Decisively Engaged (Warp Marine Corps Book 1) (24 page)

“All right, people,” the Task Force leader said, his words relayed via their imps, and also translated for the ET contingent. “Do one last gear check and mount up. We’re rolling in five.”

Instead of looking at his stuff yet one more time, Russell studied the rest of Task Force Able. His fire team would be in the original Rover Three, the up-gunned truck they’d used during their first combat mission in Ruddy-land. In this case, the cargo space was empty; they’d fill it with spaceport personnel and anything else they could fit in. Fabber stock would be on the top of the list; you could feed dirt to a fabber, but only if you wanted to make simple tools and didn’t mind the wait while the gizmo separated useful materials from the rest of the crap. The fancy stuff required lots of special ingredients. The only thing keeping the aliens off their backs was massive firepower, and they’d need all the ammo they could make. Word was they’d start issuing non-explosive Iwo rounds to save on feedstock.

Not for this mission, though. Only the best stuff would do, when you sent a short platoon to do the job of a regiment.

Five of the other eight vehicles belonged to the Black River mercs. Six wheelers, three-man crew plus a borrowed Marine manning a ALS-43 on a pintle mount on top. The cars also mounted a railgun with a short traverse on the hood, in case the driver or whoever was riding shotgun got bored. The 3mm rounds the railgun fired wouldn’t penetrate shields or heavy armor, but would do a number on hordes of ETs wearing silk bathrobes or field khakis. They had shield generators on the front, sides and back, giving them as much protection as the technicals Obregon had cobbled together, and their six-wheeled drive was much better than any local vehicles. Russell wished he was on one of them; his truck had some off-road capabilities, but ‘some’ was usually a way of saying ‘not enough.’ If they had to go cross-country at any point of the trip, Rover Three wasn’t going to make it home. 

The Ovals were on two ground-effect hovercraft. The squat turtle-shaped vehicles were currently resting on their metal skirts. When activated, eight fans would blow enough air to lift and propel them over just about any terrain. Hovercraft were lousy platforms for anything with a recoil, but the ETs used lasers, so that wasn’t an issue. The hovers were converted cargo haulers, with brand-new shield generators and three heavy laser mounts. They’d provide Task Force Able with a lot of firepower and cargo space, since each of them could fit ten tons of personnel or materiel in its hold. Rover Three sucked shit by comparison.

Obregon would lead the task force from his brand-new command car, which had started out as the ambassador’s overpriced grav-limo before being requisitioned and refitted. Its overpowered gluon power plant provided enough juice for a full set of field generators, giving it as much protection as a tank; they’d outfitted it with one of their 100mm mortars and two graviton cannon the Wyrm embassy had generously donated to the rescue effort, which gave it as much firepower as anything on this planet. That bastard could chew its way through a Ruddy tank battalion; its existence was the only reason Russell didn’t feel even more anxious about the trip.

They were bringing out their A-game. Russell figured they could ride roughshod over anything smaller than a brigade equivalent, and outrun and outmaneuver anything else.

He still worried.

* * *

“These things are magical,” Colonel Neen Reeu said, not for the first time, as he watched over the dispositions of the 103
rd
Kirosha Artillery Regiment, the pride of the First Army. He knew that his three anti-tank batteries, twenty-four tubes in total, were hidden in the hills overlooking the only road leading to the spaceport. He still couldn’t see them, despite being on an observation post above them, and despite the fact he was using a pair of Starfarer binoculars on multi-spectrum mode.

When he’d been told his regiment was getting a shipment of blankets from their Star Devil benefactor, he’d scoffed. But these were very special blankets.

“The material not only blends with the background, making anything under it invisible, it will also defeat the advanced sensor systems the Americans use,” Captain Jeenu said, his enthusiasm making him sound younger than his twenty-nine years. Jeenu was a member of the Modernist faction and a technology enthusiast. Only Colonel Neen’s patronage had saved his young aide-de-camp from being purged in the last few days. Praising otherworldly technology was not safe anymore.

“Yes, the Star Devils like their little tricks, but in the end, good planning and courage will carry the day,” the colonel said, his narrowing eyes wordlessly warning his aide. The captain nodded in understanding.

