The Empire’s Corps: Book 01 - The Empire's Corps (54 page)

Another shell landed far too close to the observation tower and Jasmine reluctantly conceded that it was untenable. She grabbed her MAG and shimmed down the ladder, knowing that the moment they saw her they’d open fire. Snipers were rarely shown mercy in wars, even though they were nothing more than just another kind of soldier. There was something about a sniper that just marked them out for death. Something hit her in the back, just before she got under cover, and she fell to the ground, cursing. Her armour had locked up and taken the brunt of the shot, but she still felt as if she’d gone three rounds with the Marine Corps Boxing Champion, back at the Slaughterhouse. He’d been one of her trainers back during Basic Training and had offered to graduate any of the trainees instantly if they beat him in the ring. Many had tried; none had succeeded. Red icons flashed up in her helmet, warning of all kinds of possible damage, before they faded away. She was intact, if sore. Absurdly, an image of Mandy doing a post-spanking dance popped into her mind and she giggled, ignoring the pain. She was definitely alive.

“I’m intact, sir,” she said, when the dispatcher realised that she had fallen from the tower. Not a moment too soon, for a mortar shell landed dead on top of it and blew the observation position to flaming debris. She somehow managed to pull herself to her feet and run for cover as the shooting started to intensify again. “I’ve been through worse.”

The ground shook violently as something exploded in the distance. “Good,” the dispatcher said. “Get to the forward position and meet up with 2
^nd
platoon there.”

There were seven Marines there, waiting for her. Blake was MIA, of course, but two others had been given a brief transfer to the Army of Avalon and were out of reach for the foreseeable future. Jasmine briefly linked into the general network and was shocked to realise that one of them had been badly wounded, despite everything his soldiers could do to help him. His suit was flashing urgent warnings, having injected him with sedatives and painkillers, but there was no way of evacuating him quickly. Joe Buckley was still living his charmed life, yet Jasmine couldn't see how even he intended to get out of the trap before his platoon ran out of ammunition. It wouldn't be long now.

A roar of engines announced that the first AFV was being moved towards the gate. The enemy might not have seen it coming, for they weren’t even trying to knock it out before it could be moved outside the base. Upon an order from the dispatcher, Jasmine and the rest of her platoon ran forward to provide cover as the gate hissed open, revealing a deserted street. It had been buzzing with life when they’d arrived in town. Now, the civilians had all deserted their homes for safety...or had joined the insurgents. She had to remind herself, again, that this enemy didn't play by the Empire’s rules.

She scowled as bullets started to ping off the AFV. The Empire divided insurgents into two categories; those that did their best to avoid civilian casualties and those that gloried in killing as many innocent people in the crossfire as possible, if not actually preying on the people they claimed to be fighting for. The Crackers, at least, seemed to have taken steps to get the civilians out of the way, unless they actually
were
the civilians and intended to simply drop their weapons when they were tired of fighting, melting back into the civilian population. The AFV advanced slowly, its guns swivelling to engage the gunners that presented themselves as targets, blowing them away with high-velocity rounds. The Crackers fell back into the town, slipping into buildings and hiding from the advancing machine.

“Get the next three AFVs deployed to corners and into position to block any egress,” the dispatcher ordered. Jasmine sighed inwardly, but waited as the remaining AFVs were moved out of the base. In her experience, armoured vehicles weren't as useful as they looked in street-fighting, but perhaps the dispatcher merely wanted to make a show of force. The Crackers seemed to have melted away into the buildings, perhaps even slipping into basements and underground tunnels. How long had they been planning their war? It all seemed too elaborate to have been put together on the fly.

“Drone reports enemy forces in buildings,” the dispatcher added. A map flashed up in Jasmine’s helmet, showing her the suspected location of the enemy fighters. Perhaps they were hiding, in hopes that the Marines would pass them by, although that wasn't going to happen. Even if the buildings had been marked as unoccupied, the Marines would have searched them anyway, just in case. It wouldn't be the first time that someone with bad intentions had managed to spoof a drone. “Clear them out; take them alive if possible.”

