First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) (37 page)

“Get the trucks into the hardened shelters,” he ordered, “and then get into the makeshift barracks.”
 

The company guarding the FOB showed a level of skill and professionalism I hadn't come to expect from the imperial army.  Even the handful of Redshirts attached to them seemed remarkably competent (naturally, I resolved to sleep with one eye open; they were just
too
competent to be trusted.)  They'd organised a giant hanger - the FOB was a former airbase, built for some purpose that had been long forgotten - into sleeping quarters and provided a handful of blankets and other pieces of bedding.  It was better than we’d expected; luckily, we'd brought our own bedrolls along as well as ration bars.  I didn't hear any grumbling about the food as we lay down, closed our eyes and went to sleep.  They told me the FOB was shelled twice in the night, but I wasn't even remotely aware of it.

We wiped ourselves down the following day - there were showers, but water was strictly rationed - and prepared ourselves to drive out again.  This time, there were just three platoons of marines; we’d be badly outnumbered, but at least there wouldn't be any imperial army troops getting in the way and screwing up when we came under attack.  Webb took command at once, then ordered us back through the gates and onto a dusty road leading north.  It looked far nicer than the highway, yet it was much more oppressive.  The enemy could easily bury a pressure plate IED under the road and wait for us to drive over it.  And the farmlands closed in, providing no shortage of cover for the enemy. 

It was a surprise, at least to me, when we didn't take any fire at all.  We drove though a couple of tiny hamlets - the inhabitants eyed us warily, but didn't show any interest in talking - and onwards towards Kristin, a small town to the north.  The sweat started to trickle down my back as the sun rose higher, shining down on our position.  It was almost a relief when a handful of poorly-aimed shots cracked over my head and vanished somewhere in the undergrowth.  I swung around, looking for the shooter, but saw nothing.  The only thing I could do was hold my fire and wait.

“Probably a local yokel,” Lewis said, when no further shots were incoming.  “He wouldn't have stuck around for a fight.”

I nodded, slowly.  A local yokel - a piece of marine slang - is a local inhabitant who refuses to do the smart thing and stay out of a firefight, either because he thinks it’s a challenge to his manhood or because he’s trying to impress someone.  He’s rarely directly connected to the insurgents, but he serves their purpose and wastes our time.  We’d studied the many different types of insurgent at the Slaughterhouse and I think the local yokel is the most infuriating and frustrating.  There was no way to get anything through his skull, save by the most extreme measures.  He normally got himself killed comparing dick-sizes with highly-trained soldiers.

And then his family has a grudge against us and a reason to go to the insurgents
, I thought, as we rolled onwards. 
We kill an idiot who fires at us and wind up with a dozen new enemies. 

“Keep a sharp eye out for trouble,” Singh warned, as we approached the town.  The farmland was slowly replaced by grasslands, where a number of cows and sheep chewed contently, untouched by human wars.  I smiled when I saw a sign, clearly designed by a child, advertising PENNY’S STY.  A large pig hid behind it, watching us with beady eyes.  “This is a prime spot for an ambush.”

We rolled past the final farmhouse, weapons at the ready.  A small girl stared at us, then turned and ran inside.  An older woman watched our vehicles expressionlessly; behind her, a man who looked old enough to be my grandfather ignored us, as if he could deny our very existence.  I didn't really blame him.  We’d brought war to his town.

No, it wasn't really our fault.  The planet’s king had sold his people out, twice.  But it was only human of him to blame us ...

... And besides, it was much easier to blame the off-worlders for the nightmare that had consumed his world.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Humans are, of course, social creatures.  There is an understandable reluctance to believe the worst of one’s own society, no matter its flaws, while being willing to believe the worst of every other society.  (Certain worlds throughout history have reversed that trait, but they rarely lasted longer than a generation; no one would fight to defend a society they had been taught to hate.)  On Moidart, most of the population did blame Hammersmith Corporation, the Empire’s military or the Grand Senate ... choosing to ignore King Fredrick’s role in selling mining rights to off-worlders.  It suited their social obligations to believe as much.

-Professor Leo Caesius

Kristin was a ghost town.

No, not entirely, but the closer we got to the firebase, the fewer people we saw on the streets and the more buildings that were clearly abandoned.  A number showed the tell-tale signs of bullet marks, others had been destroyed; no one had bothered to clean up the rubble, let alone try to replace them.  The firebase itself had started life as a school, but the windows had been removed and covered with metal netting, the walls had been augmented by prefabricated barriers and a dozen murder holes had been cut through the stone.  It looked like the old FOB, I reflected as we were escorted through the gates, but worse.

“Captain Webb,” a newcomer called.  He wore a dirty uniform, suggesting he was actually a fighting officer.  “Welcome to Firebase Gamma - or, as we call it, Hell.”