“It has been done as you instructed, Colonel. We made sure of it. All radios were disabled. All orders were delivered via non-electronic means.”

The regiment’s commander tilted his head in acknowledgement. The original order had come from Grand Marshall Seeu. The Star Devils could listen in on radio communications; it was only natural, since it was they who had provided the technology to the Kingdom. But their ability to overhear their enemies’ orders had made the aliens complacent. For centuries, Kirosha armies had maneuvered and communicated through a complex system of flags, semaphores and heliographs, as well as runners and written instructions. The old ways had not been forgotten, and the regiment had been moved into position without broadcasting a single message. His troops now lay in ambush, hidden by the stealth blankets their Lhan Arkh ally had provided.

The aliens’ vehicles would be protected by their invisible shields, but Neen’s troops had been issued new shells for his 93mm pieces to deal with them. Each gun had five enhanced two-stage explosive shells, and twenty sabot-discarding tungsten armor-piercers. The duplex rounds used Starfarer technology designed to punch through their vaunted force fields. A direct hit had a thirty percent chance of penetrating the best protection the devils were likely to have, a chance that grew with successive shots. The tungsten rounds were less effective: their chance of penetration was a mere fifteen percent, but there were more of them.

Occupy a strong position on a path the enemy must follow
. That was one of the Grand Marshall’s many aphorisms. Colonel Neen had a small-print copy of the latest edition of
The Book of Martial Sayings
tucked in his tunic’s front pocket.

Sometime tonight, the Americans and their running dogs would come, and his regiment would be waiting for them.

* * *

Task Force Able raced towards the South Gate under cover of night.

Gunnery Sergeant Obregon kept his attention on a map projection with all the players marked with bright-colored icons. Friendlies in blue, hostiles in red, civvies in light purple that would turn red at a moment’s notice. He knew that those icons didn’t tell the whole story: without their drones, his imp was limited to using all the information gathered by the task force soldiers and the sensors in their suits and vehicles. They were bound to miss things, and any one of those things might pop up and bite them in the ass. But you used what you got, and if that wasn’t enough they carved your name and dates of birth and death in the massive Marine Memorial Wall in New Parris.

The status icons of the flying column’s vehicles were all nominal, as well they should be, mere seconds after kickoff, but Obregon had seen the Dark God Murphy in action, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if one of the vehicles broke down without warning right out of the gate. None did. Not yet.

The South Gate was smaller and narrower than the main one to the west. It didn’t see much traffic, as it led towards largely uninhabited marshes and a non-navigable branch of the Keelu River, the main waterway of the region. It also led towards a modern road, however, which made it good enough for their needs. More importantly, it wasn’t guarded by heavy forces.

As soon as Obregon’s command car turned a corner and entered the broad street leading towards the gate, about a hundred yards away, he sent a signal and the two mortars left in the embassy compound fired a single round each.

“Brace for impact,” he relayed to the column as it continued its advance.

The two guided bombs hit the gate a fraction of a second later. Their thermobaric warheads sprayed a thin mist of highly volatile chemicals and ignited them in another fraction of a second.

Night turned into hellish day.

The fireball that engulfed the gate, walls and battlements consumed every living thing in a hundred-foot radius. The same volume was also exposed to over ten pounds per square inch of pressure. The wood-and-metal gate and stone walls, never meant to resist such forces, shattered into a million pieces. Fragments peppered the command car’s frontal force field as it led the way towards the smoking remains of the wall.

“Police the gap,” Obregon told Hendrickson. The driver increased the density of the force field and turned it into an invisible bulldozer spade, pushing aside any debris that might impede the wheeled vehicles of the task force. Only a gluon power plant had the juice to pull that kind of trick, and only briefly. The lead vehicle went past the Enclave wall at a steady thirty miles an hour, clearing a path for the rest of the column. Nobody fired or otherwise reacted to their passage. Anybody who had survived the apocalyptic explosion was either too stunned to do anything or had better sense than attracting the attackers’ attention. Smart of them, Obregon thought. Nobody in the task force was willing or able to take prisoners. Anybody who got in their way was dead.

