The Fall: Crimson Worlds IX (16 page)

The domed megafarms had not been damaged, at least.  That was something to be thankful for.  Stark had clearly been out to destroy Martian industry, not to depopulate the planet.  Mars was already dependent on imported food.  If the farm domes had been cracked, the situation would have been impossible.

“We’re here, sir.”  The sergeant’s voice pulled Vance from his thoughts.  “The general-purpose suits are against that wall.  The armorer will help you with the adjustments.”  He gestured across the room.  “With your permission, I will go assemble the escort squad.”

“Yes, Sergeant.  Thank you.”  Vance walked across the room toward the row of hulking suits lined up in racks against the wall.  The fighting suits were an imposing sight, the ultimate weapons of war.  The Martian armor was the most advanced of any of the Superpowers, better even than the suits of the Alliance Marine Corps.  A trained Marine wore his armor like a second skin, but Vance knew his would be cumbersome and uncomfortable.  The Marine suits were customized to be a perfect fit for their wearers, men and women who’d been trained in their use for years.  Vance would wear a generic suit, designed for emergency use.  Still, he’d be far better protected than he would in an enviro-suit.

“Sir, it is an honor.”  The Marine armorer stood at attention.

“Relax, Corporal.  We’ve no need for ceremony now.”  Vance took another look at the hulking suit, it’s osmium-iridium armor plating covered with a deep black coating, the material of the programmable camouflage system.  “Let’s see if we can squeeze me into one of these monsters.”  He sighed softly.  “I need to get to the surface and see what is going on up there.”

“Let’s get the boys suited up, James.”  There was grim anticipation in Cain’s voice, and an ominous tone that chilled the room around him.

The ship they’d been pursuing had finally landed, and Cain’s guess had been right.  They touched down on an old asteroid base.  A quick scan of the asteroid and its history only increased Cain’s confidence.  This was Gavin Stark’s base, and he was there to oversee the final phase of his plans on Earth.  He was sure of it.

“I’m on it, Erik.”  Teller slipped through the open hatch and headed toward the assembly area.  The Torch was a tiny vessel, and he and Cain had only been able to bring a squad with them.  It was a very special formation, all veterans, most with service dating back to the Third Frontier War.  Every one of them was a volunteer, and they’d left their rank insignia, from sergeant’s stripes to colonel’s eagles behind.  They weren’t Marines now.  They were hunters.  And they were about to begin the final battle with their prey.

Cain stared at the data screen.  The asteroid had been one of the first to be mined, back in the days of the old United States and its fledgling space force.  It had been worked for more than 50 years before it was finally abandoned, all its easily extractable resources mined out.  It had passed from the investment consortium that had developed it to the Alliance Government when all private businesses were nationalized.  It had been ignored for decades, a forgotten piece of interplanetary real estate, long ago replaced by richer finds.

Forgotten until Stark found it, Cain thought.  The asteroid was perfect for his needs.  There would be kilometers of mining tunnels already excavated, making it much easier to build a secure underground base.  And it was in a remote section of the asteroid belt, far from the heavily trafficked shipping lanes.  A perfect choice, he thought.  Just what he expected from Gavin Stark.

“I’m here, you son of a bitch.”  Cain was whispering to himself, his voice a barely audible growl.  “It’s almost time for our last dance.”  His face was like a marble statue, twisted into a menacing frown.  He took a deep breath, staring one last time at the viewscreen displaying the irregularly-shaped asteroid.  Then he turned and walked toward the cargo hold.

It was time for the final showdown.

“General Tyler, it is a pleasure to meet you.  Major Craig Mandrake, Alliance Marines Corps at your service.”

Tyler stood in front of the armored Marine, and he allowed himself a rare smile.  “It is my pleasure, Major.  I can’t tell you how relieved I am to see Alliance Marines back on Columbia.”  He exhaled loudly.  “And just in time too.  I don’t know how much longer we could have held out.”  Tyler appeared to be an unstoppable force to those around him, a man without weakness, without emotion.  But that was a show for the benefit of his people.  Inside, he was exhausted to his core, and he doubted he could have held things together much longer.

“Well, we are here, General.  Almost the entire Corps.”  That was technically true, though the Corps was a shadow of its former size and strength.  “And we’re landing supplies for your people even now.  Food, meds, weapons.”  He stared at Tyler, and he could see through the façade, to the man below.  He had an idea of the burden Tyler had been carrying for more than a year, and he had nothing but respect for Columbia’s military commander.

“Again, Major, I don’t know how to thank you.  We have a lot of hungry mouths to feed down here.”  Tyler was still having trouble convincing himself that after all the time that had passed, help had finally come.  He’d been rock solid in front of his soldiers and the civilians, but inside he’d all but given up hope.

“We’re just doing our jobs, General.  I’m sorry it took so long, but there’s been trouble all across occupied space.”  Mandrake was one of the few Marine officers who hadn’t been surprised when he heard there were Columbian forces still holding out.  He’d been the liaison to Kara Sander’s army on Arcadia, and he’d gotten a good taste of what desperate partisans fighting for their homes could accomplish.

