First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) (34 page)

The helicopters swooped overhead as we started to load the prisoners into armoured vans.  By the time they woke up, they should be in the POW camp; if they woke up sooner, if they had time to realise what had happened to them, I really didn't care.  We searched them carefully, removed a number of weapons and tools, then dumped them inside.  I caught sight of Joker - he’d been sent to 2nd Platoon - and nodded as he picked up one of the terrorists and carried him into the van.  He nodded back.  We hadn't really had time to catch up since we’d arrived on Moidart, but we’d have a chance once we returned to the FOB.

“This place is as safe as it is ever going to be,” Lewis said, over the radio.  “We’ve separated the detonators and acid from the batteries and explosives, but none of it is particularly
safe
.”

“Hold the building until the SSE team arrives,” Captain Webb directed.

The devil - and Sergeant Singh - makes work for idle hands.  I was directed to join the convoy transporting the prisoners back to the FOB, then to return, escorting the SSE team along the way.  They looked professional, something that surprised me; I’d heard too many horror stories about the regulars.  And they looked surprisingly enthusiastic.  Between the royalist incompetence and the sheer number of moles in the government, they rarely had a chance to work their magic.

I watched as boxes upon boxes of material - some explosive, some not - were carried out of the building and loaded into the vans.  The SSE team were
good
at searching for evidence; they went over the building quickly, missing nothing.  I hadn't realised just how much crap the terrorists had moved inside until I saw it moved out.  Weapons and explosives weren't the only thing they found, too.  There were records, a number of ciphers and detailed information on a hundred possible targets.  I wasn't too pleased - and nor was Singh, judging from the explosion - to note that they had a set of plans for our FOB.  Only our defences had deterred them from attacking in force.

“The building is clear,” Captain Graham reported, finally.  I was pulling guard duty near Captain Webb’s makeshift command post when he appeared.  “I think we’re not going to be able to pull anything else out of here.”

“Then we can get back to the FOB,” Captain Webb said.  “Does the building need to be sanitised?”

“I’d advise sending a clean-up crew,” Graham said.  “There were a
lot
of dangerous chemicals in there, sir, and some of them are poisonous.”

Webb snorted, bitterly.  “There’s small hope of that happening, Tom.”

“I know,” Graham said.  “All we can really do is post warnings and hope the locals pay heed.”

I knew, too.  The royalists wouldn't bother to clean up the house, not when they barely had the resources to hold the line against the rebels.  It was far more likely that some of the hundreds of homeless people in the city would move into the house, only to find themselves poisoned.  Maybe we should have simply destroyed the house ... but that would have earned us more enemies.  The locals wouldn't have thanked us for destroying perfectly good housing.

“Mount up,” Singh ordered.  “Time to move.”

There was no attempt to keep us from returning to the FOB, somewhat to my surprise.  The rebels had hit a couple of positions on the other side of the city, but otherwise they’d cut their losses and kept their heads down.  I couldn't help feeling that it boded ill for the future.  The enemy commanders had recognised a losing prospect and backed away, rather than trying to save their people.  It suggested they were smarter than their royalist counterparts ...

And, as it turned out, they were.

The woman?  She was sent into a witness protection program and, after much bureaucratic wrangling, was granted an exit permit.  I have no idea what happened to her after that, but the corps does take care of those who help it.  Her husband was sent to a hard labour camp, where he was presumably worked to death.  Webb told us his fate two days after the raid, just so we knew.  None of us felt particularly sorry for him.

And really, why should we?  He’d sold his daughter to the rebels, who’d turned her into an unknowing bomber and killed her.  They wouldn't have taken her without his permission, not when it would have alienated the civilians.  He didn't deserve any sympathy at all, certainly not from us.  We were the ones trying to
stop
the bombers.

I just wish I’d had the chance to pull the trigger myself. 

Chapter Thirty-Four

Social breakdown, as I have noted elsewhere, leads to a collapse in what might be considered civilised standards of behaviour.  Certainly, there is always an upsurge in looting, rape and murder as the threat of punishment recedes, but there are also darker forms of behaviour that suddenly become permissible.  Selling one child to have the food to feed others, for example, suddenly seems a justifiable form of behaviour. 

And, once you get used to justifying horror, it’s a short step to justifying something worse.

-Professor Leo Caesius

“Show a leg,” Singh ordered, the following morning.  “Captain’s giving a briefing in twenty minutes.”

We cursed, grabbed our weapons and hastily stuffed ration bars in our mouths.  It had to have been arranged hastily or we would have been given more warning.  I just hoped it wasn't a combat jump or something that required careful preparation.  As much as I was starting to like my new teammates, we weren’t ready to switch from ground patrols to orbital insertions without more practice.  I swallowed pieces of my ration bar - I’m sure the flavours get worse every year - and hurried into the briefing room.  It didn't look to have changed overnight.

