a colossal explosion. The ground shook so violently that she thought, for a crazy moment, that there had been an earthquake. But no one in their right mind would build a city on a fault line ... she heard someone shouting, dimly, as the ground shook again. Something was crashing to the ground in the distance ... she glanced through the slit, just in time to see a massive explosion blowing one of the nearby blockhouses right out of the ground. Tongues of fire blossomed from its firing slits as the rubble crashed back down, burying any surviving occupants ...
“Jesus,” someone said. It took her a moment to realise that it was her voice. “What was ...”
Training reasserted itself. The enemy had built something designed for use against the blockhouses. And they were now blowing the blockhouses out of their way, one by one. It wouldn't be long before they were targeted and there was nothing they could do about it. She jumped up, grabbing her rifle, as Sergeant Rackham shouted at the men to run. There was a very real risk of being caught in enemy shellfire, if they left the bunker, but staying where they were was certain death. The bunkers and blockhouses were no longer impregnable.
Bastards thought of a way through our defences, Mindy thought. She remembered, suddenly, the couple of photographs of her family she’d left in the barracks, but there was no time to recover it. They didn't want to make the same mistake twice.
The hand of God picked her up and tossed her through the air, casually. She barely heard the explosion as she braced herself for the landing, silently grateful that the enemy gunners had turned the land to mud. It would have killed her if she’d hit concrete or hullmetal. She rolled over as soon as she landed, slipping and sliding in the mud, just in time to see an immense fireball blasting out of the bunker. They would have been turned to charcoal if they’d stayed there a few seconds longer. Moments later, she saw a streak of light strike the next bunker, the explosion coming seconds later as the warhead punched through the reinforced concrete and detonated inside the complex. If there had been anyone in there, she thought numbly, they were gone now. There wouldn't even be anything left of them.
And the enemy shellfire was picking up ...
“Fall back to the city,” Sergeant Rackham bellowed. “Now, damn it!”
Mindy turned. His voice could barely be heard over the growing din. In the distance, she could see enemy tanks making their way towards the defence lines. This time, without solid defences backed up by missile fire, the Landsharks were likely to crunch their way through the defences and crush hundreds of soldiers under their treads. She took one last look, knowing that if she could see them they could probably see her, then turned to run for her life. It was all she could do to remember to keep her head down and run in a zigzag as she moved. She half-expected to feel a bullet between her shoulders at any moment, but instead - somehow - she made it to the outer suburbs without being killed. Hundreds of others hadn't been so lucky.
“Get into position,�
�� Sergeant Rackham ordered. Mindy nodded and took up a firing position. The defence line had crumbled, but someone had managed to strike the lead tank with an antitank missile, stopping the vehicle in its tracks. “They’ll be sending in the infantry next!”
If nothing else, she told herself firmly, we can at least sell our lives dearly.
Chapter Thirty-Six
And what about the condition of his equipment? Are his logistics in good order? Is the quartermaster honest or corrupt? Does he have enough technicians to maintain his weapons, vehicles, aircraft and everything else he needs? Is his force fighting fit? Or does it need a long refit before it can take the battlefield?
- Professor Leo Caesius. The Role of Randomness In War.
“Sir,” Colonel Travis said. “The enemy defence line is collapsing!”
Mark allowed himself a moment of relief. It had been hard to convince Admiral Singh to let him expend so much of his limited productive facilities on the bunker-busters, not least because no one had used anything of the sort for centuries, but it had paid off. By God, it had paid off! The enemy lines were crumbling under the weight of his fire, even as some of their point defence stations tried to switch themselves back to covering the remaining bunkers. It was too late. Even if none of the remaining bunker-busters found their targets, and he had to admit it was possible, there was already a gaping hole in the enemy lines.
He smiled as he studied the first set of reports, then sobered. The Landsharks had done a great deal of damage, but they weren't designed for urban combat. Nine more tanks had been disabled or destroyed, once the enemy reacted to their presence. He’d hoped to use them to tear the enemy’s inner lines wide open, but it was clear that it wasn't likely to happen. It was time to send in the troops.
“Order the infantry to advance,” he said, curtly. “They are to secure the suburbs, then march onwards.”
He shook his head as Colonel Travis hurried to carry out his orders. The entire battle was absurd; normally, he would have his men securing the roads in and out of the city, then capturing vital locations until the enemy surrendered or starved to death. But here, he needed to capture or destroy the shield generator. Once it was gone, he was sure the enemy would surrender ... if, of course, they trusted his men would accept their surrender. He cursed Captain Rask under his breath, hoping the bastard was enjoying the fires of hell. He’d ensured that a great many more people, on both sides, were going to wind up dead.
“The infantry is moving forward, sir,” Colonel Travis said. “Victory is at hand.”
“Shut up,” Mark snapped.
***
“Sir,” Lieutenant Gordon said. “That’s the order to advance.”
Ryan shrugged. It was comfortable at the bottom of the trench, comfortable and safe, despite the slowly pooling water. The shelter had been relatively dry until the tanks had roared past, churning up the soil and tipping puddles of water into the trench. There was probably some obscure regulation against sitting in water, but he found it hard to care. He just wanted to sit and wait until the end of the world.
“Sir,” Lieutenant Gordon insisted. “We have to move.”
