Helfort's War Book 4: The Battle for Commitment Planet (38 page)

“Hell, I don’t know. You’re the closest thing to a marine around here. You tell me.”

“Hmmm … there’s only one thing we can do: force the Hammers to go early, before they are ready. That should buy the good guys enough time to disperse before those goddamned landers turn up. You have any microgrenades?”

Michael checked his pouches. “Two magazines of ten.”

“Same. That should be enough. Let me see … yes. Okay, here’s the plan …”

* * *

With a flat crack, the microgrenade arced away into space, a blurred black dot plummeting into the valley, with four more following in quick succession. Michael did not wait to see what happened next; clawing his way across the scree, he threw himself under cover as a storm of mortar fire dropped onto the outcrop he had been hiding behind, rock splinters plucking at his body armor as he dived for cover. “You sonsofbitches,” he shouted, flinching when another salvo smashed home. The Hammers might be second-rate, but there was nothing wrong with their counterbattery systems.

The instant Anna opened fire, Michael was on the move again to a new firing position on the ridge, the air torn apart by the sound of more counterbattery fire. Trying not to think what a single mortar shell could do to Anna’s body, he settled himself and aimed carefully. This time he could not help himself. He watched the second salvo of microgrenades climb into the sky before dropping among the Hammers, the valley walls echoing with the flat, slapping crack of grenades exploding, screams of pain rewarding the wait.

“Suck that, you fuckers,” he whispered, hurling himself downslope out of his firing position in a mad tumbling slide to the safety of a large outcrop of rock an instant before the ridgeline erupted, his hands clawing at the ground when a second salvo arrived. At least their mortars were accurate, he muttered under his breath, climbing to his feet when Anna fired her last salvo. He would not have been around if they had not been. Cursing his own stupidity—though it felt good to see Hammers die—he raced on to the rendezvous point, the hillside behind him erupting when more mortar shells ravaged the mountainside. Morons, Michael thought, stunned by the incompetence of Hammer commanders. They must have assumed there were no NRA elements behind them; why else would they have the northern flank screened only by recon drones, and precious few of them?

Breathing hard, his adrenaline-charged body made short work of the 500 meters to a gully that cut down to the valley floor downstream of the Hammers. Anna was already there, holed up under cover of the stream bank, safely out of sight of
the drones overhead, the flat crack of laser fire splitting the air as they fired on anything their optronics thought might be a worthwhile target.

“What kept you?” Anna snapped.

Michael knew better than to answer; wordlessly he slapped his last microgrenade magazine into his rifle.

“Let’s go,” Anna said, and they were off again, easing their way down the gully to the valley floor, stopping only when a drone passed overhead. Pausing for a second to make sure the Hammers had not woken up and sent foot patrols out to deal with them, they started back upstream. Still breathing hard—Michael knew why he had joined Space Fleet; you were carried into battle in climate-controlled comfort, no marching for days on end—he slid into position beside Anna.

“Hear that?” she said.

Belatedly, Michael noticed the unmistakable sound of small-arms fire mixed with the crack of mortars and the thumping bang of artillery coming from upstream. “Looks like we’ve attracted the attention of our people,” he said.

Anna nodded. “I hope they have the sense to break out of the valley before the Hammer landers appear. It’s their only chance. Right,” she said, her voice steady. “Ready for phase 2?”

Michael grinned at the fierce determination in her voice. “Yes, sir!”

“Don’t be a smart-ass,” Anna said, face crinkling with disapproval. “It doesn’t suit you. Come on.”

Fifteen minutes later, they had crossed to the stream’s southern bank, two blurs moving with extreme care into position a few meters below the opposite ridgeline. Below them and to their right, screened by scattered stands of thin trees, lay the Hammer line, an ants nest of activity where casualties were moved out of the line and back to the battalion aid station.

“Nobody’s coming this way,” Anna said at last. “Whoever’s running that circus needs to be reprogrammed.”

“I think they’ve decided we’re not important enough to worry about.”

“Sadly, they may be right. Right, targets.”

