Gears of War: Anvil Gate (24 page)

“I’d rather he was the nervous type than the sort that thinks it’ll all be over by dinner.”

“You still talk like a sergeant, you know, sir.” Pad scoped through with his Longshot again, this time in the direction of the supply route to the north, a narrow road that squeezed through a steep gorge. It was a perfect killing zone for a sniper. “And I mean that in a
good
way. Oh, look, more trucks.”

Hoffman checked the road through his binoculars. Headlights bounced in a procession in the distance. “So how far do you think the Indies will get, Pad?”

Pad shrugged. “Have to work on the basis that they’ll roll up to
the front door. When do you think they’ll find out we’ve cut off the imulsion?”

“It’ll be a while yet.” Hoffman looked at his watch. “The Indies are probably going to cross the border in the next hour. But you can’t keep something like that quiet for long with the number of people involved. If they don’t have agents this side of the border, I’ll be amazed.”

“And the refinery’s going to notice the flow’s stopped.”

“Pretty fast, yes.”

“Bit shitty not to warn them. They won’t be joining the COG in a hurry after this.”

Vasgar had made its choice, but its neutrality hadn’t kept it out of the war. Hoffman really had expected the COG to rush to its aid and pour in more Gears it couldn’t spare, but so far it hadn’t; Ephyra had learned its lesson about overstretch. That made him feel better.

Can’t go running into every damn skirmish and wiping these countries’ asses for them. Costs too many men
.

“I’m going to check the teleprinter.” Hoffman didn’t like standing around doing nothing. “See you at breakfast.”

Anvegad was a city of early risers, but the place was a lot busier a lot earlier than usual. Hoffman passed Byrne’s girlfriend, Sheraya, in the delivery bay. It was a cobbled courtyard just wide enough for a modern truck to back into. She looked as if she was arguing with a driver, but it was hard to tell because the language always made Kashkuris sound as if they were about to punch your face in. It was just the combination of expressive hand gestures and harsh consonants. She was probably just telling him that his bread rolls were the finest in the land and asking how his mother was.

She caught Hoffman’s arm as he walked by. “Lieutenant, the driver says the bakery hasn’t received all its flour deliveries today. That means he’s only delivered half of the garrison’s order. He promises it’ll be back to normal tomorrow.”

“We can live with that, Miss Olencu,” Hoffman said. “But feel free to scare him some more.”

Sheraya didn’t crack a smile—so she probably
was
berating the
guy—and went back to the high-volume, rapid-fire discussion. She earned her pay, that girl. Hoffman imagined himself struggling to learn the language well enough to argue and negotiate without starting a riot, and decided that interpreters were a budget item worth every buck.

When he got to the small admin office that doubled as the ops room, he found Sander sitting at the desk, gazing alternately at the phone and the radio transceiver while both remained stubbornly silent.

“No news, then, sir?” Hoffman glanced at the desk. Sander’s sketchbook lay open with a half-finished pencil drawing of the view from the north side of the city, looking down that deep trench of a gorge. The lines were light and feathery, ready to take a wash of paint. “Real news, I mean.”

“I’m waiting on a few messages. Confirmation that Indie troops have crossed the border, and that Captain Fenix has cut off the pipeline. As soon as I’ve dealt with the priority traffic, I think we should let the Gears call home to reassure the families. You know how comms goes to rat shit when a new game kicks off.”

Sander was definitely a planner. Hoffman checked the overnight telex messages, looking for something from Margaret. But there was nothing, and he had a sudden urge to write a letter, a
proper
letter, the kind every Gear left for his family just in case things ended badly. Hoffman had never written one for a wife before; parents and sweethearts, yes, but never anything serious like the last words to a wife. He knew he was going to sweat over it.

“We’re short on the bread delivery today, by the way,” he said, putting the task out of his mind for the moment. “Thought you ought to know. The bakery driver says he’ll make up the shortfall tomorrow.”

“That’s okay. We’re stocked up on everything now—call me a worrier, but I’ve had so many shortages with supplies and victualing in other garrisons that I grab as much as I can, when I can.” Sander reached across the desk and took his sketchpad in one hand, frowning at the drawing. Hoffman realized it was the captain’s safety valve rather than trivia that got in the way of his job. Sander didn’t drink. He
painted
. “I’ve run out of burnt umber.
I’m going to have to make some myself now. Not sure if there’s any clay around here, though.”