“Intelligence reports that we have managed to discomfit the rebels,” Captain Webb said, shortly.  The Imperial Army might operate on a strict need-to-know basis (with senior officers determining who needs to know) but the marines take a more sensible policy of sharing everything with the troops.  “The bomb school we found and knocked out yesterday was their principle training zone for Charlie City.  Right now, there's a shortage of bombs in the vicinity.”

“Oh, what a pity,” Lewis said, deadpan.

Webb smiled, rather dryly.  “Indeed it is, Lewis,” he said.  “No doubt you’ll be pleased not to have to disarm so many unpleasant surprises over the next two weeks.”

He looked back at us.  “Unfortunately, the rebels - feeling the urge to keep their operational tempo - have started moving more bomb-makers and their kits into the city,” he continued, his voice hardening.  “I don't think I need to tell you what
that
means.  Higher command wishes to intercept the transports before they arrive.  We’re going to be taking over the checkpoints along the ring road and searching every vehicle entering or leaving the city.”

I looked at the map.  Charlie City was surrounded by a highway that, in more peaceful times, allowed the population to drive rapidly around the city without having to pick their way through the middle of the town.  There were twenty-one junctions where cars and trucks could leave the ring road or drive in from the outlying towns.  Each of them would have to be secured ... I cursed, under my breath.  There were only a hundred marines assigned to the company.  We couldn't send a single fire team to each potential point of entry.

“The Rangers will be joining us,” Webb said.  “They’re going to take responsibility for junctions one to ten, we’ll be taking responsibility for junctions eleven to twenty.  Junction twenty-one will be closed.  This means spreading ourselves a little thin, but a regiment of imperial soldiers and several battalions of royalist troops will be in position to back us up if necessary.”

I couldn't help noticing that no one seemed particularly pleased to hear that.  The imperials were something of a mixed bag - their units ranged from very good to appallingly bad - but no one had had anything good to say about the royalists.  As far as I could tell, the general consensus was that they would either run from the battlefield as soon as the shooting started or turn their guns on their supposed allies.  We neither liked nor trusted them and they were quite happy to return the favour.

“Follow the standard procedures for searching vehicles,” Webb concluded.  “And take prisoners, if you can.  We need more intelligence.”

I wanted to ask what they’d learned from the bomb-makers, but I kept my mouth shut.  The briefing ended shortly afterwards and we hurried outside to our vehicles.  Singh was in a right temper, checking everything time and time again; it took me several minutes to realise that he was annoyed because a handful of marines were being held back to defend the FOB.  We were paring our defences right down to the bone.  If the enemy realised we were dangerously exposed, we might come home to find the FOB in ruins.

This is a hell of a war
, I thought, as the driver started the engine.  It was dark outside, but the sun was already glimmering over the horizon. 
We can't trust our friends any more than we can trust our enemies.

The drive to the checkpoint was shorter than I’d expected, largely because there was almost no military traffic on the ring road.  (Civilians had one lane out of four; someone had helpfully separated their lane from everyone else with barbed wire.)  The junction itself looked remarkably simple; a pair of exit lanes, a concrete bridge and a road leading into the distance.  A handful of cars were already making their way past the checkpoint, which didn't look particularly secure.  The royalist guards seemed more interested in smoking and patting down pretty girls than actually searching for high explosives and detonators.

I sucked in my breath as I saw the royalists for the first time.  They were called redshirts by the marines, but I hadn't realised that it was
literal
.  The blood-red uniforms they wore would make them incredibly obvious targets to anyone with a sniper rifle, while the way they carried their weapons suggested they didn't have much practice on the shooting range, let alone firing at moving targets.  Maybe red uniforms
would
stop the blood from showing, thus not demoralising the troops, but I suspected it was wasted effort.  A man dropping to the ground after being shot does tend to be rather disconcerting.

“Get your men to the roundabout and stop the flow of traffic,” Singh snapped, as he dismounted from the AFV.  A redshirted officer looked astonished to be given orders and started to puff up like a balloon.  “Don’t argue with me, just
move
!”

“Watch your back,” Lewis warned, as we dismounted.  “And watch the sergeant’s too.”

I nodded.  The other two fire teams hastened to set up a proper checkpoint, including prefabricated barriers to redirect the force of an explosion, while we covered the sergeant and kept a wary eye on the redshirts.  I hoped, as the sergeant’s iron will worked its magic, that he would just order them to return to their barracks and take the rest of the day off.  It would be better to be outnumbered than have soldiers behind us who might easily take shots at us as well as the enemy.

No such luck.  The redshirts gathered at the far end of the bridge, doing as little as they could, while we finished setting up the checkpoint.  A handful of cars and trucks appeared, horns honking loudly as they were told to wait; I prayed, inwardly, that none of them were manned by terrorists.  They could have blown themselves up and taken a dozen other vehicles with them.  As soon as we were ready, Singh placed a large sign at the roundabout, warning drivers that there was a checkpoint ahead, then walked back and waved for us to open the gate.  Moments later, the first car drove into the killing zone and stopped.