Michael dialed in the range and drop. Squinting down his rifle’s old-fashioned optical sights, he selected a Hammer.
Judging by the way he was laying down the law, the man was an officer. A stupid one: He was making no effort to stay under cover. “On,” Michael said, steadying his sights on the narrow gap between helmet and body armor.

“Ready,” Anna said. “Now!”

They fired in unison, Michael’s target jerking backward before dropping out of sight. The sights on his rifle might be old-fashioned, he thought as he worked his way methodically through those Hammers dumb enough to stay exposed, but they were accurate. Hitting a man at any distance was hard; making a dropping shot count was even harder, and Michael was no great marksman. The Hammers, slow to respond, started to return fire in earnest, a blizzard of small-arms fire guided by hostile fire indicators flaying the ground around their position.

“Time to go,” Michael said after one round came close, the hypersonic round fizzing past with a whip crack.

“Not yet. Grenades.”

With a flick of the switch, Michael selected the microgrenade launcher; without waiting for Anna, he unloaded the entire magazine as fast as he could.

“Go!” he shouted as the valley echoed to the flat cracks of microgrenades. The screams of the injured were followed an instant later by the crump of mortar shells hunting vainly for the attackers.

They ran from the valley of the River Kendozo, Michael praying hard every step of the way that they had given the NRA enough time to break out of the trap set for them by the Hammers.

Then Michael heard the unmistakable sound of marine ground-attack landers inbound; too quick, far too quick he thought, sickened by the knowledge of what came next, of being witness to what the Hammer military did best: the ruthless application of massive firepower. It was not long before the ground started to shake, the air filling with the sickening double thud of fuel-air bombs followed by the explosive crack of kinetics hitting the ground, then more bombs, more kinetics, in a relentless rolling storm of noise until the earth heaved under his feet, the sound of exploding ordnance blending into a continuous roar, the song of the Hammers, an anthem of death.

Michael paused for a second to look back. The northern sky was the stuff of nightmares. Clouds of flame-shot smoke and dust were beginning their climb into the sky, towering monuments to the enormous power of the Hammer military machine. Poor bastards, he said to himself. With a heavy heart, he turned and followed Anna south.

There was nothing more they could do now.

The Defense Council was deathly quiet as the commanding general, Hammer of Kraa Marines, wrapped up his presentation.

“… so it is with considerable confidence that I can assure the council that we have learned the lessons of past failures. There will be no more Perdans,” Baxter said, looking pointedly at the PGDF supporters around the table. “This time we will not fail. Operation Medusa will succeed. Are there any questions?”

“Thank you, General Baxter,” Polk said. Despite an innate distrust of the military, despite not trusting Baxter as far as he could spit, the man’s unshakable faith in the ability of his marines to get the job done had impressed him deeply. “Questions, anyone?”

Unsurprisingly, there were none. Baxter’s presentation had been pitched perfectly, every conceivable objection stopped dead in its tracks, the PGDF’s supporters around the table cowed into silence by a string of defeats at the hands of the NRA that had culminated in their abject failure at Perdan.

“No? Okay, thank you, General Baxter. If you would care to withdraw, the council will review your proposal and if appropriate vote to approve it or not.”

“Thank you, sir,” Baxter said.

Once the marine had left, Polk scanned the faces of the Defense Council to see if anyone present harbored any obvious doubts. He could see none. Time for the vote, he decided.

“Right, Councillors. If there are no questions, then it is time. All those in favor of Operation Medusa, please show … thank you. Approved unanimously. Admiral Belasz, given the importance of this operation, I require the war room to be operational forty-eight hours before commencement. All council meetings until the operation is concluded will be held there. Now, unless there is any other business … No? Fine. I declare this meeting closed.”

As the Defense Council broke up, Polk waved Belasz over. “Walk with me, Admiral,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

In silence, the pair made their way to Polk’s office. Waving Belasz into one of the armchairs, Polk ordered coffee before taking his seat.

“So, Admiral. An impressive performance by the general, don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir. It was. Though … may I be frank, sir?”

“Of course,” Polk said, waving a hand. “Of course.”

“I think it will be a lot harder than General Baxter allows.”