“I’ve got a reinforced battalion coming down at this LZ to support your forces, General.”  Mandrake gestured south, toward the landing area.  The stubby Liggett landers were still coming in toward the center of the field, with heavier transport sleds setting down on the perimeter.  “My people are putting together a com center with an orbital uplink.  You’re too far south for conventional ground communications with the primary LZ, but fleetcom will patch you through to General Gilson.”

Tyler nodded.  “I am very anxious to speak with the General.”  Tyler had recognized a number of names among the Marines landing on Columbia, but there was one famous leatherneck no one had mentioned, a man Tyler had long respected and was anxious to meet.  “Is General Cain with the invasion force, Major?”

“I’m afraid not.  General Cain is…ah…on another mission.”  Mandrake paused for a moment, wondering himself where Cain’s desperate quest had taken him.  He knew why the General had gone, and he suspected he would have done the same thing in Cain’s shoes.  But many of the Marines landing on Columbia were Cain’s people, and they missed their legendary commander.  They would do their duty, no one doubted that, but there was a spark missing, part of what had sustained them through their great battles.

“I’m sorry I won’t have the chance to meet General Cain.  He is quite famous on Columbia.  He fought here under General Holm during the Third Frontier War, as a sergeant if you can believe that.”  Tyler’s eyes flashed behind Mandrake, watching as a lander his the ground, and the ten Marines onboard leapt out and formed up in an instant.  All the stories he’d heard about the Marines seemed to be true.

“Yes, General Cain’s exploits on Columbia have found their way into Marine lore, along with many of his other battles.”

“Is General Holm with the fleet?  He is regarded as nothing less than a savior on Columbia.  His birthday is a planetwide holiday.”

Mandrake felt his stomach clench.  He hadn’t thought about it before, but of course no one on Columbia could have known.  “I’m afraid General Holm is dead.”  His voice was gentle, touched with his own lingering sadness.  “He was killed near the end of the fighting on Armstrong.”  Murdered, Mandrake thought, by a psychopath after the battle was over.

Tyler stared back for a moment, silent, his face blank with shock.  “That is terrible news, Major.”  His voice was a sliver of what it had been, and he stared down at the ground.  “Columbia will always be deeply in the General’s debt.  He will be sincerely mourned, and he will be remembered on this world as long as men live here.”

Mandrake felt a wave of grief coming on, but he pushed it back.  There was work to do, and no time to dwell on what couldn’t be changed.  “General Holm would want us to focus on duty and not on him.”  He extended an armored hand, gently touching Tyler’s shoulder.  “Let’s see to getting these supplies distributed.”  He gestured toward the LZ, where large piles of crates were already stacked up, waiting to be moved to wherever they were needed.

“I will organize civilian details at once, so no combat strength is diverted.”  Tyler was still in shock, but he was forcing himself back to the present situation.

“It would also be helpful if you can share any intel you have on enemy strength and dispositions.”  Mandrake’s voice returned to normal.  “I suspect you have considerably more data than we do, and I’m certain General Gilson would find it extremely valuable.”

The prospect of hitting the enemy energized Tyler.  “Let’s go to my command post, Major.  We have considerable information, and I’m sure it will be very useful to General Gilson.”

The open field was engulfed with great billowing clouds of green steam, spreading out, obscuring the entire plain.  The bilious gas was radioactive, and it interfered with most scanning devices.  The Shadow Legion soldiers were dug in across the line, but they had never seen a bombardment like this before, and they were uncertain what to expect.

The gas was called Smoke, and only one force used it in combat.  Behind its creeping cover, serried ranks of Janissaries formed up for battle, their lines rigid and perfect. They were warriors with as proud and storied a history as the Marines they had fought for so long.

Farooq stood just behind the first wave, wearing the same brown armor as his soldiers.  They had been the Caliphate’s elite warriors for a century, and they’d faced the Marines in countless battles throughout occupied space.  The two forces had hated each other and fought with unparalleled savagery, with no quarter asked or given.  But there had been respect as well, and a grudging acceptance by each that the other was the only military formation that could fight them on anything like equal terms.

Things had changed now, and the Janissaries were outcast, proscribed by the Caliph after they had rebelled, angered by an attempted purge of their senior officers.  They had fought alongside their old enemies against the legions of the First Imperium, and by the time that war was won, old foes had become new friends.  Now they were ready to fight alongside the Marines again, to help them sweep the Shadow Legions from Columbia.

“First Orta, advance.”  Farooq’s voice blared through the com units, and over 1,000 Janissaries advanced as one.  They moved swiftly behind the rolling barrage of Smoke, closing the distance to the enemy as quickly as possible.

Farooq stood and watched his vanguard advance into the swirling green mist.  “Second Orta, advance.”  He snapped out the orders, and the next rank of soldiers marched forward in lockstep, following their brethren onto the Smoke-covered battlefield.

“Third Orta, advance.”  Farooq turned and joined the third wave, following the marching soldiers into the heavy clouds.

His people were heading for the enemy’s most important position, a 2 kilometer section of the line covering the main approach to Weston.  If the attack succeeded, the Shadow Legion forces would be split in two, and the Janissaries would control high ground that dominated both flanks.

