Portal Wars 1: Gehenna Dawn (13 page)

“Keep firing until I give the order to
withdraw.” Daniels would never disobey Taylor, but he was going to
push it to the limit.

He’d put down at least 20 of the Machines
already, and he kept firing as quickly as he could pick out
targets. He was really liking the Gauss gun. The weapon wasn’t a
new one, but it hadn’t been a battlefield success until recently.
It packed too much recoil for a man to effectively handle, and it
needed a heavy power supply that was hard to move in the field.
Both problems were neatly solved when the Supersoldier program
started implanting artificial muscle fibers and installing exos on
troopers. A soldier with mods could easily manage the Gauss gun’s
kick, making it an extremely effective, yet highly portable weapon.
And the powered exoskeleton had no trouble at all mounting the
coilgun’s power unit.

“HHV crews, focus your fire on the flanks.
Let’s force these fuckers to bunch up in the center.” With the
added firepower of the Gauss guns, Daniels could divert his HHVs to
drive the enemy where he wanted them. The Machines were getting
close, but he still had time. He could take out a few…

“Hank, it’s Jake.” Taylor’s voice was loud
and a little distorted on Daniels’ implanted com unit. He sounded a
little odd…almost amused.

“Jake…I was gonna pull back in…”

“Pull back now, Hank.” Taylor was trying to
suppress a laugh. “I know you don’t like leaving the web, Spider,
but I’ve got this covered. MacArthur’s birds are ready to hit them
as soon as your people are clear.” He paused. “Ya killed enough,
buddy. Just get the hell out of there so the Dragonfires can hose
them down. Then we can all go home.” What passed for home, at
least.

Daniels smiled. He hated the idea of not
taking out as many of the enemy as possible…but if someone else was
going to kill them, he figured he could share the honor. “Got it,
Jake.” He took one last shot, targeting a cluster of three Machines
and taking them all down. “We’re on the way.”

MacArthur looked down at the field. The
Machines were fleeing in disarray…and there were a lot fewer of
them that he’d expected. He hated to admit it, but that obnoxious
prick Taylor knew his shit. There was nothing left for his people
to do but mop up.

“Raptor 05 and Raptor 06, assume covering
position.” His squadron had driven off the enemy air support before
the ground forces went in, and the scope was clear of any contacts.
But Machine stealth technology was strong, and MacArthur wasn’t
about to risk getting caught with his pants down. He knew he’d be
expected to explain the loss of any Dragonfires and, if he was
going to take casualties, he wanted something better to say than,
“I got ambushed by enemy gunships because I was careless.”

“Raptors 01, 02, 03, 04, commence attack
run.” He angled his ship, pulling back on the antigrav output,
descending sharply. “These fuckers are disorganized and out in the
open. Let’s take ‘em down.”

The Dragonfire gunboats were bristling with
weapons. Each boat had six U-270 “Chainsaw” guns designed to
intercept incoming missiles and ordnance. MacArthur’s squadron had
engaged the enemy air support earlier, and they’d won total
superiority over the battlefield. With the Machines disordered and
in wholesale retreat, they were getting only spotty antiaircraft
fire from the ground, and the Chainsaws intercepted it all almost
effortlessly.

The four ships came across the field at
perpendicular to the enemy line of retreat. Each Dragonfire mounted
ten heavy autoguns, and they strafed the field as they flew across.
The massive hypervelocity rounds almost disintegrated anything they
touched, tearing Machine bodies to shreds.

“Reposition for second attack run.”
MacArthur’s voice was loud, feral. He hated the enemy with a raging
passion. His grandparents had been scientists, and volunteers on
one of the early colonial expeditions. They’d been slaughtered by
the Machines, just like every other human being on New Earth.
MacArthur hadn’t even been born, but hatred for the Tegeri and
their creations ran hot in his family.

The massive gunships angled up slightly,
coming around 90 degrees to hit the enemy along their line of
retreat. Flying an antigrav was a lot easier than a plane or
copter…at least once you got used to it. Altitude was controlled
almost totally by the power fed into the antigravity generators,
and the overall piloting had a much more two dimensional feel to
it.

