Retreat Hell (26 page)

“There would also be more collateral damage,” Elzandra said, sweetly.  “And it would be much less fun.”

Thomas shrugged.

Over the next two hours, they knocked down twenty more buildings and started establishing a network of small FOBs surrounding the Zone.  With a combination of automated sensors and human eyes, Thomas was fairly sure, nothing would be able make its way out of the Zone without being detected and engaged.  If a heavy assault happened to materialise, a QRF unit was based just behind the line to provide immediate reinforcements, while an artillery battery would provide fire support.  A handful of shots rang out of the Zone – enemy snipers trying to harass the soldiers – but they tended to fade away as Buckley’s Marines returned fire.

He watched the local soldiers with a wary eye, but most of them seemed reassuringly competent, if unpolished.  His terminal noted that the unit assigned to his section of the front had seen plenty of action and held together remarkably well, although he’d seen too many assessments like that which had been taken on faith until they’d been proven to be unfounded.  Besides, invading a fortified city would be very different from guarding sections of the city, keeping roads open or whatever else they’d been doing.  He’d just have to keep an eye on them when the signal came to advance and hope they didn't break and run the moment they ran into serious resistance.

“They’re saying two days before we can advance,” he said, when one of his men asked him.  It seemed remarkably fast, too fast.  But from what he’d heard, the local government was desperate to hit back at the insurgents.  After what had happened in Asgard itself, Thomas found it hard to blame them. 

But he couldn't escape the feeling that they were doing precisely what the enemy wanted them to do.

***

After an uneasy sleep, Gudrun had been wakened and told – after a short breakfast – that she’d been assigned to the hospital.  She’d hoped for something a little more interesting, something that might have allowed her to have a look around, but apparently that wasn't an option.  Her attempt to point out that she knew nothing about medicine hadn't done her any favours.  The doctor had promptly given her a whole series of unpleasant tasks to do, starting with cleaning bedpans.

She was midway through her fifth bedpan – and every time she forgot to breathe through her mouth she ended up feeling sick – when she heard one of the patients talking to a visitor.  Carefully, she slipped closer and listened to their voices, despite the risk.  She was there to gather intelligence, after all.

“They’re saying the attack will begin in two days,” one voice said.  “Our source in the mansion confirmed it.”

“I’d better be out of here by then,” the other voice said.  Gudrun almost smiled as she heard the typical reluctance to stay in bed any longer than strictly necessary.  The doctor had threatened to tie some of her patients to their beds.  “Have they made any threats or demands?”

“Just an offer to take our women and children for safety,” the first voice said.  He sounded rather scornful.  “As if we’d make such a mistake.”

“The outsiders might mean it,” the second voice countered.  “But the local government has never kept its word.  They’d use our people as hostages – or simply re-educate them to become good little slaves.”

Gudrun hesitated, then sneaked away back to the table as she heard footsteps down the hall.  She had a piece of information now, something Marcy needed to know.  And yet part of her wondered if she should share it at all ...

And then her shoulder itched, answering her unspoken question.  She had no choice.  She’d given up her choice the moment she’d accepted Marcy’s offer.  And all she could do was pass on what she heard and pray it was enough.  But would it
ever
be enough?

She waited until she’d finished cleaning most of the bedpans – some of them really just needed to be dumped – and then headed towards the nearest toilet.  It was private enough, she hoped, for her to try to send a message.  She could only place her faith in Marcy’s claim that the communicator was undetectable.  If she was caught ...

... Death was the least she could expect.

But, perhaps worst of all, when the outside food no longer arrived (the intervention force had run out of funds), the result was a far harsher famine.  The arrival of free food had destroyed what remained of the planet’s farming industry, even the relatively healthy sections that could have been put back to work in short order with the proper outside support.  By the time the intervention force pulled out, half the planet’s population was dead or dying and civil war was ripping what remained of order apart.

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

“I always liked the sunrise,” Daniel said, softly.

Beside him, Brigadier Jasmine Yamane nodded, impatiently.  She was an odd person, Daniel had decided; intensely focused, determined to win and, at the same time, aware of the underlying causes of the conflict that had to be removed to bring the conflict to an end.  But, like so many others who weren't involved in politics, she had no idea of the practical difficulties of actually proposing and implementing solutions.  The best ideas she’d had would result in Daniel’s immediate impeachment if he proposed them in front of the Senate.

Daniel shrugged.  The sunrise had always given him hope that, no matter what happened, the sun would come up in the morning, banishing darkness back to the pits of hell.  Even as a grown adult, he had clung to the whimsical childhood superstition, despite knowing that the sunlight sometimes illuminated the damage done during the night.  But now ... he turned and looked at her, wondering briefly how she’d joined the Marines.  Her file hadn't been very clear on personal details, all of which were considered classified.