“Guess this means we’re officially at war,” Hendrickson said as they headed towards the highway.

“We shoulda sent them a note or something,” Obregon said.

“They probably got the idea.”

“Yeah.” Question was, what would the Ruddies do about the sortie? What
could
they do? Captain Fromm thought the answer was ‘not much.’ Most of their mobile forces were arrayed around the capital and the palace, all the way on the other side of the Enclave; the rest were scattered around; they wouldn’t be able to react before the task force reached the spaceport. The trip back would be a different kettle of fish, of course.

All in all, though, Obregon was happy to be on the move. Sitting in one spot and waiting for the bastards on the other side to do something didn’t feel right. The Corps taught you to seize the initiative and make the bastards react to your actions, not the other way around.

“Spaceport command, this is Able Force actual,” he sent out. “We’re on our way. ETA forty, that is four-oh, minutes. Pack up your shit, we’re coming to get you.”

Flickering flames illuminated the ruins they left behind.

Year 163 AFC, D Minus One

Captain Fromm paid a visit to the communications center for lack of anything better to do.

Given the existence of neural implants and gravity-wave communications that could run unimpeded through a planet’s core and had a range measured in light-seconds, a communications room seemed unnecessary. Human beings tended to work better in groups, however, and trying to run everything through one’s imps ran the risk of information overload. Having some of the data on display somewhere other than one’s field of vision could be helpful.

The room in question was filled with vid screens and was barely large enough to accommodate four Navy techs, their equipment and a coffee maker that clearly was in constant use. Fromm returned the techs’ salutes and poured himself a cup, choosing the local brew over imported coffee. The latter was more expensive, and the dark purple-brown tea made with Kirosha’s Ibee leaves had about three times the caffeine content and a rich, vaguely spicy flavor he’d come to enjoy. He idly wondered if Mister Crow was selling the stuff off-world while he went over the comm-techs’ work.

The Kirosha were reacting to the attack on the South Gate, and they displayed none of the chaos of the previous days, which showed their recent housecleaning had paid off. The Guard units were readying for combat, but their posture was largely defensive and designed to prevent another breakout, especially one aimed at the nearby Royal Palace complex or the capital proper. Spotlights along the walls of the Enclave came on and illuminated the area as vehicles roared to life and sleepy soldiers formed up in front of their barracks, weapons ready. Fromm kept an eye on the visual display while he watched CPO Donnelly at work.

Lateesha Donnelly had been born in New Detroit and joined the Navy as part of her obligatory service during her junior year in high school. Her shaved head was covered with bright metal studs that starkly contrasted against her brown skin; each stud was a high-power implant with enormous processing capabilities. Very few humans could handle so many computer links, but the chief petty officer was one of them. With those enhancements, Donnelly could run an entire starship by herself, or use pseudo-AI subroutines to handle the communication services of a small city. She was clearly overqualified for a support posting on the back end of nowhere. Her official records hinted at some issues that had led to her current assignment, but Fromm decided not to delve any further into them. Whatever had brought her to Jasper-Five was turning out to be a godsend under the current circumstances.

“The spaceport crews are all ready to go, sir” she reported after flashing him a brief, shy smile. “Two buses are filled with personnel. They’ve loaded six cargo trucks with supplies, including all the fabricator feedstock in storage and the smallest fabber on site. The other two were too heavy for transport. They have extra supplies boxed and on forklifts, ready to be loaded onto the task force vehicles.”

Fromm nodded gratefully. With those supplies they would have enough consumables to endure a six-month siege. Throw in the extra trained personnel, and their chances would improve dramatically.

“They have set up explosive charges around the remaining fabbers, the force field generators and all other heavy equipment,” Donnelly added. “There were no demolition-trained personnel on-site, however, and the volunteers in charge followed implant-provided instructions. They request that somebody from Task Force Able check their work.”

“I’ll let Gunny Obregon know.”

Imps could theoretically guide people through complex tasks, but in practice it was too easy to screw things up. The two Marines in Obregon’s command car were 0351s: assaultmen, trained in demolitions as well as in shooting missiles. They would make sure the explosive charges worked as advertised.

