Crimson Worlds Collection II Page 41

  “Get General Warren on the line.” Cain spoke deliberatively, his voice utterly without emotion. “He is to put 7th Brigade on alert. They are to report to the surface to support the Tank Corps.” Kyle Warren’s II Corps was made up mostly of new units rushed through training, with only a leavening of seasoned troops. But 7th Brigade was a veteran formation, organized from retired Marines returning to the colors.

  “Yes, sir.” Carter had a surprised look on his face, but he spun around and executed Cain’s order.

  “Major Sawyer, I want a barrage laid down along these coordinates.” Cain was looking down at his ‘pad, transmitting the data to Sawyer’s console. Dave Sawyer had served under Cain since he was a sergeant on Carson’s World, during the legendary battle on the Lysandra Plateau. He was one of those extra-tough Marines, reluctant to accept a commission, preferring to remain close to the ranks. Sawyer had gone to Columbia with Jax, in support of the rebel forces there, and, when he returned, Cain flat out ordered him to accept his promotion. Now he’d tapped the wily old veteran as his senior aide.

  “Yes, sir.” Sawyer’s reply was crisp and immediate. Cain had moved Sawyer right from sergeant to captain in the reorganizations after the rebellions…and again to major just before the forces began massing on Sandoval. He was still a little uncomfortable as an officer, but he was getting used to it. “Specials, sir?”

  Cain suppressed a smile. Sawyer added “sir” after virtually every sentence when speaking to him. It was the ones like Sawyer, the grizzled old “tough as nails” veterans, who surprised him most with the strange deference they gave him. Respect for a superior officer was one thing, but this was something else. Cain didn’t really understand it, but he’d used it to his advantage on many occasions.

  “Yes, major. Specials.” Cain was running his finger along the ‘pad, sending another file to Sawyer. “I want a rolling barrage, moving from east to west, half a klick every five minutes.” He glanced up, trying to gauge if Sawyer understood what he was saying. “I want you to supervise this personally, major. We’re going to split the enemy and drive the western half of their force farther west…right into the attack of the Tank Corps.” He paused then added, “Do you follow, Dave?”

  “Yes, sir.” Sawyer was nodding as he spoke. “Understood, sir.”

  “I want to wreak havoc through their positions for the first few minutes, then I want those two flanks kept apart.” Cain was looking right at Sawyer, stressing his point. “Be careful we don’t end up bombing our own tanks. I want you to stay on top of the bombardment, major, and make sure it stays pinpointed. I’m depending on you. I know I can count on you.” Cain sometimes hated himself for the shameless manipulation, but he was only telling the truth. Sawyer was one of the best Marines he had, and he was counting on him.

  “Yes, sir.” Sawyer straightened in his chair. “Understood.”

  Cain leaned back and rubbed his chin. Ok, you bastards, he thought…let’s see how you like this.”

  The great plain 100 kilometers north of Dawson was covered with hundreds of landing sleds. In the distance there were plumes of smoke rising from the ground, dozens of them, the results of 1st Army’s ground to air fire. Cain’s batteries had taken out over a hundred of the enemy landers, destroying over 2,000 battle robots before they touched ground. The batteries had fired relentlessly, recklessly even…giving up their locations by staying in place far too long. Fewer than half of them were left now; the rest were radioactive waste, destroyed by enemy missiles fired from orbit.

  Even with the losses, over 10,000 enemy bots had successfully landed in the first wave. They were scattered, spread out to minimize susceptibility to a nuclear attack, and they moved to secure the landing zone for the heavier ships, the ones bringing down the Reapers.

  There were no defending forces facing them. The artificial intelligences directing the First Imperium army had expected resistance. Their scanning results had confirmed that most of the formerly populated areas were directly south of the landing zone. Those centers of habitation had been destroyed by nuclear bombardment, but they were still the likeliest area for the enemy defense to coalesce, so that was the intended objective of the pending attack. Half of the first wave was forming up, preparing to advance in that direction. Then the warning came. Enemy fire incoming, presumption…nuclear-armed.

