First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) (38 page)

The following day, we discovered that the entire town had been abandoned.  There was no one in the market; every home was empty, completely deserted.  We searched a couple of them, but found nothing.  Even the injured children were gone.  We were in the midst of checking several other houses when we heard an explosion; Rifleman Pablo had stepped on the wrong place and detonated an IED, right under his leg.  He survived, thankfully, but he had to be placed in stasis until he could be shipped back to the spaceport, where the doctors removed the remainder of his leg and grafted a cloned replacement in its place.   And there was still no sign of the enemy.

We found the clue in the final house we searched, half-hidden under a pile of women’s clothing.  (It’s astonishing, we were taught at the Slaughterhouse, just how many people assume the underwear drawer is a safe place to hide something.  Yes, we felt awkward picking through panties and bras, but that didn't stop us.)  A letter, written in an unknown hand, warning the inhabitants to leave or die.  Someone had distributed them, we guessed, while the firebase had been attacked.  We checked the rest of the town, just in case, then returned to the firebase.  If the warlord was warning people to leave, it could only mean we were going to come under heavy attack.

I was right.  The enemy infiltrated the town shortly after night fell and opened fire as soon as they got into weapons range.  This time, they were determined; they sniped for hours, launching so many mortar shells that we almost overlooked the
real
threat.  A handful of vehicles drove up towards us, their drivers hidden behind plates of metal shielding.  Webb ordered them taken out, fast; we hit them with antitank rounds and they exploded with thunderous force.  They’d hoped to get the VBIEDs close to our walls, then detonate them there, wiping us out in a single blow.  I had to admire their determination as we held them back, even if they were trying to kill us.  There was something about them that was far more admirable than the Redshirts. 

Of course there is
, I thought, sourly. 
They’re prepared to fight for what they believe in
.

The fighting didn't stop when the sun rose, not this time.  They’d taken over a number of deserted buildings and were using them as firing positions, while trying to slip more teams closer to our walls.  Webb called for air support, and finally, three helicopters arrived from the FOB.  Their pilots were reluctant to go too close to the town - clearly, the threat of enemy HVMs had sunk in - but they rained missiles into the occupied buildings, blowing them into piles of rubble. 
That
wouldn't make us popular, I was sure, yet there was no choice.  Clearing them manually would have taken too long, exposed us to too much risk.  We pressed out of the firebase, covered by the helicopters, and swept the town.  The bastards had mined half the buildings before they finally slipped back into the countryside. 

“Detonate them,” Webb ordered.  “There isn't time to dismantle them all.”

It didn't seem fair, I thought, as I watched the IEDs detonated, one after the other.  The townspeople who owned the buildings would be mad, but what choice did we have?  And yet, we were wiping out their investments, sending them back to poverty ... I shuddered as I remembered the prostitutes, women (and men) who had debts to pay and no other way to do it.  We were dooming some of the townspeople to the same fate. 

And then we discovered we'd been lucky.  Five other firebases had come under attack and one had been overwhelmed.  The marines had fought their way out of a deadly trap - losing five men along the way - but the Redshirts had been caught and tortured to death.  Hell, the FOB itself had come under attack; the enemy had destroyed two helicopters on the ground before the base security force had driven them away.  General Gordon’s grand plan was in deep trouble and sinking fast ...

He didn't give up, of course, and neither did we.  Every day, we cleared the town and patrolled the countryside; every night, the enemy came back, placed a handful of IEDs in various places and attacked the firebase.  The war, once again, had stalemated.  It didn’t look as though there was any way to actually win ...

And then, thanks be to God, we got a lucky break.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Edward was right to worry about the effects of the war on the civilians, none of whom wanted to be caught up in the fighting.  Quite apart from the hundreds of thousands who had been displaced by Hammersmith, there were thousands of civilians who lost everything they owned to one side or the other; their houses turned into strongpoints, their male children taken to serve as fighters or imprisoned to keep them from joining the rebels, their daughters sold into sexual slavery ...

... There was not, of course, any hope of compensation.  The rebels offered none, the king offered none and the Governor, who
did
have the power to offer compensation, preferred to use the funds earmarked for this purpose to enrich himself.

-Professor Leo Caesius

It was a surprise when we were pulled out of Kristin - we’d only been there a week - and driven back to the FOB, where two heavy aircraft sat on the runways.  We were rushed into the hanger, fed a collection of ration bars and bottles of water and then waited (hurry up and wait is practically the military life in microcosm) while Captain Webb and Sergeant Singh spoke to the higher-ups.  It definitely seemed like we’d been earmarked for something more important than holding an isolated firebase in the midst of an abandoned town, but there was no way to know for certain.  All we could do was wait.

Singh called us to attention thirty minutes after we arrived.  “All right, marines,” he bellowed.  “Listen up!”