“Elements from the Kirosha First Army are on the move,” Donnelly went on. “They aim to block the road leading to the South Gate. Their estimated response time is two hours. My personal estimate is closer to three.”

“They should be back before then. And we can hammer any nearby troop concentrations with our mortars. I think we’re golden.”

“I concur, sir.” The young woman’s eyes lost focus for several seconds while she communed with the computer banks inside her head. “I only have one concern; there seem to be some Kirosha Army units whose radio chatter doesn’t match our sensor data. An infantry battalion and an artillery regiment. They are supposed to be marshalling outside the Palace, but there aren’t enough warm bodies in their bivouacs to match their unit sizes.”

“Pity we can’t send drones out to take a closer look,” Fromm said. Donnelly could massage a great deal of data even from long-distance sensor readings, but she couldn’t expect to catch everything. “Maybe those units took losses during the recent purges and their current numbers aren’t up to administrative strength.”

“That could explain it, sir. I’d feel better if I knew for sure.”

“You’re doing great, Chief. No perfection this side of Heaven.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep me posted.”

He left them to it.

The waiting was the hardest part of the job, he mused as he walked towards the command post in the rearmost bunker of the triple line of trenches. All the defensive works were more or less complete, thanks to the efforts of human and Kirosha work crews. The Ruddy converts had worked their asses off. The prospect of death by torture had made them focus their efforts like nothing else would have. Hopefully that meant that the volunteers the Mormons were training would stand their ground if he put them on the line. That could wait at least a week, unless things became so desperate he’d have to put every warm body he could find inside the trenches.

It probably will never come to that
, he told himself. All they had to do was hold for a couple of weeks. The fleet would send a relief force by then, if not before.
You keep telling yourself that
.

Sergeant Amherst was on watch at the command post. “Everything’s quiet so far, sir,” the NCO said. He’d shaped up rather nicely and was clearly trying to unfuck himself after his first-day screw-up. “The Ruddies are sticking to the walls so far. Looks like they’re worried we’ll be coming after their sector next.”

“That concerns me,” Fromm said. “They’ve got to know we don’t have the numbers to mount an assault. The sortie to the south was easy enough, but they know what our objective is, and all our available routes. That gives them plenty of options.”

“They can’t react in time, sir. And our tech will handle anything they can throw in our way.”

“You’re probably right,” Fromm admitted.

Otherwise, he might have sent thirty men to their deaths and condemned another hundred to the same fate.

* * *

Nights in Jasper-Five were either very dark or very light, depending on the position of the second planet of the binary system. When Jasper-Four – what the locals called Nuuri-osh, the Eye of God – was fully visible in the sky, its reflective surface provided enough illumination to read a book. When it wasn’t, the night was much darker than on Earth; chemicals in the upper atmosphere made most stars invisible to the naked eye, plunging the night side into pitch darkness.
When the Eye of God is closed, all are blind
; the Kirosha saying was particularly apt that night. The rescue operation would have the full cover of darkness.

All of which suited Russell just fine. Their suit sensors made fighting in total darkness no more difficult than at high noon. Everything looked clear as day, in full color; intellectually he knew the colors were computer-generated approximations, but they looked real enough, and that was all that mattered. He could see well enough to tell that the bouncing figure that ran across the road was some sort of possum-deer thing and not a Ruddy with a rocket launcher and murder in his heart, which meant he didn’t waste a round on the critter as it barely avoided getting run over by his truck.

“Fucking wannabe roadkill,” Gonzo said as they drove past the lucky beastie.

“They don’t know any better,” Nacle said. “Not their fault.”

“Not our fault if we squish ‘em, either.”

“Guess not.”

They were all a bit on edge, mainly because things had gone off without a hitch so far, and luck that good never lasted. Russell and the rest of the team would have felt better if something had gone wrong. Nothing big, a minor mechanical glitch, an accidental discharge that scared the shit out of them without doing any harm, or even a bunch of Ruddies stumbling into them. Nothing had happened, though, and Russell’s superstitious side felt like they were building up a reservoir of bad luck that might come crashing on them at the worst possible time.