Ryan wondered, absently, just what the LT would do, if Ryan refused to do anything, but sit in the trench. Drag him to the ladder? Hurl him over the side of the trench? Draw a gun and force him to walk into battle? Or just take command of the company himself and leave their nominal commanding officer behind. Once, he would have hated the thought, but now ... now it was almost tempting. It wasn't as if he’d bothered to get to know the men under his command. Why would he waste the effort when they would all be dead by the end of the day?
“Sir,” Lieutenant Gordon said. “You have to move.”
Ryan felt a sudden hot flush of anger that launched him to his feet. Lieutenant Gordon stepped back, hastily. He’d been on the receiving end of Ryan’s temper more than once, over the last month; Ryan had even punched him for asking too many stupid questions. Indeed, Ryan was rather surprised he hadn't been reported to the MPs. A sergeant clouting a particularly idiotic soldier was one thing, but one officer punching another was a very different thing. And besides, both of them were technically illegal.
“Fine,” he snarled, checking his rifle. “Let’s go, shall we?”
He cast a jaundiced eye over his soldiers as the bombardment started to slack off. They looked terribly young, so young he'd been tempted to ask if the military had started to recruit from schools. It wasn't impossible, either. Wolfbane had plenty of opportunities for young men and women, but many of the other worlds that had been snatched up after the Collapse were nothing more than farming communities. Fighting for Wolfbane probably seemed more attractive than spending one’s life staring at the back end of a mule and marrying a distant relative. It probably would have been too, if their officers weren't trying to get as many of them killed as possible.
“Keep your fool heads down and make damn sure they’re all dead,” he ordered, curtly. The higher-ups wanted prisoners, but as far as he was concerned they could come take the prisoners themselves. He wasn't risking whatever remained of his life so the bastards could feel good about themselves. “Put a bullet in their heads, even if they look dead to you.”
He heard a whistle blow and turned to the ladders, then glanced behind him to see the approaching MPs. They looked out of place amidst the trenches, wearing white uniforms and red berets that should have made them easy targets. He was surprised the enemy hadn't already picked them off. Hatred of MPs was damn near universal among soldiers, after all; he saw no reason why the Commonwealth should be any different. And besides, shooting the MPs would almost certainly slow the advance ...
The whistle blew, again. “Go,” he ordered.
Lieutenant Gordon led the way, followed by Sergeant Kais. Ryan had hoped the Sergeant would be able to do most of the work, but Kais had been promoted after everyone above him had been killed in the first battle. His experience of being a sergeant was on a par with Ryan’s experience of being a captain, which made him a disaster waiting to happen. A sergeant who played the bully was one thing, but a sergeant who actually was a bully was quite another. Ryan had to admit, privately, if he'd had to deal with the man before his injury he would probably have summarily demoted him back to the ranks. Or worse.
He reached the top of the trench and ran forward, using the remains of the earlier attack forces as cover. The enemy blockhouses were little more than smouldering piles of rubble; bodies, enemy bodies, lay behind them, mostly torn and mangled by shellfire. He shuddered as he saw a blackened corpse kneeling on the ground, its arm extended and pointing south, towards the enemy lines. Ahead of him, there were dozens of small houses that had been turned into strongpoints ...
The sound of gunfire rattled out. He threw himself down and kept crawling forward, allowing his instincts to guide him. The houses wouldn't make good strongpoints, not for very long. But they'd hold long enough to trap his men and slaughter them. Bullets snapped through the air above him, suggesting that the defenders had already taken aim. He winced, despite his constantly shifting mode, as he saw a young man - barely out of basic training - fall to the ground. There was no point in attempting to help him. The bullet had struck his forehead.
Shit, Ryan thought.
The sound of shooting was growing louder as he crawled towards the first house, a small cottage with a neat little garden and - of all things - a garden gnome in the middle of the flowerbed. He found himself giggling at the sheer absurdity of the sight, wondering why he hadn't seen anything like it on Thule. But then, most of the people who resisted the Wolves came from the inner cities or the countryside. The cottage before him probably belonged to some wealthy couple who worked in the city, but didn't have to live in it.
Lucky bastards, he thought, as he spied the shooter firing through a window that had long since cracked and broken. The enemy gunner had a solid position, but he couldn't see anyone crawling up from the side. And now I’m about to wreck their house.
<
br /> He nodded to two of his men, then unhooked a grenade from his belt and hurled it forward, into the window. It exploded seconds later, throwing something up against the side of the wall as Ryan hurried forward and kicked down the door. Inside, pieces of debris lay everywhere. The grenade had done a lot more damage than merely fuck up the enemy soldier. He crunched over pieces of china as he probed forward, then sighed in relief as he saw the enemy soldier lying on the ground. She - the breasts were unmistakable, even though her stomach was a bleeding mess - gurgled once and died. He kicked her head anyway, then motioned for his men to search the house.
“Clear, sir,” one called.
Ryan nodded, looking towards what had once been a comfortable armchair. The room suggested age, age and experience. There were no hints that any children had lived in the house for a very long time. Maybe the owner was a grandfather instead of a father, he thought, as he peered carefully out the rear window. There was an entire row of cookie-cutter houses ahead of him, all practically identical. A couple had been hit by stray shells and badly damaged, but the remainder were intact. He found himself shivering, although he wasn't sure why. The homes were normal, perfectly normal. And then it hit him. The houses were practically identical. They even had the same decorations in the garden!
They Shall Not Pass (The Empire's Corps Book 12) Page 36