“I suspect Miss Olencu can procure some for you, sir.”

Hoffman wandered outside again and stood on the ramparts, scanning the plain below with his field glasses. The constellation of lights that marked the imulsion refinery across the Vasgar border were gradually fading from prominence as the sun rose. About ten minutes later, Hoffman’s radio crackled. It was Sander.

“It’s a go, Victor. Just heard from Captain Fenix. He’s shutting down the pipeline.”

Hoffman found his stomach knotting. He was five hundred klicks from the advancing UIR forces, but it still made his adrenaline pump.

“They’ve invaded, then.”

“Token resistance at the border crossing, but the Indie armor is rolling in. I think the imulsion companies put up more of a fight when Fenix told them to stop supplying Vasgar. Much bleating about loss of revenue and who was going to compensate them.”

Ungrateful assholes
. “I can’t see Vasgar being able to pay its fuel bills now anyway.”

“As of now, we’re on REDCON three. Alert-thirty. We’ve been authorized to open fire on Vasgari positions when we make enemy contact.”

Well, that made life easier; no messing around waiting for the Indies to open fire first.

They’d take a while to get to the northern border, though, if they were going to get this far at all. They had a whole country to work through. There was no telling what the shreds of Vasgar’s government, its army, or even its disgruntled citizens might do to throw a spanner in the works. Hoffman wasn’t counting on a magnificent Vasgari resistance, but there’d be fighting of some kind.

He slung his binoculars around his neck, snapped the bayonet on his Lancer, and went back down to the barracks. The ready-state siren went off, echoing around the walls.

Somehow that made it all more official. Anvil Gate was ready for war.

It was a small garrison, just a hundred Gears plus a few thousand civilians living beyond its walls in the city. That was all this place had space for; a few humans to keep the big guns company and eke out a living from them. And this was what they’d all drilled for from the time they’d arrived at Anvil Gate, but doubted they’d use this time, or on their next deployment here, or even the next. The absolute emptiness of the rocky plain below the fort just added to the sense of unreality. The never-ending war was still a whole country away.

Hoffman did his rounds, driving around the city to see how the locals were reacting. They didn’t seem overly anxious. Their history was one of sitting tight and waiting for the invader to exhaust himself on this stubborn rock. As Hoffman passed the small bar where Sander liked to eat and take coffee, the owner waved casually to him as he leaned against the door frame, waiting for breakfast customers.

“Maybe you get to fire the guns this time, Mr. Lieutenant,” he called.

Hoffman slowed a little. “I hope you remember your emergency drill. The Indies might bring some big guns too.”

The café owner laughed. Taking Anvegad was about the same as walking straight up to a man with a loaded rifle trained on you and trying to disarm him. The garrison could watch the enemy approaching before they even came within range of the battery.

There were no surprises.

Back in the NCOs’ mess at the base of the main gun emplacement, Pad and Byrne were listening to both radios—the broadcast service as well as the COG military net. Hoffman could see the frowns of concentration as both men switched their attention from one to the other, fingers tapping their headsets occasionally.

“So what else is happening?” Hoffman helped himself to coffee. He really couldn’t face Pad’s hot sauce this morning. “Or are we the headlines?”

“It’s all about Shavad,” Byrne said. “We’ve sent in tanks. That’ll keep the Indies busy.”

“Break out your knitting. We could be waiting some time.”
Hoffman decided to ask. “I saw your woman this morning, Sam. Are you two serious?”

Byrne looked baffled for a moment. He had a broken nose that made him look a lot more aggressive than he was. It was the result of a dumb accident in a truck, but most people didn’t get as far as finding that out.

“Yeah, sir, I am,” he said. “She’s expecting.”

Hoffman couldn’t manage annoyance. There wasn’t a regulation about it, although Byrne should have told him in case it caused trouble with the locals.

“I suppose you want permission to marry while deployed, then,” he said.

“Now that you ask, sir, yes.”