2
^nd
Platoon divided itself into two fire teams and advanced on the first building, with an AFV moving up behind to provide heavy firepower if required. Jasmine looked at the building, made a silent calculation about the likelihood of someone inserting an IED in the doorway, and used hand signals to warn the others that they were going to go through a wall. Doing damage to civilian property was discouraged, but she knew that Captain Stalker would back her up on this one...and, besides, the Marines would pay for it. It would be far better than having a mortar shell plunge through the roof and wreck the entire building.

“Now,” she muttered, as they placed the shaped explosive charges on the stone wall. Someone had been mining stone from a nearby quarry, she guessed, taking a second to admire the strange patterns running through the white stone. The charges detonated, blasting the wall inwards and allowing the Marines to charge inside, weapons raised and at the ready. A handful of Crackers had clearly been caught by the blast and stunned, but the Marines took no chances and played stunners over them, before searching them roughly and leaving them for the follow-up units to handle. Jasmine found a set of stairs and ran up them, watching for enemy contact. A single Cracker holding an odd pistol swung around to point it at her and she shot him neatly through the chest. He staggered over, one hand pressed to the wound, and collapsed to the floor. Jasmine kicked the weapon out of reach and kept moving.

“Clear,” one of the Marines called, as he checked out a bedroom. It showed the signs of having been abandoned in a hurry, suggesting that the Crackers had warned the owners to evacuate. Jasmine was grateful for that, at least. She didn't want to slaughter civilians. “Room two; clear!”

“Get up on the roof,” Jasmine ordered, as she checked out a storage room. A handful of cardboard boxes had been abandoned there, without any labels or explanations. She glanced at the contents and winced, realising that they were homemade children’s toys. “What have you found up there?”

“A dead body and an enemy sniper on the next rooftop,” Mark reported. “I shot him down before he could react.”

“Mark this building as clear and let’s move on to the next one,” Jasmine ordered. The sound of shooting was fading, although she could still making out gunshots echoing across the city. A quick status check revealed that the platoons trapped on the outside were still under heavy fire. “The sooner we get the bastards away from our base, the sooner we can recover our friends.”

Another noise intruded on her awareness and she glanced up sharply. “We have incoming helicopters,” the dispatcher warned. “Stand by for orders.”

Jasmine braced herself. If the Crackers had any antiaircraft weapons, they’d use them now. “Understood,” she said. A single HVM could blow a helicopter out of the sky before it could escape. “We’re ready.”

Chapter Forty-Six

Who wins any given battle? He who gets there first, with the most; troops, weapons, firepower and so on. Of course, in an insurgency, defining victory can be a little complex. History is replete with examples of counter-insurgency forces that have won battles – indeed, have won every battle – and yet lost the war
.

-Major-General Thomas Kratman (Ret), A Marine’s Guide to Insurgency.

“Get down!”

Michael hit the deck as the helicopters swooped down, launching a salvo of rockets towards their targets. The ground shook as the missiles impacted, sending brilliant fireballs billowing up into the air. Darkness fell, just for a second, as the helicopters roared overhead, seemingly so close that he could have reached up and touched them. Silence fell as they receded into the distance, just before it was broken by the sound of the Crackers opening fire again. There was noticeably less shooting now than there had been before the helicopters had made their pass.

“We got them good,” one of the soldiers shouted. He sounded delighted and tired at the same time. “Look at it!”

Michael looked. Across the street, there had once been a row of shops, all clearly closed up for the ambush. Now, three of them were little more than smouldering ruins and several more were on fire. The Marines had hammered one phase into his mind back on Castle Rock and he heard Barr speaking in his mind, as clearly as if he’d been standing right next to him.
We had to destroy the village in order to save it
. The devastation, as if an angry god had decided to knock down half of the town, shocked him. He had known, intellectually, just how powerful and destructive modern weapons were, but it was a far cry from seeing them in action. The Crackers would have hundreds of new recruits, not least the ones who had just lost their livelihoods in the fighting.