We stood as Webb unrolled a paper map of the surrounding hills and pinned it to the concrete wall.  “We’ve had a stroke of luck,” he said.  “Through various ploys, our intelligence staff have located Warlord Douglas’s main base, a camp established here” - he tapped a location in the midst of the Western Hills - “firmly isolated from everywhere else.  Douglas is using the camp to train new recruits, including many newcomers, before turning them on us.  The camp also serves as a major storage dump for the rebels.  Apparently, a number of weapons stolen from the spaceport or the garrison in Charlie City have made their way there.”

There was a long pause as we considered the implications.  The Imperial Army was paranoid over heavy weapons, unsurprisingly; the HVMs that had blown a dozen helicopters out of the air had shown what they could do.  It was quite possible that the intelligence staff had attached a transponder to a weapon that was later stolen - or, more likely, allowed the rebels to steal it to see where the weapon ended up.  I didn't like the thought of them
deliberately
handing weapons to the enemy, but I had to admit it should work.

“There’s no way to get there overland without being detected,” Webb continued.  “The handful of possible access routes have probably been mined, while the enemy will have ample time to redirect their forces to harass us or simply abandon the base and slip into the undergrowth.  An airstrike would obliterate the camp and everyone in it, but we'd never know who we killed or how much material we wiped out.  We'd certainly lose the chance to track it back to the bastard who sold it to them in the first place.  Accordingly, we’re going to make a combat jump and come right down on their heads.”

His eyes swept the hanger.  “As far as anyone outside the FOB knows, this is a routine redeployment of our forces and you’re all going back to the spaceport for some Intercourse and Intoxication,” he warned.  “The remaining forces on the ground will be alerted once we make the jump, but it will take them some time to get anywhere near the camp.  We’ll be on our own for several hours, assuming the best.”

And we were taught to always assume the worst
, I thought.  General Gordon was unlikely to refuse us permission to launch the offensive, but he’d run it past the uniformed lawyers, civilian lawyers - including the Governor - and the locals before authorising the attack.  By then, the enemy would have ample time to either prepare for an attack or simply evacuate the camp. 
Webb’s taken his career in his hands
.

“We’ll be leaving under cover of darkness,” Webb concluded.  “Grab some sleep; take-off is at 1900.”

I glanced at the clock, firmly fixed to the wall.  1500.  Four hours of sleep didn't sound like very much, but it was heavenly to us.  The FOB hadn't been rocketed for the last two days - the enemy had taken a beating the last time they’d tried - and if they held off for another five hours or so, we’d be able to give them a very nasty surprise.  Singh ordered us back into the hanger, where we lay down on the floor and closed our eyes.  Sleep came slowly, and - as always - it felt as though I hadn't slept at all when we were woken.  We checked our weapons and supplies, ate a couple more ration bars each and marched out to the planes.  They looked in even worse state than the aircraft I’d seen on Mars.

“It's clear air,” someone said, as we settled into position.  The engines were already warming us, a dull rumble echoing through the aircraft.  “Should be a nice easy flight.”

Someone - probably a civilian bureaucrat - had written a regulation that insisted all aircraft leaving the FOB had to do so under cover of darkness.  It wasn't particularly clever - the enemy had night-vision gear and HVMs, which didn't care about the time of day - but I had to admit it worked in our favour.  The aircraft took off, rattling worse than a shuttle that had been holed several times by enemy fire, and climbed rapidly.  Our planned course should take us right over the enemy base ...

We should try to do it with gliders
, I thought.  Parachutes weren't so flexible, even in darkness, but Webb presumably had his reasons for deciding against them.  Gliders wouldn't allow us to abort the mission so close to the target, if necessary. 
The last thing we want is to come down on an alerted enemy camp.

“Five minutes,” Singh said.  “Check your chutes.”

I did, again.  HAVLO parachutes can be dangerous; by the time the emergency parachute realises it’s needed, the parachutist might have already slammed into the ground and gone splat.  Mine looked fine; another marine reported, grimly, that there was a problem.  The jumpmaster checked his pack, agreed it needed to be replaced and shoved another one at the marine.  He barely managed to get it on in time before the hatch opened.

Should have double-checked before we left
, I thought.  Shit happens, far too often, but there was a reason we were taught to check and recheck everything. 
Singh won’t let him get away with nearly jumping out of an aircraft with a faulty parachute.

The lights dimmed.  I snapped my NVGs into place and checked them.  The world turned eerie; the marines were dark shadows, while the plane itself looked oddly alien, as if it wasn't quite part of the world.  NVGs worked better when there was more ambient light around and here, there was none.  I stood and joined the lines forming near the hatch, ready to take a dive.  My heart was pounding so loudly I was convinced the others could hear it.

“Go,” the jumpmaster ordered.