“The forces are in position,” Jasmine said.  Her voice was oddly flat, almost completely atonal.  It made her seem more robotic than feminine.  Every time he looked at her, he couldn’t help thinking of a viper poised to strike.  In some ways, she was far more intimidating than the muscular guards who followed her everywhere.  “We can move on your command.”

Daniel let out a breath.  The Senate had been demanding strong action against the Zone for years, even before the arrival of the CEF and savage bloodshed in Asgard’s streets.  Now, they were about to get their wish ... but only at an appalling cost in lives and equipment.  He’d seen the estimates put together by the High Command, stating that thousands of soldiers and civilians were about to lose their lives.  Part of him wanted to refuse the military permission to advance, part of him knew there was no choice.  The war had to be brought to an end as quickly as possible.  As the very least, the insurgency would need years to rebuild itself after the Zone was crushed.  He could use that time to nurse the economy back to health.

“Tell me,” he said, very quietly.  “Is this going to work?”

“We will handle the Zone,” Jasmine said, confidently.  “The short-term problem will be removed.  In the long-term ...”

“I know,” Daniel said.  He sighed, feeling the weight of power and authority pressing down on him.  His cowardly opponents, no matter how much they hated him, wouldn't try to remove him as long as he didn't try to change too many policies, purely out of fear of having to tackle the problems themselves.  “You can order the attack as soon as you return to your HQ.  Just ... keep me informed of progress.”

“Understood,” Jasmine said, crisply.

***

Jasmine would have preferred to command operations from the spaceport, or the FOB nearest the Zone, but the locals had insisted on placing the command post in a building right next to the mansion.  It wasn't a decision Jasmine cared for – local politicians had already come to visit more than once, demanding full explanations of what was going on – yet she’d had no choice.  The locals had overall command, after all, even if they’d ceded tactical command to Jasmine for the duration of her deployment.

The bunker was too elegant for her taste, despite her best efforts.  There was little sense of immediacy in the room; it was comfortable, elaborately furnished and generally decorated in a manner that was staggeringly unmilitary.  She’d seriously considered ordering her subordinates to scrape the gilt off the walls, as well as replacing the comfortable chairs with tacky ones borrowed from the spaceport.  The only concession to practicality she'd been able to enforce was the removal of the installed tables and their replacement with tables designed for the CEF’s command staff.  They were now covered with computer terminals, communications equipment and a handful of weapons.

She didn't bother to sit.  Instead, she looked down at the display on the main screen, showing the live feed from the five drones as they orbited the Zone.  Each one could pick out and track hundreds of individual fighters; combined, they could pick the Zone apart, at least the parts of it visible from high overhead.  Jasmine knew that the full capabilities of the system hadn't really been touched by the Empire, but the CEF had turned the use of drones into an art form, one that bore no risk to the pilots.  Beyond them, a network of orbital satellites kept a sharp eye on the area around the Zone.  It was easy to understand, she realised, why so many of the Empire’s commanders fell prey to the temptation to micromanage.  They seemed to have a god’s-eye view of the entire battlefield.

“Send the order,” she said, curtly.  “The advance is to begin at once.”

***

Thomas felt sweat trickling down his back as he heard the order, then glanced back to inspect his troops.  They looked grimly determined to do their best, but the wisecracking and sardonic remarks had completely evaporated.  Thomas grinned at them all, remembering just how many times he’d risked his life and come out intact, then turned and led the way towards the Zone.  They’d already moved the rubble from the destroyed buildings aside, working it into the barricades.  The only downside of creating a kill-zone for the enemy was that the enemy could use it in reverse.

“Snipers ready and waiting,” a voice hissed in his ear.  “Mortars online, ready and waiting; drones on the prowl.”

He heard a dull roar behind him as the first local AFV – he wouldn't dignify it with the term
tank
– started to advance forward, machine guns searching for targets.  There was no hope of surprising the enemy now, but in all honestly no one had actually expected to surprise the insurgents and catch them on the hop.  They probably had their own sensors monitoring the cleared area as well as visual contact.

But nothing moved to intercept them as they reached the first set of buildings.  Thomas tensed, then keyed the sensors built into his suit.  There were traces of high explosives, faint hints that the entire building had been turned into an IED.  Muttering curses under his breath, he ordered the building to be marked for later attention, then led his men towards the next one.  It was, if anything, coated in traces of high explosive.  A nasty suspicion nagged at his mind – the sensors were easy to fool, if one knew how to do it – but he knew he couldn't take the risk of assuming the traces weren't real.  The enemy might have hoped he’d do just that and walk right into a blast.

He led the way towards the first barricade, weapon in hand.  He’d expected savage street-fighting, or even the enemy mounting suicidal charges towards the advancing infantry, but there was nothing.  Just an eerie quiet that seemed almost deafening.  The roar of the AFVs seemed almost muted as they reached the barricade and started knocking it down.  Behind it, there was nothing but empty streets.  A faint series of titters ran through the command net as tension released, abruptly; he barked orders for them to shut up and stay alert.  The enemy might have chosen to avoid an immediate engagement, but that didn't mean they'd conceded the battle.  They were lurking, deeper within the Zone, and preparing to strike.