“Yeah,” he said, feeling a great weight settling across his shoulders. If the Crackers hadn't kept up the firing, he would have sat down and closed his eyes. The tiredness was almost a physical force, tearing away at his concentration. “I guess we got them.”

His radio buzzed. “Report,” the dispatcher said, as the helicopters started to circle back over the town. This time, they didn't have it all their own way and lines of tracer reached up towards them. The heavily-armoured helicopters could probably shrug it off unless the machine guns hit something vital, but if the enemy had any antiaircraft missiles the pilots would be dead before they realised what had hit them. “Do you require additional support?”

The helicopters started firing back towards the hidden machine guns, swatting their crews like bugs. Michael had to admire their bravery, even though he knew it was futile; they stood at their posts and kept firing until the helicopters blew them out of existence. The helicopter missiles were far too powerful for whatever firing positions the Crackers had set up. One by one, the bursts of tracer terminated and vanished.

“We need cover to get back to base,” he snapped, pushing the tiredness aside. There were stimulants in his combat netting, ones that would have him buzzing for hours, but he didn't dare take one. If even hardened Marines could become addicted to them, Michael didn't dare take the risk for himself. “What is the status of our relief?”

“The base itself has been attacked,” the dispatcher said. “We’re driving them back from the walls now, but it may be some time before we can get reinforcements through to you. You’re actually in the best position of all four platoons; one has lost over half its strength and is pinned down, burning through their ammunition too quickly to survive.”

Michael swore. If they were in the best position, he definitely didn't want to see the worst. “I understand,” he said, as the sound of shooting grew louder. Something exploded in a billowing fireball towards the west, sending shockwaves running through the ground. Had that been the result of the Crackers, or of the helicopter bombardment? There was no way to know. “Do you want us to remain here or attempt to assist the other patrols?”

There was a long pause. Michael used it to survey the situation. The Crackers were still firing, but the rate of fire had diminished, suggesting that they had been badly scattered by the helicopter attack. Or, perhaps, that they were trying to lure the soldiers out to where they could be slaughtered in the open. Michael was uncomfortably aware that the Crackers often came from people with a hunting background, rather than people who had grown up in a city that didn't allow the private possession of weapons. They might have a military potential that was vastly greater than anything the cities could produce.

“You probably couldn't get to the other patrols,” the dispatcher said. “If you feel that you can get back to base, you may make the attempt.”

Michael felt another weight falling down on his shoulders. He hadn't grasped, not really, what independent command meant! Barr had explained that Marine commanders issued general orders and trusted their subordinates to handle the situation as they saw fit, but he hadn't realised what it really meant. If he made the wrong call, the remaining members of his platoon – and two little girls – would be caught in the open and killed. If they stayed, they would eventually run out of ammunition and be slaughtered, unless the Crackers would accept surrender. If they moved, they might have a chance.

He looked up at his men and saw the same concerns reflected in their eyes. “I understand,” he said. He could have asked for opinions, but the responsibility went with the Corporal’s stripes he'd been so proud of when they’d been placed on his uniform. It was his call. He understood, suddenly, why the Council was so nervous about the Marines. They were trained to take independent action when the Civil Guard required orders in triplicate before they did anything at all. “We’ll make our way back to base.”

There was no dispute, he was relieved to see. “Understood,” the dispatcher said. “Be aware; Death One and Death Two will be on standby to provide whatever firepower you need. Keep us informed of your progress and we may be able to slip reinforcements to you.”

“Thank you,” Michael said, dryly. “We’re on our way.”

He broke the connection and looked up at his men. “We’re going through the walls,” he said. Breaking out into the street would be suicide. “Get shaped charges set up and prepare to move.”

He smiled to himself and headed up the stairs to the two girls, who were cowering on the floor. “Listen to me,” he said. They might have been safe if he’d left them behind, but he couldn't take the risk. “You have to come with us and keep your heads down, understand?”