Farooq stepped into the opaque clouds, moving carefully forward.  He knew his lines were slowed by their own camouflage system, but that couldn’t be helped.  You couldn’t even see your feet in a Smoke could, and it wasn’t going to do anyone any good taking a nasty fall in armor.

He could hear the enemy fire up ahead.  He knew his display was next to useless – the Smoke obscured the Janissaries’ scanners as effectively as the enemy’s.  He wouldn’t know how effective the enemy fire had been until his people emerged from the billowing clouds, right on top of the enemy line.

His people were holding their fire as they advanced.  It was a standard Janissary tactic.  Their method of war tended toward the theatrical and, coupled with their fearsome reputation, it undermined the morale of their enemies.  Unless, of course, they were facing Marines, who tended to ignore the scary show and hold firm despite the Janissaries’ best mind games.  Or worse, when they were fighting a group of clones designed to be copies of the Marines, but conditioned to remove all fear and human weakness.

Still, Farooq had ordered the usual tactics.  Firing while they advanced would only give away their positions within the rolling clouds, and that would increase their own casualties far more than any damage they could hope to inflict on the entrenched enemy.  The best chance was to close as quickly as possible, and to break the line by sheer force.

The Janissaries had their orders, and Farooq couldn’t change them now, even if he wanted to.  The Smoke obscured communications as well as scanners.  His people would move forward and break the enemy line.  Or they would falter and rout.  And he knew if his men broke, that would mean that at least half of them were dead already.

He pushed steadily forward.  He guessed he was about halfway across the field, which meant his front line was already engaging.  His external speakers were picking up heavy fire from farther forward, confirmation that the fight was underway.

He checked his directional display, making sure he wasn’t straying too far inside the thick green clouds.  Nothing worked in the Smoke except a basic compass, but that was enough for him to keep his bearings.  In another minute or so, he guessed, he’d be up on the line, three full ortas of his troops pushed forward into the fight.  Then it would be a brutal struggle to see who broke first.

“OK, Marines.  It looks like the Janissaries are breaking through.”  Callahan was crouched behind the edge of the makeshift trench.  He’d been following the attack of the Caliphate troops on his display, and he could see they were pushing forward.  He could feel them breaking through.

“Prepare to advance.”  He turned back toward Paine and White, who were both prone beneath the lip of the trench.  “I want you guys to stay back when we go in.”  His eyes panned up and down their battered suits of nearly-ancient powered armor.

“With all due respect, sir, we’d prefer to advance with your forces.”  There was an edge to White’s voice, not resentment exactly, but it was clear he had no intention of cowering in a trench while the Marines went in.

“I mean no disrespect to your fighting abilities, but you are emissaries from General Tyler, and…”

“Don’t worry about it, Major.  General Tyler knows us, and he’d expect us to be in the front line of any attack.”  It was Paine this time, and he had the same slightly crazy tone to his voice.  Callahan suspected Paine and White were two of Tyler’s best soldiers, and probably his worst discipline problems too.

“As you wish, gentlemen.”  They weren’t in Callahan’s line of command anyway, so there was no point in arguing when it was clear he wasn’t going to get anywhere.  “But keep your heads down.  I don’t want to explain to General Gilson how I got you both killed.”

“Fair enough, sir.”  White nodded.  “We’ll be careful.”

Callahan returned the nod, but he didn’t feel much better.  He had the distinct impression that caution was something in neither man’s skillset.

He glanced back to his display just as his comlink crackled to life.  It was Farooq’s voice coming through loud and clear.  “Major Callahan, Colonel Venti, the enemy is withdrawing from the central position.  You may advance when ready.”  The Caliphate commander sounded exhausted.  Callahan wasn’t surprised.  Farooq had thrown his people at the strongest part of the enemy line, the linchpin of the entire position.  It was an unorthodox move, a daring effort to compromise the entire enemy position.  It looked like they’d won, but Callahan didn’t even want to guess at their losses.

“All right, Marines.  These people may be cheap copies of us, but now it’s time to show them how the real thing fights.  All units forward.”  He roared the command through the com, doing all he could to rally his Marines and work them into a frenzy.  This was the big fight, the most crucial few hours of the entire campaign.  If the enemy was driven back, they’d have nowhere to go.  The radioactive ruins of Weston lay to the south and the ocean to the north.  The enemy could only fall back to the west, but that led into the mountains, a deathtrap for a retreating army.

“Let’s go, boys.”  He shouted back to Paine and White, and then he slammed his helmet shut and moved forward.  He ran about 20 meters and dove down behind a tiny fold in the ground, dropping low and firing a few times as he scouted out his next piece of cover.  His units were zigzagging forward, half of each platoon covering the rest as it advanced.  The long-range fire probably wouldn’t cause many casualties, but it would keep the enemy’s heads down while the forward group advanced.

The enemy fire was heavy, but Callahan knew their position was already compromised, with the Janissaries directing fire down on their flanks.  His people just had to keep up the pressure, driving forward and taking the ground.  Then the enemy would be forced back into the rugged foothills behind their lines.