“Bomb disposal teams are on their way,” the coordinator said.  Thomas checked; nearly fifty buildings had been marked as being primed for demolition.  If the bombs could be remotely detonated, the advancing forces might be in for a nasty surprise.  “Hold the line until they arrive.”

“Understood,” Thomas said.  “Hold the line against
what
?”

Another AFV appeared, prowling past them and driving down the exact centre of the road.  It encountered nothing, but slowed rapidly as the driver saw the amount of rubbish on the road, just waiting for him to drive over it.  Thomas knew, all too well, just how easy it was to conceal an IED under a pile of rubbish, let alone rubble or dead bodies.  The rebels had slowed them down without even bothering to engage the advancing soldiers.  Defusing the various buildings and turning them into strongpoints would be utterly time-consuming.

And, by the time they show themselves, we will be exhausted
, he thought, grimly. 
This is
not
going to be easy
.

***

There had been no point in using radios, let alone microburst communicators within the Zone.  Pete knew, even if his fellows didn't, just how easy it was to track such emissions and arrange for a missile to be dropped on the transmitter.  Indeed, he'd set up a few decoys to activate when the time was right, knowing that they would distract the government forces at the worst possible time.  The telephone system he’d had set up was primitive compared to a modern radio, but it had the advantage of being almost completely undetectable.  It also allowed him to keep the location of his HQs reasonably secret.

He smiled as the operator put down her phone and made a quick mark on the map.  It was nowhere near as capable as an electronic display – there were certainly no force-tracking systems to tell him where his men were – but it had a certain charm.  Besides, like the telephone, it was completely undetectable.  He just had to keep reminding himself that the situation on the ground would be fluid and the map would be out of date within minutes, at most.

“They’re prodding their way through Line A,” the operator said.  “So far, they haven’t entered any of the houses.”

Pete wasn't surprised.  No one in their right mind would enter a house that might be rigged to explode at any moment.  Removing the explosives would take time and effort, something that would slow the advancing forces down considerably.  But he needed to act quickly himself, just to make sure he kept the loyalty of his own forces.  Simply falling back and
letting
the enemy take command of the outer edge of the Zone wouldn't sit well with them.

“Check the passive sensors,” he ordered.  “Do we have a lock on the drones?”

He smiled as he looked down at the screen.  There were two types of drones deployed by the Marine Corps; handheld drones that could be picked off by a reasonably competent sniper and large aircraft that could hover for hours over the battlefield, their unblinking eyes tracking his forces with exquisite precision.  They were untouchable with the weapons owned by most insurgencies; even HVMs had problems reaching them before they deployed countermeasures and evaded contact.  But his off-world allies, whoever they were, had given him something to even the odds.

“We do,” the operator confirmed.  He would have sold his soul for a trained team, but he’d forced the people he had to drill mercilessly until they could deploy the weapon in their sleep.  “They’re not trying to hide.”

“They couldn't hide,” Pete said, smoothly.  “Pass the word to the gunners.  They are to engage ASAP.”

***

Alpha didn't really consider herself a soldier.  She'd been recruited from the Avalon Technological Institute as a drone operator and computer programmer, streamlined into the military’s support arms rather than being put through Boot Camp.  It was something that relieved her; she might have been forced to undergo firearms training and basic exercises with the rest of her unit, but she knew she would never make a soldier.  But it hardly mattered, she believed.  She might not fight, yet merely by working the drones she helped to multiply the fighting power of the CEF. 

Few people really understood just how much data flowed into the drones at any one time.  It was hard, even for the advanced computer programs they’d developed, to separate out the important data from the torrent and forward it to the people who needed it.  Alpha had seen the drones confidently identify brooms as guns and vice versa, while sometimes they could lose track of a person simply because he donned a pathetic false moustache.  It was the reason for the human element in the system, she knew, and why she couldn't leave the drones to handle requests for data alone.  She needed to monitor the system personally.

A display flashed red, then went black.  Alpha gaped – she’d heard of a drone’s communicator failing, but there were multiple backups in place – and then ran a diagnostic program.  Moments later, the remaining four drones failed too.  Alpha stared in disbelief, then hit the alarm button as she hastily scrolled through the final few seconds of transmissions from each of the drones.  All five of them had reported a sudden rise in temperature before they’d lost contact.

Marcy burst into the room, her face worried.  “What’s happening?”

“We’ve lost the drones,” Alpha said, dully.  She dug through the final few seconds of data, but found nothing.  “They shot down the drones.”

Marcy walked up behind Alpha and peered over her shoulder.  “How?”

“I think a laser or a directed-energy weapon,” Alpha said.  “The drones aren't built of hullmetal.  A few seconds would be more than enough to blow them out of the sky.”