Rebellion's Fury Page 14

Killian was right . . . these soldiers are nothing like the ones we faced last year.

  He kept firing anyway. They were good, but bullets killed them just the same. His biggest concern was that he was almost out of time. His eye had caught figures on the rooftops all around the warehouse, more troopers moving to vantage points. In a matter of seconds, his position would be untenable.

  “All right, guys, we’ve got to get out of here.”

  He turned toward Becker, who nodded and said, “I’m with you, sir.”

  “Stahl?” he said, looking to his right. The trooper was there, leaning against the wall. He was silent, unmoving. North leaned over and grabbed Stahl’s shoulder, and as he did, the man slid down along the wall. There was a perfect round hole in the center of his forehead.

  Damn.

  “He’s dead. Let’s go, Becker. Nothing more we can do here.” He turned and crouched low, squeezing whatever parting cover he could get from the wall. “And stay low.”

  He lurched forward, moving as quickly as he could while keeping down. He paused where Volges had fallen, but he, too, was dead. Then he continued on, almost feeling the federal bullets zipping past him as he zigzagged, doing all he could to present a difficult target. Then he turned a corner, escaping the enemy’s field of fire . . . just as the explosives went off, a thunderous roar tearing through the night.

  He’d lost two of his people, but they’d gotten the job done. At least that’s one batch of ammo the feds won’t have to use on us . . .

  But he wondered if all the destruction, if the constant drain on the federal supplies could really make enough difference. It was expensive to transport materials to Haven, but the enemy could keep doing it, as long as they were willing to endure the cost. And he suspected Federal America would go to great lengths to get its wayward colony back in line.

  That’s fine.

  We’ll just have to destroy that much more.

  Chapter 16

  Old North Road

  18 Kilometers North of Landfall

  Federal Colony Alpha-2, Epsilon Eridani II (Haven)

  “Keep moving. We’ve got another ten kilometers to go, and we’re not stopping until we get to the edge of the woods.”

  Violetta Wells willed one foot forward, then the other. She felt as if she’d fall at any moment and die by the roadside. But somehow she didn’t. Her body was wracked with pain and her legs burned with fatigue, but she was also finding reservoirs of strength she’d never known she had.

  Her shoulders were raw. She’d managed to get a look at them the day before—it was a new experience for her to view something as simple as a mirror with such rarity. There were deep channels cut into her shoulders where the straps of her pack had dug into the soft flesh. They were inflamed, and in a couple of places, bloody. She regretted her reckless leap into the army on a regular basis, something like every five minutes or so. But on another level, she knew she was settling in, getting used to her new circumstances, at least a little.

  They’d stayed in the encampment at the southern edge of Blackwood Forest for several days, just over fifteen kilometers north of Landfall. For a while, she thought General Ward was going to make a stand there, but then the orders came to move north again.

  Apparently the enemy had sent part of their forces out of Landfall. They had followed the Haven army and were no more than three or four kilometers from the south end of the wood. News like that had a way of making its way through an army, especially when virtually every member of that fighting force was scared to death of the heavily armed soldiers pursuing them.

  As much as her aching body wanted to stop, she was completely in favor of continuing north. The idea of facing federal soldiers scared her, and although she’d come to grips with it more and more, it still tested her commitment when she had time to really think about it. For no matter what had happened over the last year, she was a daughter of Federal America, and that was really the only government she’d ever known. Growing up in the governor’s mansion meant that even though she could see the abuses, she was also instilled with patriotism for Federal America. And now she was being asked to kill its soldiers. She was willing to do that if she had to, because the Havenites were right to want their independence, and even though she was barely an adopted native, she was still willing to fight to make that a reality.

  Even if it means killing federal soldiers.

  Or being killed by them . . .

  So it mostly came back to the dread she felt. She’d managed to get somewhat of a grip on her fear, but it still ate away at her, a weight she carried with every step. The army was fairly safe for the moment, shielded as it was by the cover of the woods from federal air power. But she knew the terrain around Landfall fairly well, and there was a stretch of open ground between the northern border of the Blackwood and the southern edge of the much larger Green Hill Forest to the north. Fifteen kilometers, at least.

  No, she thought, remembering the map in her father’s office. At least fifteen.

  She didn’t know much about war or about air power, but she’d heard the stories everyone else had. General Ward had sent patrols out from the army’s initial position, down the West Road toward Weldon and the East Road toward Lamberton and the Palisades. Both had been attacked by federal gunships, and both had been driven back to the woods with heavy losses. Fifty percent, she’d heard, even more. Some people were saying seventy, and one or two had sworn both patrols had been wiped out entirely. She tended to doubt that, but there didn’t seem to be any question that the federal air forces, sparse as they were, put any infantry in the open in terrible jeopardy as soon as it was spotted.

  And we’ve got fifteen kilometers to cross . . .

  She trudged forward, trying not to think about the open ground she knew lay ahead. That was tomorrow’s problem. Right now, she had another ten kilometers to cross before she could sleep. And tonight’s rest was as far ahead as she was prepared to look.

