Guerrilla (The Royal Marine Space Commandos Book 2) Read online

  It seemed that they had caught the enemy unawares and most of the Marines had made it to the floor of the mine, ready to attack, before the snipers had even felt the need to execute their first targets. The count of remaining enemy combatants was dropping rapidly, and Warden lurched into a crouching run again, using his HUD to find the next target and relying on the snipers and spotters to keep the information current.

  He took a running jump over one of the concentric rings that formed the mine and dropped ten feet onto a smoke-filled ledge. He rolled to absorb the impact and come up in a crouch. He emptied the rest of his magazine, taking down two more Deathless while their colleagues ran for cover from the attack of the cliff-leaping madman. Warden swapped in his last magazine, shooting two more of the fleeing enemy as soon as it clicked into place, then he turned left, searching the smoke for the last of the group.

  He found the helmeted soldier waiting right where he was least welcome. Even as Warden turned, he knew he’d never make it; he could only watch as the enemy rifle swung round to point directly at him.

  Warden was close enough to see the soldier’s muscles tighten as it began to pull the trigger and smoke billowed around its legs. Then a glowing shape cut through its right arm and into its chest. The severed limb dropped and the rifle went with it, falling harmlessly to the ground in a spray of blood. The glow appeared again, springing forth from the throat to splash blood all over the ground.

  “I say, Lieutenant, we really should stop meeting like this,” Ten said, appearing from behind the falling corpse to grin like a mad thing before vanishing back into the smoke, a glowing Deathless knife in his hand.

  Warden took a couple of deep breaths and made a mental note to have a chat with Marine X later. Then he slung his carbine on his back and picked up the Deathless rifle, checking the round counter from force of habit before remembering that he had no idea how to read their strange language. He picked up the enemy soldier’s ammunition satchel and slapped in a fresh magazine, just in case, then moved out.

  That leap had been a big gamble, taken in the heat of the moment. Now he took more control of himself, advancing methodically, paying attention to the information in his HUD and giving orders like a real officer. He held himself in cover and concentrated on suppressing any enemy troopers so they could be flanked. It was bloody work that day, carnage if truth be told. They’d gone through the enemy like a chainsaw through rotten wood.

  Warden watched as the body count increased and the number of remaining targets finally dropped to zero. They swept the mine for survivors and soldiers that might have escaped the survey then dealt with their own casualties. It turned out that he and Ten had been the only ones to rush quite so far forward; the rest had been more circumspect and their worst injuries were flesh wounds.

  “They weren’t civilians, Sir,” said Milton, catching up with Warden as he poked at a couple of enemy bodies, “none of them. They’re all wearing military clones, and they’re all armed, even the machine operators. It looks like they weren’t taking quite as many risks as we thought.”

  “Good,” said Warden, somewhat relieved that he wouldn’t have a load of civilian deaths on his conscience, even if death amounted to no more than a temporary disembodiment.

  Once he had checked the status of A Troop and satisfied himself that everything was secure, he moved to the target that had brought them here. The truck was intact, nothing but cosmetic damage from the firefight that had erupted around it. The tyres were in good order; the plan could proceed.

  Then there was their unexpected find, the manufactory in the shed. Ten had swept through the building, checking for any Deathless they might have missed, and the area was clear. Within the shed, a manufactory unit rested on a large powered sled. Warden levered open a crate and found it full of weapon parts.

  Milton whistled when she drew level with him. “Nice. That should make the Captain and the Governor a little happier.”

  “I’m sure it will. Let's get this sled moving and get it back to Fort Widley,” he said.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “Shouldn’t we crack on with the plan and let the Captain know this is here?” Milton asked.

  Warden shook his head, “No, this manufactory could be the difference between winning and losing. It’s set up for military equipment and better than anything we have in Ashton or the Fort. We need to get moving because we can’t stick around to guard it against the enemy. We have two missions now but once this thing is on the move we’ll ask the Captain if he can send backup. Otherwise, we’ll move it just far enough to hide it then pick it up once we’ve finished our primary mission.”

  Milton frowned but didn’t say anything more. Warden was relieved; he valued Milton’s judgement, of course, but she tended to focus on the immediate problems rather than take the longer view, which was exactly what made her a great NCO. No plan survived contact with the enemy and this was a stroke of luck they couldn’t afford to ignore.