  The battlebots reacted quickly, spreading into extended order and going prone. The first shell landed almost dead center in the landing zone. A 50-kiloton round, it erupted into a 200-meter fireball. The shockwave blasted outward, destroying everything in its path. Rocks, dirt, debris all flew out in every direction from ground zero…and the melted and mangled bodies of the battle robots too, at least those caught in the primary kill zone. More than 50 were destroyed utterly, mostly those within 500 meters of the impact site. Outside the primary destruction zone, bots were knocked down and hit by flying detritus. Most were only lightly damaged, but some stayed down, either destroyed or mangled beyond operability.

  The warheads kept coming, spreading atomic fire throughout the landing zone. The First Imperium AIs had always assumed the enemy possessed ground-based nuclear weapons, though they had refrained from using them until this point. Clearly, they were retaliating for the orbital bombardment. The AIs calculated, trying to determine if the escalation they had seemingly provoked was in their favor…or it if had been a mistake. The AIs reviewed every decision, every enemy move. This adversary was disturbingly clever and adept at war, but the AIs were learning…even from their mistakes.

  The incoming fire developed into a pattern, with warheads landing on a long line running north to south, effectively splitting the LZ into two halves. Clearly the enemy was planning something, but the AIs were confused. Their analysis of the bombardment pattern suggested an imminent enemy attack, yet this did not match their expectations. Scanning results had determined that the enemy had heavily fortified the planet and that they were deployed in deep underground positions. This was consistent with a defensive strategy…which should have resulted in a bombardment dispersed throughout the LZ to maximize casualties inflicted. This had not happened – the bombardment was focused, targeted. The AIs were uncertain…they hesitated. This enemy continued to confound predictability.

  “General Merrick, you may attack.” Cain’s voice was distant and muffled on the comlink, but the intensity was unmistakable. “Good luck, Isaac.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Merrick had already given his orders. All his units had been on alert, waiting for the go ahead, and now he’d gotten it from Cain. He leaned down and switched over to the corps-wide com. “All units, execute Plan Alpha.”

  All along the steppe, the massive main battle tanks roared to life, slowly emerging from their dug in positions. They were launching a flank attack against disordered infantry, a tank commander’s dream. Of course, these infantry were advanced battle robots…an enemy far deadlier than anything the Scott tanks had been designed to face.

  The tanks rumbled across the open steppe, heading east, toward the enemy landing zone. Armored Marines emerged from their underground bunkers and took positions in support of the advancing tanks. The Marines were veterans, but fighting alongside heavy tanks was new to them, and their coordination was a little rough.

  Merrick’s tank was in the third wave, but his screen displayed the view from Colonel Wing’s position in the front line. The steppe rolled by as the tanks raced toward the enemy position. Wing’s tank moved up over a small rise, and suddenly Merrick could see the battlefield. The eastern horizon was totally obscured, blocked by at least 20 billowing mushroom clouds. The plain west of the nuclear maelstrom was covered with landing craft and thousands of First Imperium battle robots.

  “General Merrick…Colonel Wing here.” Wing was reporting what Merrick could already see through the relayed transmission. “Enemy spotted. We will be in firing range in three minutes. Request permission to attack.”

  “You may attack, colonel.” Merrick felt a rush of excitem
ent. Fear, yes, but also exhilaration. He didn’t fully understand his feelings, but for the first time he was going into battle believing in a cause. He’d gone to Arcadia when he’d been ordered to, and he’d tried his best to win the war. But his heart was never in crushing rebel colonists. Against this alien menace, however, Isaac Merrick was ready to give his all, to commit everything to the fight.

  The first wave of Merrick’s corps, a full brigade of tanks, swarmed over the steppe to the edge of the great plain. Almost as one, the line fired, the main guns launching hyper-velocity projectiles into the enemy flank. The ground battle had begun.

  “Get this thing moving. We’re the point tank now.” Lieutenant Carl Weld turned to face Sergeant Law. The driver was already responding, moving 2nd Platoon’s command tank forward. All four of 1st Platoon’s tanks had been hit; now his people were heading forward to plug the gap. Weld was scared and uncomfortable, his dark green fatigues soaked in sweat. This was the first combat he’d ever seen, and it was one hell of a baptism of fire.

