Retreat Hell (32 page)

“Low enough to be hit within seconds,” Michael confirmed.  “They couldn't have hoped to escape.”

Jasmine nodded.  HVMs – High-Velocity Missiles – had been developed to give ground forces a chance to keep enemy aircraft away from them, which they did very well.  A helicopter flying near an HVM launcher was almost certainly doomed, with jet aircraft and drones faring only slightly better.  Even a Marine Raptor would have difficulty surviving a direct hit from an HVM ... not that it mattered.  The handful of Raptors they’d brought to Avalon were all out of service now, after being worked to death.

“It’s worth considering,” she agreed.  Bringing up CAS aircraft would certainly speed up the fall of the Zone, but it would be giving the enemy easy targets if they were playing possum.  After everything that had happened, she wasn't going to underestimate the rebels again.  “Do we have any confirmation from intelligence?”

Michael shook his head.  “Nothing,” he said.  “Just ... indirect evidence.”

Jasmine looked up as the door opened, revealing Marcy.  “We just received word of a High Value Target,” she said, shortly.  She dropped a datachip on the desk, which Jasmine took and slotted into the projector.  “Our former comrade himself.”

“Good,” Jasmine said.  She looked down at the satellite images, thinking hard.  The rebel HQ – if it
was
the rebel HQ – was a small building, completely inseparable from the others surrounding it.  It was tempting, awfully tempting, to drop a shell on the building and blow it into dust.  But if she did, they would never know what – if anything – they’d hit.  “You want him alive?”

It was a silly question, she knew. 
She
wanted the former Marine alive. 
She
wanted to ask him what the fuck he was thinking, joining up with a rebel group of uncertain motives, working for an outside power that was almost certainly hostile. 
She
wanted answers.

“Get me Lieutenant Buckley,” she ordered.  She glanced down at her wristcom, then looked through the windows at the darkening sky.  The raid would have to be launched very quickly or not at all.  “I need to speak to him.”

If she’d stayed in command of the platoon, she would have agreed at once.  But she knew it wasn't her choice to make, not really.  It was Joe Buckley, the man with a talent for getting into trouble and then getting out of it, who would have to make the final call.  She couldn't make it for him, or force him to act against his better judgement.  Everything would depend on him.

“Brigadier,” Buckley said, as his face appeared on the screen.  “What can I do for you?”

“I’m shooting you the details now,” Jasmine said.  “We have an HVT that needs captured – or taken out.”

There was a long pause as Buckley reviewed the intelligence summery, then the raw data.  “Chancy,” he said, finally.  “What can we call upon?”

“Anything you need,” Jasmine said.  Buckley would be the CO on the ground, after all.  “If we have it, you can use it.”

“I’ll start planning now,” Buckley said.  “Kick-off in an hour suit you?”

Jasmine nodded.  It was unlikely they could launch the operation any quicker, no matter what happened.  They’d done better on Han, towards the end of the war, but then they’d had QRFs scattered all over the planet.

“Have a good one, Joe,” she said.

“Thank you,” Buckley said.  He touched his forehead in a mock salute.  “
Semper Fi
!”

And
, Jasmine thought, in the privacy of her own head,
wasn't that more than a little ironic
?

But, from Earth, such incidents looked relatively small.  The death of a few hundred locals was minor – incidents had to kill hundreds of thousands to register on the Grand Senate’s collective radar – and easily dismissed on Earth.  They simply could not comprehend that a few hundred deaths might easily encompass an entire tribe or extended family grouping, thus the deaths might be classed as genocide.

-
Professor Leo Caesius. 
War in a time of ‘Peace:’ The Empire’s Forgotten Military History.

Joe Buckley knew his strengths and his weaknesses very well.  After all, a succession of commanding officers had drummed them into his head from the moment he'd entered Boot Camp to the day he’d been given command of 1
st
Platoon.  He was capable and flexible, very good at reacting to unexpected situations ... but also very good at getting into trouble.  If he hadn't been good at getting
out
of trouble, he knew, he would probably be dead by now. 

“You have a strange kind of luck,” the Commandant had said, years ago.  “I seriously considered failing you, even though I couldn't point to a rational reason
why
I should fail you.”

He pushed the memory aside as he glided towards the Zone, followed by the other nine Marines who made up 1
st
Platoon.  Sneaking their way into the Zone on the ground would be incredibly challenging, even for Marines; Joe knew, all too well, that they would almost certainly be detected and have to fight their way out of the urban zone.  Coming in by air, however, would at least get them to their target before they were noticed.  The gliders were silent, very hard to detect even with active sensors ... and almost invisible in the gathering darkness.

The Zone itself looked thoroughly weird from high overhead.  There were flashes of light and explosions from the front lines, but the interior of the complex was almost completely dark.  Joe’s helmet sensors reported a number of heat signatures on the ground, men and women moving from place to place under cover of darkness.  A number of larger signatures were probably cooking fires, he guessed, or heating elements.  It grew cold at night on Thule and, now they’d been cut off from the planet’s electric network, the inhabitants would be resorting to fires to warm themselves.  But they still definitely had power.