  He left her to organise moving the huge piece of equipment and arrange for the enemy dead to be stripped of anything of value while he went to sort out the truck. The techs seemed to have everything well under control, retrofitting it to suit Warden’s mad plan.

  Satisfied the techs had the truck in hand, he turned back to the manufactory to get an update. Milton’s team had manoeuvred it out of the shed, and the sled was moving slowly toward the ramps that would take it up the side of the mine and out into the rocky terrain between them and their new base of operations, Fort Widley.

  Half a dozen Marines from Section 3, were surrounding the sled, walking with it as it neared the ramp. Milton was checking in with the Marines who had been looting the enemy dead for serviceable items. Warden made a note that they should take even broken kit, if they could carry it. Anything that couldn’t be repaired would just be fed back into the manufactories in Fort Widley.

  He was about to walk over to Milton when he noticed something going on with the sled. Corporal Green and Lance Corporal Long were having a somewhat animated discussion, gesturing at the side of the manufactory. One of the panels had lit up like a birthday party, lights twinkling and an image rotating on the large display. That was odd. It meant that whatever was displayed was being made, right now, and he hadn’t certainly ordered anyone to turn it on.

  Then Green and Long began to run, waving their arms and shouting. Warden felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He was moving before he processed what was wrong. He couldn’t hear it, they were too far away, but he could see Green and Long were screaming at their section to scatter. Milton turned to face Warden, puzzled that he was sprinting toward her. The sled with its heavy cargo was maybe three hundred metres behind her, down the ramp.

  Warden could feel the burn as his lungs sucked down the thin, Bristolian air, trying to support his furious sprint. He saw the realisation on Milton’s face, the sudden awareness that something was wrong, terribly wrong. He tried to issue an order through the HUD but he didn’t have the breath or the time.

  He didn’t see the flash, not really; it was too bright to register and the HUD blocked most of the glare. He felt the shockwave like a slap in the chest from the hand of a petulant giant, lifting him off his feet and throwing him out of consciousness. Warden’s world went black.

  14

  The first reports were unclear, difficult to understand. A ‘walking tank’ was the way one shocked militia soldier had described it. Then a shaky video, shot on a hand-held communicator, arrived to provide details of the new threat.

  Barely twenty seconds long, the video showed a pair of armoured figures walking stiffly down the street toward a militia position. At first glance, they could have been mistaken for normal Deathless power armour.

  It was their strange gait which gave them away, their legs moved stiffly, the movement of the hips not quite right. Then they moved past a street lamp, and their scale became clear. They were at least five metres tall, maybe six, with bulbous
chest pieces that jutted oddly forward.

  Light troops followed behind but the two at the front took the cameraman’s attention. Each arm bore huge weapons; a flamethrower on one and a pair of heavy machine cannons on the other.

  As they walked, so large that the ground rumbled with each step, they sprayed fire at the retreating militia. Yellow and blue flame shot across the street, incinerating everything it touched and chewing even at the concrete of the buildings and structures behind which the humans hid. Then the dreadful fire would swing away, and the area would be sprayed with high-velocity, large calibre shot from the twin-cannon.

  “Too many casualties,” said Atticus, watching the monitors that showed the militia falling back and dying in large numbers. The destructive power was awe-inspiring and Atticus, as he watched the video for the twelfth time, had to admit to being impressed.

  Years ago, he had seen a demonstration of a similar system while it was still in development. A defence contractor had produced prototypes of a new form of armour and they worked well; the weapons were capable, the pilot had good control, the thing was stable and the armour was tough. It was an impressive demonstration.

  The problem was the mass of the loaded unit. The entire demonstration had been run at a specially constructed site where the ‘ground’ was actually steel reinforced foamcrete. On normal roads or any surface less solid than rock, the vehicle just sank under its own weight as soon as it stepped off its transport. In any real world situation, it was useless, and the experiment was abandoned.

  “Come back in twenty years,” the contractor had said, “or maybe fifty, and we should have materials whose performance allows this system to work.” Nobody had really believed them.

  It seemed, however, that the Deathless had overcome the problem and produced a deployable combat unit.

  “That's not something you see every day,” said Denmead as she watched the video play again on the big screen. The video showed the militia returning fire, standing their ground for longer than anyone could reasonably have expected, then being mown down as they finally broke and ran.