Sander wouldn’t object. He was about to become a father himself. And there was nothing whatsoever to be achieved by telling Sam he had to wait.

“Go ahead,” Hoffman said. “Although what a smart girl like that sees in you, I have no idea.”

Pad mopped at his plate of eggs and lethal Islander sauce. “It’s his dazzling intellect, sir.”

“Has to be.”

It turned into an uneventful morning. Hoffman was beginning to think the border incursion was a feint to take the attention from Shavad, where the serious fighting was taking place, but at lunchtime the local radio station—the one that Sheraya had to translate for Captain Sander—reported that UIR forces, Furlin’s Third Infantry, had reached Oskeny. The city was fifty miles inside the border. There hadn’t been more than a roadblock erected by the local police chief, and it hadn’t worked.

Hoffman had everything to think about and nothing to actually do. He checked the fuel tanks deep under the fort that supplied the generators—full to the brim, enough for two weeks’ continuous running—and climbed to the gun floor of the main emplacement.

The artillery boys were on defense watches, sitting on their rickety metal seats and staring past the huge barrels of the twin
guns while the radio chattered. Every damn position had a radio of some sort tuned to the Ephyra World Service. They looked like they were waiting for a movie to start.

“This is weird,” said the sergeant. “Can’t remember the last time I could actually see the target.”

“Well, with optics …”

“We don’t get to do much direct fire anyway, but this is like being a helicopter gunner—look down on it, point at it, blow the shit out of it. They’ve got no cover out there. Fish in a barrel.”

“Yeah, that’s why nobody’s tried to move through Anvegad for quite a few years.”

Hoffman walked the whole perimeter of the fort, some of it along the top of ancient walls, some of it in alleys that hadn’t seen daylight for the best part of a thousand years. The fort was a fascinating warren. It was also oddly relaxed. Every time he got to a vantage point to check out that spectacular view, there were still thousands of square miles of absolutely nothing.

Later in the day, just after lunch, the flour delivery truck arrived and groaned its way up the steep access road. There’d be extra bread in the morning after all. Anvegad went about its business, and not one shop closed for the day. Hoffman and Sander eventually met up in the observation post.

“The refinery’s shutting down,” Sander said. “Big argument between the acting president and the Chairman. They really weren’t expecting us to choke the supply.”

Hoffman snorted. “It’s the first thing any sane commander would do.”

“Everyone’s too comfortable with the war. They reach a stage where they think everything is a bluff to achieve something else.”

“Unless they’re the ones getting their asses shot off,” Hoffman muttered. “No hidden meaning there.”

Sander nodded. “No. Definitely not.”

It was about 1600 hours when a muffled
whump
shattered the quiet. Hoffman couldn’t work out which direction it had come from, but that wasn’t the sound that grabbed his attention most.

The
whump
was followed by a slow rumbling noise that gradually
built into a roar. The rumbling was so loud that it almost drowned the next
whump
, and the next.

“What the hell is that?” Sander said.

There was nothing, absolutely
nothing
, in a two-hundred-degree arc in front of them. Then the comms net came to life.

“Sir?” It was Byrne. “Sir, possible contact north of the fort. In the gorge.”

Hoffman went pounding down the stairs to the next level, where he could look out to the fort’s back—the road into Kashkur. A pall of smoke rose from the gorge and spread out, or at least he thought it was smoke.

“Shit, sir. Look at
that.
”

Hoffman stared, trying to work out what he was seeing. Sander was right behind him. His first thought was that shutting down the imulsion supply had left flammable vapor in the pipeline, and somehow it had ignited. It was always possible. Pipes developed leaks, and when the pressure dropped and the thick fluid ran away from cracked metal and perished seals, accidents could follow.

It was a damn big explosion.

“Where’s the goddamn road?” he said.

It was like a kid’s puzzle.
What’s the difference between these two pictures?
Hoffman stared, and like all familiar things, the view looked wrong but it took him a few moments to pin down exactly what had changed.

He couldn’t see the road, or at least part of it. There was just jagged gray rock and dust, as if the mountains had taken a few steps to the east. The rest of it carried on to the north across more rugged hills, but the section he could normally see from this window had disappeared.