Webb was first out of the aircraft, a tradition that took no account of the need for the commanding officer to remain in reasonable safety.  (His second, Lieutenant Roscoe, would be the last to jump.)  Singh followed, then we jumped platoon by platoon.  Darkness enfolded me as I jumped, plummeting down towards the enemy base.  No lights appeared below us, nothing to mark the location of the camp.  Had we been tricked?  But then, the enemy camp would have been spotted long ago if they’d shown lights; the high orbitals belonged to the navy, with dispassionate sensors peering down on Moidart 24/7.  It would be easy to determine that there shouldn't be anything in the forest ...

My chute popped, right on schedule.  The fall slowed, dropping me through a patch of camouflage netting and into a full-sized enemy camp.  A handful of men stared at me and the other marines, then grabbed for weapons.  We opened fire, taking them out, as we released ourselves from the chutes and ran towards the buildings.  The doors opened, revealing a handful of bunks, rather like the barracks we’d used on Mars.  I unhooked a grenade from my belt, checked the yield and threw it into the first barracks.  A colossal explosion blasted through the building, wiping out its inhabitants.  Moments later, two more barracks caught fire, the enemy fighters roasted before they had a chance to fight back.

“They’re trying to set up a defence,” Singh bawled through the radio net.  One set of guards had apparently managed to hold off a handful of marines, just long enough for the remaining inhabitants to grab weapons and start pouring fire through a handful of murder holes.  “That has to be the command building.”

He barked orders as we assembled, then crawled forward as another platoon provided cover to keep the enemy from spotting us.  We grabbed gas grenades, tossed them through the murder holes and watched, moments later, as the enemy came staggering out of the building, choking or puking helplessly.  They were in no condition to resist as we grabbed them, knocked them to the ground and secured them.  Hopefully, we’d bagged a few enemy commanders among the fighters.

The ground shook as a building exploded, sending a colossal fireball reaching up towards the stars.  Someone had blown the armoury, although there was no way to know if it had been an accident or deliberate malice.  The remainder of the camouflage netting caught fire and started to fall from overhead, threatening to set the entire camp on fire.  I was grateful for my mask as Singh directed us onwards, checking a handful of other buildings for stragglers.  One of them held a small unit of enemy women, armed to the teeth.  They probably had good reasons to hate the Redshirts too.  We ended up throwing stun grenades into their building and storming it while they were twitching helplessly.  I was silently relieved that none of them had died, even though they were the enemy.  We carried them out, bound their hands and feet, then finally placed them with the other captives. 

Another hail of shots burst out as a small enemy party returned to the camp.  I was surprised they’d come at all - that damned fireball must have been visible for miles around - but we engaged them, using our NVGs to best advantage.  The enemy traded shots for several minutes, then faded back into the darkness.  I wanted to give chase, but Singh overruled me.

“There’s no way to know what’s waiting for us out there, lad,” he said.  “Check their defences instead.”

We did.  The rebels had been quite determined to make anyone who came for the camp pay dearly, although they hadn't anticipated a parachute assault.  (Maybe they’d thought their spies would provide more than ample warning, as Webb had clearly assumed.)  There were several trenches, all quite professionally done, and a number of weapons emplacements that would have been nasty, if we’d been assaulting from the wrong side.  4th and 5th Platoons took over the task of manning the defences, in case the enemy decided to launch a counterattack, while the rest of us were detailed to either make another sweep for prisoners or check the remaining weapons supplies.  The armoury that had exploded hadn't been the only one.

“Much better safety here,” Lewis observed, as we removed a large crate of mines from the storage compartment.  “They must have skipped those lessons for the people they sent to Charlie City.”

“Or it's just a different group,” I said.  “The rebels don’t have a simple command structure, do they?”

“No,” Lewis said.  “They know what we’d do to them if they did.”

I nodded.  A military hierarchy is relatively simple, with orders flowing from senior officers all the way down to the grunts at the bottom; the chain of command, and the difference between a legitimate and illegitimate order, is easy to follow.  An insurgency, on the other hand, is a distributed network of cells, operating semi-independently ... or it isn't long for this world.  The average fighters we captured simply didn't know anyone higher up the food chain; the senior fighters, the ones who
did
, were careful not to allow themselves to be taken prisoner.  We could crack an insurgent cell, capture or kill every last one of its members ... and get nowhere.  The rebels would still be out there; we'd have to start again, breaking a whole new cell.

“They’d try to cut all the links from here to the rest of the warlords,” I said.  “But we should be able to learn more from the captives.”

We finished moving out the supplies - the insurgents had an alarming number of weapons, including several dozen pinched from the spaceport - and piled them up near the defence line, where we could put them to use if necessary.  The prisoners were recovering slowly, glaring at us; I shivered, despite myself, at the hatred written over one young girl’s face.  I could practically see her life story in her snarl ... and bitter helplessness, now she was a prisoner.  If things had been different, it might have been my sister looking at me like that.