Someone must have stockpiled batteries ... or even a fusion core
, he thought.  He wouldn't have expected an insurgency to hide a portable fusion core somewhere within their territory, but the insurgents on Thule had already pulled off a whole series of surprises.  They’d clearly been planning the uprising and consequent civil war for quite some time.  But their commander knew, all-too-well, just how his counterparts would think.

Gritting his teeth, he twisted the hang-glider slightly, altering course, his gaze tracking their destination.  It looked almost completely defenceless from high overhead, which was almost certainly an illusion.  Unless they had been grossly mistaken, the rebel HQ would have plenty of hidden defences, even though having the defences out in the open would have told the enemy gunners precisely where to aim.  His altitude dropped rapidly as he fell towards the building, feeling a rush of the old tension and excitement from when he’d carried out his first parachute jump.  He’d once been told that a number of Boot Camp recruits managed to make it as far as their first jump and stopped, dead.  If they couldn't jump out of a plane, they didn't have a hope of performing a combat drop on a heavily defended planet.

“Get ready to deploy the gas grenades,” he ordered.  Using microbursts this close to the rebel HQ was a risk – he dared not assume that the rebels didn't have equipment capable of picking them up, no matter what the techs claimed – but there was no choice.  A few seconds of warning wouldn't make that much of a difference.  “Drop them as soon as we land.”

The roof came up towards him at terrifying speed.  Joe twisted the hang-glider once again, slowing his fall, then dropped the last few metres onto the roof.  A pair of guards, half-hidden under the awning, came into view, gaping in horror at the men who had just landed on top of the building.  Joe picked them both off before they could react, then led the way towards a hatch in the rooftop.  Underneath, the rebels were waiting for them.

“Grenades away,” one of his Marines said.  There were a series of pops as the grenades fell down around the building.  Unusually, the gas was clearly visible, even in the darkness.  But its purpose wasn't to stun or kill, merely to keep the enemy penned up inside the house.  Assuming, of course, that their intelligence wasn't completely wrong.  “Sir?”

Joe smiled.  “In we go,” he said.  He activated his communicator.  “We’re entering the house; I say again, we’re entering the house.”

***

Pete had long ago mastered the trick of sleeping, despite the sounds of gunfire and explosions from outside the house.  His Drill Instructors had pointed out that sleep was so important that the Marines would have to sleep wherever and whenever they could, even if there were shells and bullets whistling all around them.  They’d meant it too, Pete recalled; one of the more sadistic training drills at the Slaughterhouse had played the recruits the sound of combat while they were trying to sleep.  Later, on training deployments, they’d slept in places as varied as muddy fields and captured enemy houses.  He still had nightmares about the foxhole that had caved in on him during the first live-fire combat drill he’d endured.

But he was also a very light sleeper, much to the amusement of his wife.  If something moved too close to him, he jerked awake.  He’d always woken her in the middle of the night, normally after she snuggled up to him and shocked him out of his rest.  Now ... he jerked awake, convinced that
something
was badly wrong.  His training had included lessons in listening to his intuition, even though it wasn't something that could be quantified.  The human mind often picked up danger signs without quite realising what it was picking up.

He sat upright and reached for the pistol he’d hidden under the bed.  It wasn't uncommon for an insurgency to come apart into civil war; Pete knew that quite a few of the other leaders didn't appreciate his plans or trust him without reservation.  Stone, among others, might have decided to launch a coup.  They all had men who were loyal to them personally, rather than the movement as a whole.  But if it had been Stone, she would probably have blown up the whole house rather than risk trying to take him alive.

Stumbling to his feet, pistol in hand, he ran over to the far wall and pressed his hand against the plaster.  There was only one door into his bedroom, something that had bothered him when he'd first seen it.  Long experience had taught him that having only one way in or out of a room could turn the room into a trap, so he’d looked for an alternate way out as soon as the building had been designated one of his headquarters.  The plaster was thin, thin enough for him to smash with his bare hands, if necessary.  It ran the risk of making noise, but there was no longer any choice.  Outside, he could hear the sound of running feet and gunfire.  It was quite clear that
someone
had decided to take him out.

Bracing himself, he struck the plaster and smiled as it broke under the blow.

***

The interior of the building didn't match the plans they’d been given, Joe noted, as they spread out through the building, but he wasn't particularly surprised.  They’d designed the buildings for rapid reconfiguration if necessary and, when it had become clear that they would be trapped in the Zone for the foreseeable future, the original inhabitants had started to redesign it to suit themselves.  The Marines would just have to search the building floor by floor.

“Got several small units running towards the building,” his communicator hissed.  The drone, high overhead, was watching the building and providing top cover.  “Gunners standing by.”