Polk frowned. He had been buoyed by General Baxter’s confidence, and this was not what he wanted to hear. “How so?” he said.

“I think General Baxter’s staff has the basics right. The marines will attack with overwhelming force, heavily armed. The entry strategy is close to genius, and once the marines are in, they can push the heretics back. I concede all that, but the Branxtons are unique. Hundreds of kilometers of caves and tunnels, thousands of hectares of limestone karst, millions of sinkholes leading Kraa only knows where. Where do we attack? Who knows?”

“We know, Admiral,” Polk said. “Our agents have supplied us with the most detailed maps of the NRA’s network of tunnels we have ever had.”

“That’s part of my concern, sir. The Branxtons are much too big for a small handful of agents to map. There are endless
tunnels down there. We only know a small part of it. The Branxton karst is vast. There’ll be tunnels down there the NRA doesn’t even know about.”

“Admiral, you worry too much.”

“No, sir, I don’t think I do. Let me give you an example. You know the new manufacturing facility those Kraa-damned Feds helped the NRA set up?”

“Yes,” Polk conceded, his face tight with anger. The fact that Helfort was still at liberty despite the enormous reward posted for his capture gnawed at him. “So?”

“Well, sir. Where is it? None of the maps we have been given give us any clue despite the fact the place must be huge. If we can’t find it, what else can’t we find?”

“Enough, Admiral, enough!” Polk snapped. “Yes, there are things we do not know, but that’s life. Baxter’s marines know enough to get the job done, and that’s all that matters. The NRA cannot run, they cannot hide. This time they have to fight, and General Baxter’s marines will make sure they do. I’m confident they will succeed.”

“Yes, sir,” Belasz said. “I’m sure you’re right.”

Polk glared at Belasz, searching for the smallest sign of dissent, but there was none. “I am, I am,” he continued. “Now, enough of that. I wanted to talk to you about your recommendation for the next fleet commander. I’m not sure Admiral O’Shaughnessy is the right man. I am concerned that …”

The northern approaches to the NRA’s heartland—thickly wooded valleys cut sheer into the limestone karst plateau—were kilometers long and protected by intricate networks of antipersonnel lasers and antiarmor missile launchers, backed up by quick-reaction units, all shielded from the threat of
Hammer fuel-air bombs and kinetics by meters of impenetrable limestone. The Hammers hated them so much that they had given up using them to attack the NRA’s front door; their last attempt had left dead planetary defense soldiers scattered across the valley floors, bodies piled in heaps amid the smoking carcasses of light armor, their attack condemned to failure, trapped in slab-walled valleys, unable to escape.

Not that the NRA units securing the area were willing to take any chances that the Hammers had given up for good. When remote movement sensors flashed warning of incoming foot traffic, they stood to, troopers fanning out to take up their positions in the maze of tunnels that opened out onto the valley. Slowly, the sensors tracked the new arrivals until finally two figures emerged out of the gloom, their every step testament to utter fatigue, their rifles held in both hands over their heads. The young lieutenant in command of Yankee-34 allowed himself to relax; they were displaying the correct pass code of the day.

“Advance!” a voice called, and the two figures made their way into the cave mouth. The lieutenant watched while his troopers confirmed their identities before shaking them down for contraband.

“Two Feds, sir,” his sergeant said, waving the pair through. “Trooper Helfort, 120th NRA, and Lieutenant Helfort. Both clear.”

“Bring them in.”

“Sir.”

“Welcome back,” the lieutenant said, trying not to let his shock show. He had seen his fair share of battlefield survivors, but these were in terrible shape: faces wide-eyed and hollow-cheeked with fatigue, postcombat stress, and hunger, chromaflage capes and combat overalls ripped, every square centimeter of exposed skin filthy with layers of ground-in dirt, hair lank with sweat. “Stand everyone down, Sergeant. I think we need to get you to the company aid station.”

“Thanks,” the man said, his voice hoarse, “but what I want is a wash. The wife”—he hooked a thumb at the woman—“says I smell.”

The lieutenant had to laugh after hearing someone in that shape cracking jokes. “I have news for both of you,” he said.