Webb grinned.  “It’s good to see you again, Bill,” he said.  “How long has it been since Tarbush?”

“Too long,” Bill - Captain William Thompson, Imperial Army - said.  “We’ve been stuck here for the last six months.”

“You poor bastards,” Webb said.  He and Thompson had served together before; indeed, Thompson had once had quite a high reputation, for all that he was a soldier rather than a marine.  “Do you have a briefing prepared?”

“Stow your gear, then join us in the schoolroom,” Thompson said.  “I’ll meet you down there in twenty minutes.”

We checked our sleeping quarters - we were expected to sleep under the desks, it seemed - and then headed down to the schoolroom.  It looked surprisingly like
Webb’s
briefing room, right down to the large map pinned to the wall.  Kristin was larger than I’d realised and, more awkwardly, was surrounded by a dozen satellite towns.  Thompson was expected to patrol fifty square miles with ... with what?  How many men were assigned to the firebase?

“Thank you for coming,” Thompson said, as he strode into the room.  “I’ll give it to you straight.  We’ve been pinned down here for the last month and we’ve come frighteningly close to running out of supplies more than once.  Last time, we only got one truckload of ration bars from the FOB, thanks to the enemy hitting the convoy with antitank rockets.  I actually recommended the firebase be abandoned.  We're not achieving anything here.”

Webb frowned.  “It’s that bad?”

“Worse,” Thompson said.  “I have four platoons under my direct command, thanks to constant attrition and ... and higher command stealing some of my subordinate formations for other firebases.  Suffice it to say that we have no control at all outside the range of our guns and we come under heavy attack whenever we leave the base.  The townspeople hate us, the entire area is seeded with IEDs and there’s very little we can do to change it.”

He sounded ... broken.  Later, I discovered that Thompson had managed to embarrass his commanding officer and he’d been punished by being dispatched to Kristin, along with half of the men under his command.  His superiors hoped, I think, that he’d either defeat the rebels or lose so badly he could be dishonourably discharged from the army.  Caught in a bind, he'd settled for pulling in his horns and holding the firebase against all comers.

“The base itself has been attacked too, several times,” Thompson added, slowly.  “We’ve come close to running out of ammunition completely twice; it took all of my powers of persuasion to convince higher command to make emergency shipments of weapons and ammunition.  I don’t think I need to tell you what
would
have happened if the enemy had managed to overrun us.  They came far too close to succeeding last time.”

I swallowed.  Running out of ammunition hadn't seemed a reasonable possibility in Charlie City - we weren't far from the spaceport, where millions of rounds were stored - but here?  I could see it happening.  So could the rebels, if they had eyes and ears in the FOB.  They’d have to know just how close the firebase had come to running out of ammunition ... and they could shape their attacks to force Thompson and his men to expend their limited supply.  I knew precisely what would happen if the firebase
did
run out of ammunition; the rebels would overrun the base, kill everyone inside and walk off with thousands of credits worth of useful equipment.  It would be, at the very least, a major embarrassment to the governor.

Webb stood.  “We will commence patrols tomorrow,” he said, firmly.  “I want us to make our presence felt throughout the town, then we can start extending our control into the farmlands.”

“That won’t be easy,” Thompson warned.  “The warlord controls everywhere outside our guns.”

“We can but try,” Webb said.  “If nothing else, at least we have some additional firepower.”

The enemy, as it happened, had plans of their own.  We were woken up in the middle of the night by a salvo of incoming fire, followed by a series of gunshots as enemy snipers probed our defences.  Thompson’s men rationed their fire carefully, only shooting back when they had a clear target; Corporal Stevens and his mortar platoon were more enthusiastic about firing off shells, but the enemy mortars refused to be silenced.  We stood to, preparing to repel an offensive, as the enemy fire intensified and then faded away.  Our night-vision gear allowed us to identify a number of men watching us, but we couldn't engage them unless we actually saw weapons in their hands.  I was starting to understand just why Thompson and his men were so demoralised.

“We don’t
know
they’re dickers,” Singh pointed out.

“They’re out and about in the midst of a firefight,” Lewis said, coldly. “They’re either dickers or idiots.”

We didn’t get any more sleep that night, even as the sun slowly appeared on the far side of the mountains.  There was no sign of any enemy bodies, no proof we’d hit anything ... I gritted my teeth as I surveyed the wrecked buildings, realising just how easy it would be for the enemy to slip close.  As long as they were careful, and they quite evidently were, they wouldn't have any trouble getting into firing range without being detected.  We stuffed ration bars into our mouths, then prepared ourselves for our first foray out beyond the walls and into Kristin.  Thompson’s men called out all sorts of pieces of advice as we checked and rechecked our weapons and body armour.  None of it seemed particularly helpful.

“I should be commanding this march,” Singh said, as we prepared to depart.  “Captain ...”