  “Colonel Granz, the situation is absolutely intolerable.” Robert Semmes sat behind a large desk, one that had been Governor Wells’s at one time, and also Asha Stanton’s. He’d enjoyed a moment of satisfaction when he’d first sat and claimed it for his own, but since then he’d been inundated with a seemingly endless series of problems.

  “General Semmes, we moved on Landfall before we were able to organize our forces at the spaceport. Then you ordered us to send forces after the rebels, a piecemeal approach that has left us strung out and disorganized. We have forces north of the city, with no real tactical plan directing operations. Our supply arrangements in Landfall are a mess, which contributed to giving the partisans operating against us easy targets. And we still have units tied down at the spaceport, at least until we finish fortifying the area.”

  “Are you finished with your litany of excuses, Colonel?” Semmes did nothing to hide his derision. “Perhaps I should apologize for expecting your vaunted veteran soldiers to be ready to conduct operations at a reasonable pace. If I allowed things to move at the speed you would set, it will be years before we quell this rebellion, if ever.”

  “General, operations take time. If we hadn’t rushed to move our supply nexus to Landfall, we would have had time to centralize and construct proper defenses. Instead, we’ve got supplies scattered all over the city, in whatever facilities we could find.”

  “Why did you scatter your logistics, Colonel? It would have made more sense to cordon off an entire area of the city and use that.”

  “Yes, but we prioritized finding empty or near-empty spaces. The expedited schedule did not allow time to track down civilian owners to move—”

  “‘Track down civilian owners’? What is this, Colonel? A social event? These people are rebels. They have no rights. We do not allow concern for them to interfere with our actions. You are to consolidate all supplies in the most easily defended area, and you are to do it immediately. Confiscate any goods already in those buildings that are useful to us, and destroy the rest. Is that understood?
”

  “Yes, sir. But you should know there is a considerable loyalist element in Landfall, and by all accounts, many of the local businesspeople are—”

  “Did you hear me, Colonel Granz? This planet is in a state of insurrection. Any here who remain loyal will have the opportunity to prove it by joining the support battalions we are forming and fighting their traitorous neighbors. If they lose some of their goods to support the army sent here to do what they should have done themselves, it is the least their nation can ask of them.”

  Granz shifted back and forth on his heels, looking uncomfortable, as though he might say something else. But he just replied, “Yes, General.”

  “I want what remains of our forward supplies secured as quickly as possible, and until that is done, you are to triple the guards at each location, and increase them fivefold at the most vulnerable ones.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Go then.” Semmes waved toward the door. He sat and watched as Granz saluted and then turned and left. He stared down at the desk, trying to make sense of his frustration. Landfall wasn’t much of a city, not by Earth standards, at least. How could there be so many rebels hiding, sneaking out, striking at his supplies?

  They have to have help.

  It was the people, the rebel sympathizers among the population. They had to be helping the fighters hide, communicate, move around without being detected. There was no other answer.

  His expression hardened. If that’s the game the people of Landfall wanted to play, that’s what they would get. Granz’s people were here for the fight against the rebel army, to crush Damian Ward and his so-called soldiers. But he’d brought his own units, too, specialists. Just for a situation like this.

  “Lieutenant . . . Callas.” He’d almost forgotten who was on duty outside his office.

  “Yes, General?”

  “Get me Major Brendel at once.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Brendel had won her commission putting down the New York food riots of half a dozen years before and her major’s cluster breaking a Washington-based underground group—and she’d shown no squeamishness in either instance. She was just the officer he needed right now.

  And when she is done with the Landfallers, they won’t be hiding any more rebels.

  However many survive, at least . . .

  “Maybe we should pull out now, Colonel.” Jacob North crouched low under a low beam.

  The cellar was far from an ideal place for the effective headquarters of the Landfall resistance operation, but Killian had been adamant about involving as few civilians as possible. News had spread throughout the forces in the capital that the invasion force was commanded by none other than Robert Semmes. Most of the veterans under his command knew something about General Semmes, and just what he was capable of doing, but Killian truly understood what a psychopath his forces were dealing with. He had met Semmes before, during the war, and it had cost him his career and, he knew many believed, a good part of his sanity. He had promised himself Robert Semmes would not leave Haven a second time, whatever the cost, and he was almost glad someone saw fit to give him the chance to rip out that bastard’s throat with his bare hands . . .

  But even his insatiable craving for vengeance took a back seat to the rebellion, and to the men and women under his command. He might throw his own life away for a chance to kill Semmes, but not those of the soldiers he led.

  “No, Jacob, not yet.”

  “Sir, I agree with Lieutenant North.” Des Black was shorter than North or Killian, and he was the only one in the cellar who could stand up straight. “The federals have consolidated their supplies and vastly increased the strength of their guarding forces. Casualties have ramped sharply on our most recent operations, and we’ve had more failures than successes in the last few days. General Ward was clear, sir. He wanted us to withdraw before—”

  “They’ll lose.” Killian’s words were hard-edged.

  The two officers stared at their chief, questioning looks on their faces.