“Arm EFAs.” The enhanced fuel-air explosives
were an area effect weapon, designed to cover a large section of
ground with an intensely hot fireball. The EFA’s were like Napalm
on steroids, and they were extremely effective at clearing out
sections of a battlefield.

MacArthur stared straight ahead as his
gunboat headed for the approaching enemy. The Machines didn’t
panic, at least not the same way humans did. But they could
evaluate threats and respond appropriately. They were running
now…scattering and trying to flee anywhere they could. It might not
be a rout, at least technically, but it damned sure looked like
one.

“Sergeant…” MacArthur didn’t turn to face his
gunnery chief, didn’t even move a muscle as he gave the order…he
just stared at the enemy survivors 100 meters below helplessly
trying to flee the death he was bringing them. “…commence EFA
drop.”

As soon as the last of the ordnance dropped,
MacArthur increased the antigrav power, arcing the gunboat up and
away from the inferno it had just unleased. The billowing flames
reached 100 meters into the sky, and the explosions obliterated
everything in an 80 meter wide swath across the plain below.
MacArthur checked the scanner. All four of his attacking boats had
completed their runs. It was impossible to see anything on the
ground but the flames. A wicked smile crossed his lips. He couldn’t
imagine how anything could have survived down there.

“MacArthur to Battalion Command. Attack run
complete…destruction total. Raptor Squadron, returning to base.”
MacArthur took one last look back at the stricken field. He didn’t
like Jake Taylor…he didn’t like him at all. But the man knew how to
wage war.

From the Journal of Jake Taylor:

When I was home, I never gave much
thought to the things my father complained about. I tried to keep
him quiet, just as my mother did. We were both scared he’d end up
at a reeducation facility. I heard it all, of course, over and
over, but I never really thought much about what he was saying. He
was always talking about obscure things…things I’d never heard
anywhere else, topics it was hard to learn anything
about.

It’s easy to dismiss what you are
told, to tune out the rantings you hear over and over. Almost
everything my father said was contradicted by what I learned in
school or saw on television. To believe what he was saying, I had
to disregard virtually everything else I was taught. I had to
ignore my teachers, the news…everything. It’s easy to discount an
extreme opinion, even when it’s from someone close to you. Of
course, just because a statement is extreme doesn’t mean it’s
wrong. But that’s not how it seems when you’re listening to it,
especially when you’re 18 or 19, and you think you know everything.
When you think you have your whole life ahead of you.

My years on Erastus have given me
lots of time to think. War consists of short bursts of intense
effort and terror separated by long periods of boredom and
inactivity. My father’s rants don’t seem so unfounded anymore. I
know UN Central can’t be blamed for the Tegeri and the Machines.
Indeed, a united mankind has been far more able to fight off the
alien menace than a fractured and squabbling world could ever have
managed. But now I think about the monitoring, the assembly
restrictions, the endless list of rules and regulations, the
seemingly random enforcement of sometimes draconian laws. Now I
wonder why all that was necessary. I started to think about the
things I was taught in school, and the more I thought, the more
questions I had. I understood the need for mankind to stand
together and face the Tegeri, but I started to realize that didn’t
explain everything. It didn’t even come close. Now I question how I
ever thought it did.

Pre-Consolidation history is a
heavily proscribed topic, and back then I generally believed the
official texts, just like everyone else. Everyone but the
old-timers like my father. The government can rewrite the history
books and tell as many lies as it wants…but it can’t erase the
memories of living people. Or perhaps it can…perhaps that is what
the reeducation camps are for.

I wish I could see my father again,
talk to him, truly listen this time. He had so much to teach me, so
much life experience…and I threw away the chance to learn. He’d
lived through incredible times, but no one would listen to what he
had to say. I was young and stupid, and I thought everything I’d
been taught at school and heard on the media was true. I regret it.
I regret it all

“I must congratulate you on the continued
success of the Supersoldier program on Erastus.” Anan Keita stood
next to Kazan, wearing a finely-crafted black suit. His expression
was solemn, even mournful, as befitted the funeral of a member of
the UN Secretariat. It was a mask, however, the kind he’d worn so
often in his tenure at UN Central…a career that saw him rise from a
low-level operative to the verge of a Seat on the Secretariat. Raj
Patel had been Secretary of Military Affairs since the
Consolidation, and that meant he’d been in Keita’s way for at least
the last decade. Keita had waited with growing frustration as the
sick old fool took his sweet time about dying.