I watched, from my position, as the driver and his two companions - he claimed one of them was his sister and the other was his sister-in-law - were searched by the fire team, who then searched their vehicle as thoroughly as possible.  They complained, loudly, using words I hadn’t heard before, even at Boot Camp.  The fire team ignored them, completed the check and waved the car onwards.  I shook my head in grim disbelief as the next car rolled into the killing zone; if it took five to ten minutes to be reasonably sure there was nothing dangerous inside the vehicle, there were going to be tailbacks stretching back for miles.

We rotated positions after thirty minutes; Singh supervised as we searched the vehicles, then waved them onwards.  I swiftly got used to the torrent of abuse - they weren't as unpleasant as some of the Drill Instructors - and did my best to ignore the humiliation clearly written over the faces of the women and children I had to search.  Several of them were carrying weapons, but we ignored anything smaller than an assault rifle.  Too many people wanted to defend themselves to make confiscating weapons a viable option ... although that hadn't stopped the Governor from decreeing a zero-tolerance approach to weapons in private hands.

“This is going to cause too many problems,” Lewis predicted, as we rotated to the back and took the opportunity to drink some water.  “Bet you this just makes everyone
madder
.”

I couldn't disagree.  The line of waiting vehicles stretched back for miles, as I’d expected, and countless people were hopelessly late for their appointments.  Several cars were even reversing course and heading back to their homes, their drivers probably concluding that it wasn't worth the time to wait.  My ears were ringing; the drivers just kept blowing their horns, as if that would make the checkpoint magically vanish.  And to think I’d thought that live rounds were bad. 

A car passed through the checkpoint and screeched to a halt in front of me.  I looked up, alarmed, as the driver jumped out and glared at us.  “Hey,” he shouted, as we jumped to our feet.  “Who’s going to pay for my spoiled produce?”

I looked at him.  “What produce?”

His glare deepened; he opened the side door, revealing a number of crates containing fruits and vegetables.  I was no expert, but it definitely looked like at least half of them had turned rotten.  On the other hand, they did look better than the slop we were served in Boot Camp, when they weren't feeding us ration bars.  (I was told that there are regiments of the Imperial Army where the soldiers are deliberately fed something horrible, just to make them mad enough to kill their enemies and anyone unlucky enough to be standing close to their enemies when the shit hits the fan.  Unfortunately, it sounds quite plausible.)  I exchanged a look with Lewis, then shrugged.

“I can't sell these,” the driver protested.  “I’ll be lynched!”

I keyed my radio.  “Sergeant,” I said, “we have a situation.”

There was a pause.  “Give him a compensation chip,” Singh ordered.  “And tell him to present it and his produce at the garrison to have it honoured.”

“They always underpay,” the driver complained, when I gave him the chip.  “I grow these fruits myself and ...”

“It’s that or nothing,” I said, tartly.  I understood his feelings, but it was hard to care.  He wasn't the one wondering if the next vehicle that entered the killing zone would be the one with the bomb hidden underneath the driver’s seat.  “Go to the garrison and they’ll give you
something
, at least ...”

The ground shook violently as something exploded on the bridge.  I cursed and ran for cover, while the driver - showing remarkable presence of mind, if not common sense - hastily closed the rear doors, jumped into the cab and drove off.  There was no time to worry about him; I peered past the cover and saw a handful of flaming vehicles on the bridge.  The enemy must have realised that destroying the checkpoint was futile, so they’d settled for weakening the bridge instead.  Idiots; if they’d waited, they could have taken out three marines and weakened us quite badly. 

“Incoming fire,” Lewis snapped, as bullets started to ping off the walls.  “They’ve taken up position on the other side of the highway.”

I nodded, already searching for targets.  There wasn't much concealment on the other side - the royalists had cut down all the trees year ago - but the enemy had had plenty of time to prepare themselves.  I fired a round at an enemy fighter who showed himself for a second, yet I don't think I actually hit him.  The first RPG round soared in a moment later and spent itself harmlessly against the checkpoint.  A second, fired from a different position, overshot and came down inside the city itself.  I hoped no one was hurt, but there was no time to check.

“Hah,” I said, as another enemy fighter appeared.  This time, I saw him fall as my bullet struck him.  “Scratch one tango.”

“Scratch two,” Rifleman Parker said.  “There are too many civilians in the area ...”

The skirmish rapidly turned into a stalemate.  We couldn't get to them, but they couldn't get to us.  Hundreds of civilians, caught in the middle of a firefight, stayed as low as they could, praying they weren’t hit by one side or the other.  We watched them carefully, knowing that some of them could be dickers ... and that there was nothing we could do to help the wounded.  If we’d sent medics out, they would have been targeted too.

“Helicopters inbound,” Singh said.  “Brace yourselves ...”