“Tell them to engage,” Joe ordered, as he entered another room.  A pair of young men scrambled away from him, only to be shot down before they could escape.  “And tell them to be damn careful where they aim their weapons.”

The building shook violently, seconds later.  Joe swallowed a curse as they plunged into the next room, discovering a handful of datachips, a paper map and little else.  He marked the room down for later attention, if they had time before they had to run for their lives, then moved into another room.  Outside, the gunners had dropped antipersonnel rounds into the area surrounding the building, catching the rebels on the hop.  Or so he hoped.  Between the shellfire and the gas, the rebels should have real problems responding to the sudden intrusion. 

“Top floor cleared,” one of his men snapped.

“Down to the next floor,” Joe ordered.  “Hurry!”

Some of the enemy soldiers had clearly managed to get organised, Joe realised, as they reached the top of the stairs.  They’d set up an ambush, firing madly up towards the Marines.  Joe barked orders; the Marines used high explosive to shatter the floor and drop down on top of their enemies.  The insurgents barely had time to react before the Marines sliced through them, taking them all out.  Joe led the Marines onwards into the next set of rooms.  Inside, he discovered several young women staring at the intruders in horror.  Judging from their appearance, they were probably rebel coordinators rather than whores or any other kind of sex slave.

“Stay here,” he ordered.  It was stupid – the female of the species could be just as dangerous as the male – but he wasn't going to shoot down girls in cold blood.  “Stay here and don’t move.”

They confiscated a handful of weapons from the girls, then ran on into the next set of rooms and discovered a small barracks.  The beds were empty, suggesting that the room had been occupied by the men they’d killed.  Joe muttered a curse under his breath and led the way down to the next floor.  They were running out of rooms to search.

And then he heard the noise.

***

Pete forced his way through the plaster and stopped, listening carefully.  The sound of gunfire – precise gunfire – from outside suggested that the attack wasn't a coup, but a SF raid on a HVT.  Part of his mind was mildly impressed, noting that the attackers had dropped into the centre of the Zone to carry out their attack, the rest of him was horrified.  They’d managed to effectively surround his building and isolate him.  He heard the sound of running footsteps and turned, beating a hasty retreat towards the emergency exit.  If there were shells falling around the building, the only way out would be the underground tunnels.

And then someone came after him.

Gritting his teeth, he turned and found cover.  If they wanted him, they wouldn't take him without a fight.

***

Joe Buckley knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the man diving for cover was their target.  No Marine could conceal his identity from another, not when they’d had the Slaughterhouse in common. 
Pete Rzeminski might have retired before Joe himself had graduated and donned his Rifleman’s Tab, but the training remained identical.

“Halt,” he bellowed, reaching for a stun grenade.  It would have to be his first resort, even though he wasn't entirely sure it would work.  Rzeminski had been out of service for a long time, but his immunisations and enhancements would still be in play.  “Halt or I shoot.”

He threw the grenade without bothering to wait for a reply, then cursed under his breath as two shots came back at him.  Clearly, Rzeminski was still immune to the knock-out gas.  Joe muttered a quick update into the radio, then threw himself forward at breakneck speed.  His target had been inching backwards, but came up to fight as soon as he realised there was no point in trying to evade Joe any longer.  Joe ducked a punch, then slammed the stunner into Rzeminski’s chest and pulled the trigger several times.  Rzeminski staggered, somehow remaining on his feet for a handful of long seconds, then collapsed.  Joe let out a breath, then rolled the body over and checked its face against the records, then the DNA.  It wouldn't be the first time an insurgent leader had left an underling to take the fall.

But the face was correct, as was the genetic code.  Joe hesitated, then yanked Rzeminski’s hands behind his back and bound them with a plastic tie.  He wrapped another tie around the man’s ankles, just to make sure he was immobilised, then picked the insurgent leader up and slung him over his shoulder.

“Enemy captured; I say again, enemy captured,” he said.  “Requesting immediate extraction.”

“Understood,” the coordinator said.  “Choppers inbound now; I say again, choppers inbound now.”

Joe could hear the sound of shooting outside as he met up with the remainder of the Marines and headed back to the roof, taking a few moments to sweep the floors for anything that might be useful for intelligence purposes.  Somewhat to his disappointment, there was very little, apart from clear evidence that a paper disposal system had been used to destroy documents over the past few days.  Rzeminski, it was clear, had known the dangers and practiced strict communications security.  There probably wouldn't be anything sensitive on the datachips they’d recovered, Joe decided.  It wouldn't be the first time the Marines had captured datachips, only to discover they were loaded with entertainment programs – or porn.

Outside, the Zone seemed to be seething with anger.  The live feed from the drone revealed several more groups of insurgents making their way towards the house, while others were trying to bring mortars to bear on their former HQ.  Joe had to admire their determination, even though it was clear they’d given up all hope of recovering their former leader.  Maybe their other leaders wanted to get rid of him too, he wondered, as shells started crashing down on top of the mortar positions.  This time, there would be nothing held back.