“Thank you, sir.” Kazan often called Keita
‘Mr. Secretary,’ but the obsequious exaggeration seemed misplaced
at the previous Secretary’s funeral. “Progress on Erastus has
outstripped our most optimistic projections.” Kazan caught himself
speaking too loudly and lowered his voice. “As you know, the
original tactical plan set forth a 40-year timetable for total
pacification. We are currently in year 12, and I have just
completed the newest modeling.”

Keita was looking forward, pretending to
listen to the protracted eulogies and glancing only occasionally
toward Kazan. He was getting impatient with his subordinate’s
pointless chatter, but his eyes opened wider when Kazan mentioned
the projections. He was extremely anxious for the revised tactical
estimates, and he hadn’t expected them for at least another few
days. “What is your current timeframe for completing the conquest
of the planet?” He spoke softly, but he couldn’t hide his
interest.

“Five years, sir.” Kazan was still
whispering, but the excitement was obvious in his voice.

Keita had been looking straight ahead as he
listened, but now he turned his head and stared at his subordinate.
“Five years? Are you certain?” He was a master at containing and
disguising his emotions, but he couldn’t hide all his excitement.
This was incredible news…and it couldn’t have come at a better
time. Keita was the logical choice to succeed Patel to the
Secretary’s office, but in politics you could never be sure. This
would clinch it. No one could challenge him. His political enemies
would have to retreat. Keita had been acting-Secretary for five
years, and under his supervision, the Supersoldier program had been
a stunning success. The implications of a rollout beyond Erastus
were staggering. Keita had a fleeting thought – might he ride this
triumph not only to the top of the Military Secretariat, but
ultimately to the Secretary General’s chair itself?

Kazan couldn’t keep the smile off his face.
“Yes, sir. We ran it through the central planning computer three
times with identical results. I have the findings and all the
supporting documentation. No one will be able to contest the
projection.”

Keita saw the obnoxious smile on Kazan’s
face. The news was good for both of them. Kazan wanted the
under-secretary’s seat that Keita would be leaving. The little worm
would sell his grandmother for that promotion, Keita thought. He
felt derision for his grasping underling, even as his own lust for
the Secretary’s chair was no less consuming. But he knew there was
no way to deny Kazan the step up. And he had to admit the creepy
little bastard had earned it. He’d done a superb job on selecting
the pilot specimens for the program…and they had done the rest.
Keita had always been amused by the soldiers…at the superhuman
efforts a pat on the head and a flag to follow could generate from
ordinary men. They are simple, he thought, but useful tools
nonetheless.

“I have a Secretariat meeting tomorrow, and I
want to be prepared. They will undoubtedly wish to explore
expansion options for the program.” Keita was speaking softly,
trying not to draw attention to himself. It wouldn’t serve his
purposes to offend anyone, certainly not before he was formally
confirmed. No one had really liked Patel, and he seriously doubted
anyone cared that the old fuck had finally died. But he had been a
Secretary, and the bureaucracy required respect for the position,
not the man.

“I will have the data ready for you first
thing in the morning, sir.” Kazan spoke quietly as well, his eyes
focused forward, watching as the 7th or 8th dignitary began
speaking about the life of Raj Patel. Kazan couldn’t wait to get
away and go back to his office. He and his staff would be up all
night as it was, but he didn’t mind. Supersoldier had been his
project, and he was going to see it through. And ride it as far as
it could take him.

“So you see, gentlemen, not only has the rate
of pacification increased almost 350%, but this has been
accomplished with a corresponding 55% reduction in casualties.”
Keita stood at the head of the polished teak table, addressing the
assembled Secretariat of the UN, the 14 men who ruled the
world…currently 13 men and one empty chair. Keita was still
acting-Secretary, at least officially. He’d been nominated to
succeed Patel, but the wheels of bureaucracy moved slowly. He knew
he had six votes locked up, so he only needed one of the others…and
the news he was delivering today had a good chance of delivering
him a unanimous appointment.