  The Scott tanks were huge, and they made an intense racket when they rumbled along at full speed. Even with his helmet on, Weld could barely hear the chatter on the com. He was trying to keep close tabs on the platoon. He knew his crews were wavering…the sight of the Reapers was enough to chill anyone to the bone. But he knew they had to win this battle. Part of his motivation was the urgency of the fight; if the enemy got past Sandoval they’d run rampant through the Alliance, through all human-occupied space. But it was more than that. General Cain had made it clear that no one was leaving Sandoval until the enemy was defeated. Weld had only seen 1st Army’s CO once, when he’d addressed the Tank Corps shortly after they arrived. He’d never been so afraid of another human being in his life. Cain’s intensity was like nothing he’d ever seen before. People used phrases like “fight to the death” all the time, but he didn’t have a doubt that Erik Cain meant exactly what he said.

  Colonel Wing’s brigade was spearheading the attack. They’d crashed into the disordered enemy formations, pushing them between the wall of advancing tanks and the nuclear barrage that was steadily moving west. They were focusing on the newly-landed Reapers, leaving the standard battle robots to their attached Marines units. The attack was hugely successful at first, and dozens of Reapers were destroyed in just a few minutes. But the enemy line was solidifying and turning to face the surprise attack. The tanks were still taking out Reapers, but they were paying for it now.

  Weld stared at the small screen in front of him. He moved his hands over the compact ‘pad, transmitting coordinates to his other three tanks. “OK, 2nd Platoon. We’ve got half a dozen Reapers at these coordinates…let’s take them down. Fire at will.” He flipped off the com and turned to his gunner. “Fire.”

  The tank shook as Private Young let loose a hypervelocity round. The projectile streaked across the sky, leaving a fiery trail in its wake. A hundred meters short of the enemy position it split into 20 sections, each one capable of causing catastrophic damage, even to a Reaper. The shot went wide, barely clipping one of the massive enemy robots. Weld couldn’t tell if the thing was damaged or not, but it looked like 3 or 4 of the standard bots had taken hits and were down.

  He heard the grating sound of the automatic reloader. The Scotts had an impressive rate of fire…at least 3 a minute, 4 for a really good crew. “Let’s go, private. You need to land those shots on target. Those things are gonna shoot back, you know, and they’re going to be a hell of a lot more accurate.” Weld was sorry he’d said that the second it left his lips. His people were already hanging on by a thread…scaring them more wasn’t going to help. “Let’s get going, Sergeant Law. I want you advancing after every shot…zigzag pattern. If you see any cover, make for it.” He didn’t have any more combat experience than his crew, but he knew the worst thing they could do was stop moving for too long. The First Imperium targeting was spot on…if his tanks stayed in one firing position they wouldn’t last a minute.

  He felt the jarring again…another round being fired. This one was right on target. One of the Reapers took at least three fragments, and the thing was torn apart. He couldn’t tell who cheered first, but in a few seconds the whole crew was at it. He let them go…it was morale as much as technology or numbers that would win or lose this battle. But the fighting wasn’t going to stop so his people could celebrate a kill. “Let’s keep moving,” he reminded them.

  Weld’s tank headed for a small dip in the ground…a good spot to grab some temporary cover. Off to the left, one of his other tanks took a hit right between the turret and the main body. It moved forward, slowing to a crawl and erupted in flames. It was about 200 meters away and over a small ridge, so Weld couldn’t see if anyone got out…but he doubted it.

  “Keep moving 2nd Platoon.” He didn’t want to give them too much time to think. “Maintain fire.” He heard the sounds of rocks and debris smacking against the hull…a near miss chewing up the ground right behind the tank. Weld took a deep breath and tried not to piss himself. Fuck, he thought, barely keeping panic at bay…none of us are getting out of here.