  “If we go now, the rebellion will fail. It’s that simple. We’ve weakened the federals, but not enough. You saw the flame trails in the sky the last few nights. The feds are bringing in more supplies. We’ve been a thorn in their side, for sure, but as long as they can replenish from the fleet in orbit, we’ve accomplished nothing. We have to make them send to Earth for more shipments, drive up the costs. What is here is already funded. We need to make Federal America commit more ships, more ordnance and supplies. We’ve got to buy time, cripple the federals’ ability to move against General Ward and the army.”

  Black and North exchanged glances. Finally North spoke up. “That’s all well and good, sir, but what more can we do? There aren’t many outlying targets anymore. The enemy has seized every structure near the Federal Complex, and they’ve built fortifications all around the whole area. The only way to move against them is a full-scale frontal assault on their lines, and those they can reinforce in minutes.”

  “We have to find a way.” Killian had no idea what to do, but he knew there had to be something. Damian was counting on him. The whole army was.

  “Colonel Killian . . .”

  The instant Killian heard the voice from the top of the stairs, he knew something was wrong. “What is it, Sergeant?”

  “Lieutenant Folker sent me, sir. He requests you come to the plaza down the street from the Federal Complex. There is something happening. I think the federals are . . .” The sergeant hesitated, his discomfort clear. “I just think you should come and see for yourself, Colonel.”

  Killian looked at his two officers, both of whom nodded. “Let’s go, gentlemen.” He glanced up toward the top of the stairs. “Lead on, Sergeant.”

  “People of Landfall, hear now what I have to say. Many of you have sheltered traitors, violent killers who have shed the blood of Federal America’s soldiers. Those who assist traitors are themselves guilty of treason. And now, by the order of the Governor, His Excellency, General Robert Semmes, such vermin will be dealt with in the manner they so richly deserve.”

  Avery Brendel stood in front of a company of soldiers, speaking into a microphone as she looked at the crowds gathered outside the perimeter fence. She wore a black uniform, as did all of the troopers behind her, the feared garb of Federal America’s elite paramilitary organization. The Federal Peacekeeping Force, or FPF, as it was more commonly called, did not fight in foreign wars. It was tasked solely with maintaining order within the borders of Federal America, and within that mandate, it operated almost without accountability. Once committed, its officers and soldiers were immune from prosecution for any of their actions, save those against certain protected groups, mostly the political classes and their allies among the industrialists.

  FPF units had gunned down protestors, broken into homes, and tortured their occupants for needed information. They existed to serve the state, and to ensure its survival and power. Their black uniforms inspired fear, and among the cowed civilians of Federal America Earthside, at least, that terror did half their job for them.

  But Haven was a tougher target, its people more defiant. Harsh measures were clearly required.

  Brendel stared out at the crowd, watching as more people gathered. They were restive, angry, but she wasn’t concerned. Granz’s troops were on full alert, and if the mob decided to storm the fence, they would be washed away in a torrent of blood. That might be useful, even. She wanted the crowd. She needed it. Executing the traitors was useful in itself, but she was more concerned with preventing future incidents. And for that, she needed to scare these people.

  “Captain Lonigan, if you please . . .” She turned briefly to face the commander of the company deployed behind her.

  “Yes, Major.” Lonigan turned and snapped out orders to his troops. The formation split, the two halves moving to the flanks, revealing a line of civilians standing against a stone wall.

  There were three mounted autocannons deployed about a dozen meters in
front of the line.

  “These citizens have been apprehended for aiding the terrorists. They are traitors, criminals of the worst kind. They deserve only contempt.” She paused, pondering, noting the increasing restiveness in the crowd. “And now they will pay the price of their crime.”

  Her voice was cold, no rage or anger, just an iron strength. There was no mercy, either in her tone or her mind. She believed in order, in people obeying their leaders, and she had been an implement of that demand for obedience her entire adult life.

  “This spectacle has been arranged for all of you. It is essentially a service, a last chance to steer you from the destructive path of treason. You will watch, all of you, to learn what happens to those who betray their government. And I sincerely hope you will learn this lesson. Future incidents will be dealt with immediately, and without mercy. Any of you who harbor terrorists, who aid them or hide them—even those who fail to report them—will be denied even the formality of arrest. You will be summarily executed on the spot, along with your families.”

  She could see the mob surging forward, not exactly storming the fence—not yet, at least—but still seething. Wait until the shooting starts . . .

  She didn’t know if the mob would attack. She hoped it did—it was part of the display she had planned—but there was no way to be sure. She’d done everything she could think of to provoke the crowd, even including several teenagers among the condemned standing against the wall. A demonstration of the futility of resistance would be useful, but it wasn’t entirely necessary. The executions alone would send a powerful message.

  She turned her head again. “Captain, proceed.”

  The officer yelled to his black-clad troopers manning the autocannons. Then he looked back to Brendel. She just nodded.

  “Fire,” the officer yelled. An instant later, the autocannons opened up, firing thirty rounds per second. The men and women lined up against the wall fell, some silently, others screaming in fear and pain. Their bodies were riddled with bullets, and blood sprayed onto the wall. Shards of stone broke off and flew about as the high-velocity projectiles slammed into the masonry. One body—that of a young woman—was practically torn in half.