“Launching drones,” Obregon announced over the imps. They’d gone far enough away from the capital to risk the little buggers. The Ruddies couldn’t have too many Swatters, and they were likely to be around the Enclave, not out in the boonies. The bubbleheads at the spaceport had eyes on several concentrations of Ruddies around them, and it wouldn’t hurt to get a closer look.

“All right, we have several campfires. About two thousand fighters split into two main groups, and another few hundred in small bunches. One of them is right on top of the highway, behind barricades. No heavy weapons in sight.”

Russell looked through the drones’ beady little eyes. Yep, it was more assholes in their black bathrobes. Armed with their traditional pig stickers, plus a few rifles and RPGs. And they were up and about, which meant they were expecting company.

“ETA five minutes. Shit, they’re moving. Looks like they’re mounting a general attack on the spaceport.”

“Hostiles inbound!” the Chief Warrant in charge of the spaceport announced; Russell could hear the sound of blaster fire in the background. “You jarheads better hurry up!”

“Fucking Ruddies,” Russell said.

“Think they’ll overrun the port before we get there?” Nacle asked.

“Nah. Ten to one odds ain’t enough,” Gonzo said. “All they gonna do is get caught between a rock and a hard place when we show up.”

“Yeah. Should be a piece of cake. So tell me why I’m worried.”

“You just ain’t happy unless something’s wrong, Russet. Piss poor attitude to have, if you ask me.”

“Nobody asked you, G. Keep your eyes on your sector. We’re about to be knee-deep in sword-swinging motherfuckers, just like in those Conan the Barbarian movies you like so much.”

“By Crom, you’re right.” Gonzo said; he jacked a round into his ALS-43. “This is gonna be fun.”

Conversation drifted off after that, as they got ready for the upcoming fight. Russell watched drone videos showing a wave of attackers rushing towards the fenced enclosure. The landing platform of the spaceport was a good sixty feet higher than the surrounding area, and the only way up was through a winding path around it, making it a fortress of sorts even without the line of defenders on shooting at the black-bathrobe maniacs below. Over a hundred Ruddies went down before they even made it to the fences. The electrified fences. Another dozen Ruddies started convulsing and spouting smoke as lethal currents ran through their bodies. The ones behind them paused and got picked off. That didn’t last, though; some of the attackers had satchel charges and rockets and they started taking the fence apart.

The barricades were up ahead. Several rockets flew out and splattered onto the shields of the lead vehicles without doing any damage. About the only problem the task force had was that the road was only wide enough for four vehicles abreast, limiting the firepower they could bring to bear. Not that it mattered. A barrage of plasma and laser fire turned the barricade into a bonfire and its defenders into scattered pieces of charred flesh.

“What’d I say, Russet?” Gonzo crowed. “Fun.”

Before Russell could reply, an eruption of light and smoke engulfed the merc combat car in front of them; the smaller vehicle tumbled end over end as it was flipped up by the explosion. Spotlights came to life on both sides of the road, spearing Task Force Able with bright halogen beams as flares rose into the sky and dispelled the night. An instant later, a massive impact on the side of Russell’s truck sent them veering off course.

Gonzo was wrong.

None of what happened was fun at all.

* * *

Lisbeth Zhang stumbled into the hell that was ground combat.

E&E was as much of a pain as she remembered, with the added bonus that failure wouldn’t result in a permanent down check on her record but a chance to get acquainted with the locals’ hospitality and sexual customs. There were parties of armed men wandering the countryside, either looking for her or heading towards the militia encampments surrounding the spaceport, and even with her stealth suit she’d had too many close calls for comfort.  She was utterly invisible to anybody beyond fifty feet; closer than that, she had to stay still; any movement would catch someone’s eye. At ten feet, someone who was paying close attention would spot her even if she didn’t move.

A couple of times, enemy patrols came to within a few feet of her position. It’d been a miracle they hadn’t seen her. A miracle, and the fact that the Jasperians had been busy chatting with each other and smoking some noxious tobacco equivalent to notice little old her.