“I need to get a feel for the terrain,” Webb replied, firmly.  “There isn't any other way to do it.”

I smiled.  It did seem foolish for the captain to put his life at risk, but he didn't really have a choice.  Terrain is rarely what it seems on the map, something I hadn't understood until I’d been issued a map that was both completely accurate and remarkably misleading.  Given the dangers caused by a REMF trying to micromanage operations from the rear, I supposed we should be damn grateful that Captain Webb wasn't anything of the sort.  Besides, we admired him all the more for sharing the risks.

The gates opened, slowly, and we inched outside, weapons at the ready.  It was already warm, but I wasn't sweating because of the heat.  The deserted and ruined buildings had looked sinister enough in the darkness, yet they somehow managed to look worse in the cold light of day.  I wondered, absently, just what had happened to the owners as we walked past them, careful to keep our distance from anything suspicious.  The enemy would have to be mad to plant IEDs in a populated town, but they’d already shown a frightening lack of concern for civilian casualties.

“There’s too much rubble around,” Webb noted, as we kept moving.  I was sure we were being watched by unseen eyes.  “Stay well away from it.”

“They could be counting on that, sir,” Lewis said.  “If they’re using it to store weapons as well as cover ...”

“Something to bear in mind,” Webb agreed.

We inched our way down to the market, which was already coming to life ... if a torpid kind of life.  A handful of old men were sitting at one end, playing a game that looked like an odd combination of chess and risk; several younger children were running around, kicking a football from place to place.  They looked old enough to be on the farms, I noted; I wasn't sure why they were here, unless they were waiting to go into school.  Where
was
the school now we’d taken the building and turned it into a firebase?  A handful of other children were sitting against the wall, half-hidden in the shade.  I peered at them and realised, to my horror, that they were some of the casualties of the war.  A young boy was missing his legs, a young girl had an arm that ended in a stump, a teenage male had a cloth wrapped around his eyes ...

“Davidson, offer to help them,” Webb ordered, quietly.  “See if we can do something to make their lives better.”

The younger children vanished as soon as Davidson approached, while the blind teenager shook his head, keeping his mouth firmly closed.  I wondered, absently, just what had happened to blind him.  It couldn't have been our fault, could it?  But there were some riot control weapons that
caused
blindness, if pushed to maximum.  It wasn't meant to last, yet some victims were unlucky.  We’d been told not to use it except as a last resort.

“We move on,” Webb ordered.

The sensation of being watched grew stronger as we made our way through the market, passing a dozen stalls.  Shopkeepers watched us nervously - half of their trades were probably illegal, under the king’s law - but we didn't attempt to interfere.  Webb tried talking to a couple of them; a couple looked as though they wanted to talk, yet didn't quite dare.  I expected Webb to order us to take a couple prisoner, giving them an excuse for talking to us, but he merely told us to walk on.  By the time we reached the end of the market place, I had the uncomfortable feeling that we were walking inside an invisible bubble.  Hardly anyone would acknowledge our presence.

“Makes the city look cheerful,” Lewis said.

Webb stopped outside a large house and tapped on the door.  A middle-aged man appeared - he looked as if he’d once been fat, although he’d lost a great deal of weight - and stepped out, closing the door behind him.  I couldn’t hear what Webb said to him at first, but he practically shouted his answers to the entire town, denying knowing anything about the rebels and flatly refusing any help we might offer the townspeople.  It took me a moment to realise he didn’t want to leave any room for doubt about his answers.  The town was infested with rebel contacts, who would happily tattle on him if he did anything else.

We finally bid goodbye to the headman and returned to the firebase.  As soon as we arrived, Singh led a second patrol out while we checked and rechecked the defences.  Lewis and a handful of others were sent to start checking the piles of debris for unpleasant surprises, then left a handful of their own behind.  Webb wanted to clear the piles of debris away, but we couldn't spare the manpower to do it ourselves or hire anyone from the town, no matter how much money we offered.  Singh suggested forcing people to work at gunpoint, but Webb overruled him, pointing out that it would only make them hate us more.  Personally, I was starting to think it was a lost cause.

That night, we were startled by an explosion as one of Lewis’s IEDs exploded, alerting us to an enemy presence.  We launched flares at once, spotted a handful of enemies as they crept towards us and picked them off.  The enemy sniped at us again from a distance, then bombarded us ruthlessly with makeshift rockets and mortar shells.  They didn't seem to be short of ammunition, unfortunately.  The bastards even smuggled a colossal bomb up towards the walls that would have flattened them, if we hadn't seen them coming and opened fire from a safe distance.  Whatever they’d used to make the bomb, it exploded with immense force - the ground shook so badly it did more damage to our positions than hundreds of mortar shells - and put a stop to the attack, at least for the rest of the night.  My platoon caught up on its sleep while the other two platoons watched the darkness warily, waiting for the enemy to return.