  “Let’s go Marines. Fan out between the tanks…none of these fuckers get into the gaps! You understand me?” Sergeant Eliot Storm was jogging alongside one of the hulking monsters. He was glad to have the tanks here, but he was having a hard time effectively working alongside them. He knew infantry’s purpose in supporting tanks was to protect the flanks, but none of his people had ever served in that role. The Marines were a mobile force, light infantry wielding massive firepower because of their armor. They were organized and equipped for rapid movement from planet to planet. The Corps had a few light armored vehicles, but transporting main battle tanks around occupied space just wasn’t feasible. Not under normal conditions. Combined arms combat was new to the Corps, and it was going to take some time to achieve proficiency at it. Time Storm and his Marines didn’t have.

  Storm had been in command of the platoon for all of 30 minutes, ever since the lieutenant went down. He wasn’t dead – at least he hadn’t been half an hour before – but he was badly shot up. They’d left him about two klicks back. Storm hoped he’d been evac’d since then, but he really didn’t know. If not, the suit’s trauma system could probably keep him alive…for a while at least.

  “We’re focusing on the battlebots, not the Reapers…don’t you grunts forget that.” The tanks were much better equipped than the Marines to take out the First Imperium’s heavy units, but ignoring the Reapers and trusting to these army pukes to take them out was tough. The big robots were a much worse threat, and the Marines who’d fought against the First Imperium before were used to concentrating on them first.

  Storm didn’t have anything against the tank crews, but he knew they were virgins who’d been running bloodless exercises their entire careers. He tried to give them the benefit of the doubt, but he just didn’t trust them to stand…and if they broke and routed, the Marines supporting them would be screwed.

  Storm crouched down behind the crest of a small hill. He had a line of sight to half a dozen bots, and he opened fire immediately, raking their position. At least ten of his Marines were doing the same, and all the enemy robots went down, ripped to shreds by the fire. The new heavy rounds made a huge difference. Storm had fought on Cornwall, where they’d been armed with the old, lighter projectiles, and he’d been amazed at the effectiveness of the new ordnance. There was a price to pay, of course, and the new clips only carried 100 rounds where the old ones had 500. He glanced down at his monitors…ammo wasn’t a problem yet, but it was going to be soon.

  “Let’s go…the tanks are moving out again.” Not that there were many of them left. His platoon was supporting a tank company. They’d started with 14 of the heavy vehicles, but they’d lost 8. Two of those were damaged, and they’d pulled back on their own power, but the others had either been destroyed or badly hit and abandoned.

  Storm jumped up over the crest and scrambled down the hillside. Shit, he
thought, it’s really exposed on this side. There was a small gully at the bottom that might give a little protection, but that was it. “Platoon, advance by leapfrogs, odds first, evens covering fire.” He started down the hillside. “Odds…now!” Along the crest of the rise, half the platoon opened up, doing their best to cover the advancing forces. The enemy bots were also in cover, formed up in a hasty trench they’d dug about a klick to the west. It was the tanks’ job to penetrate that position, but unless reserves came up quickly, the offensive was going to grind to a halt.

  “Evens, advance. Odds, fire!” Storm dove headfirst into the gully and popped up, firing prone. The shots weren’t very effective…the enemy’s cover was strong. It took a direct hit in the open to take out a bot; in cover it was almost hopeless with small arms. “I want the heavies set up in this gully.” He glanced back, checking on the progress of the evens. “The SAWs better be firing in three zero seconds or those bots will be the least of your problems.”

  Storm sounded like a stereotypical old sergeant – and he looked like one too - with a bald head and a huge, crooked scar along the left side of his face. But he was actually an oddball character in the Marines. He’d been born the son of Cogs like most in the Corps, but his father had been the servant of a well-placed political family. Among the perks of a lifetime of loyal service was a decent education for Eliot and his two sisters. The largess of his father’s sponsor didn’t extend, however, to pulling strings to get the boy out of trouble, and the Marines seemed like a better alternative than the lunar mines.

  “And I want those HVMs firing in one minute. One motherfucking minute, boys and girls.” The hypervelocity missile launchers took longer to set up, but they were probably the most effective weapon the Marines had against the First Imperium bots.