  Atticus got to his feet, “No, no, it's not. But it is something I've seen before.” Denmead looked at him quizzically. He wasn't surprised, it had been a little-known project at the time, and its total failure had led to it being buried.

  “Come on; we need to stop these things quickly,” he said, grabbing his rifle and heading for the door, “and I think I've got an idea that might just work.”

  Phil Jones watched the heavy armour coming down the street and sniffed as it paused to swivel, checking right then left for anything to shoot at. The militia had fallen back, unable to stop this new threat with their weaponry, and now the beasts wandered unopposed through the city.

  He had been watching this pair of Deathless robot walkers with his sniper, Pete Smith, for a few minutes from their hiding place in a patch of overgrown scrubland.

  “Looks like a walking tin can. Short-range weapons only, by the look of it,” said Phil, peering through his binoculars, “but the grunts following have rifles and something that looks suspiciously like a mortar.”

  “One shot then relocate,” said Pete, adjusting the scope of his railgun, “and bang!” He said it quietly as he pressed the trigger button. The gun hummed and, a hundred metres away, there was a flash and a bang as the round struck the huge Deathless machine in the centre of its mass.

  “Definite hit,” muttered Phil as the Deathless swung around, looking for the source of the attack, “no obvious damage. Bugger me, that thing’s tough.”

  Behind the Can, the troopers had spread out and taken cover, spooked by the sound of the rail gun. The two Cans kept coming, utterly undeterred, hunting the humans.

  “Ninety metres,” said Phil, shuffling backwards, “time to go unless we want to get really friendly with them.”

  “I hear you,” said Pete, slinging his gun over his shoulder, “let’s circle around and see if they like it from behind.”

  The crawled into the ditch at the back of the scrub and hurried away at a rapid crouch, looking for a new firing position.

  “So what’s this idea, then?” said Governor Denmead as she and Atticus hurried through the warehouse where they had established a temporary command post.

  Atticus hadn’t wanted her to be there. “Government has to continue, the caves of Fort Widley are the safest place we have, you should stay there rather than put yourself at risk in the city,” he had said. He might as well have shouted at the wind for all the good it did.

  “No, time to explain, Governor. I briefed the men while you were dealing with your team. You'll just have to watch and for pity’s sake, stay out of sight,” he said irritably. He liked Denmead, and he hadn't meant to snap at her, but she was as stubborn as an ox. Probably why you like her, he thought.

  Mercifully she took it in good grace and let him get on with it. So now they were making their way through the abandoned buildings of the city, heading for a spot near the last known location of the armoured leviathans that the Marines had begun calling ‘Cans’.

  They were accompanied by a squad made up of Marines from B Troop, all of whom were now, like Atticus, wearing captured Deathless bodies. They carried the heavy weapons that had been captured from the enemy over the last few days.

  The militia that each Marine had been leading had been left behind for this operation. Even though they couldn't order the Governor to stay at Fort Widley, they could make sure that the militia was out of harm's way. This wasn't a plan for amateurs, however willing they had proved to be.

  “They’re coming this way,” said Atticus eventually, stopping in the ruined shell of a fab plant. The roof was gone, blown away a few days before, but the foamcrete first floor was still in place and so were the walls of the ground floor.

  “This will do nicely,” said Atticus, looking around, “find somewhere upstairs, toward the rear side of the building for the mortar, Corporal, and make sure your spotter has good lines of sight along the street. We’ll have one sniper team down here, the other up on the roof if there’s cover. Everyone else spread out.”

  “How will this idea of yours work, Captain?” Denmead was curious, but Atticus had been very coy about his plan.

  “It’s a bit risky, to be honest,” he said finally, as the Marines found their positions and settled down to wait, “and I’m not sure it’ll work. If it does, the next attack will be easier. It’s all about making these Cans a liability rather than an advantage.”

  “But how do we do that?” Denmead persisted, irritated that Atticus wouldn’t share.

  “You’re about to find out,” he said, nodding at the window, “looks like our friends have caught up with us.”

  Two Cans walked slowly along the street, their outsized bodies looking faintly ridiculous on their comparatively short, stubby legs.

  “Three hundred metres, sir,” came the report.

  “Open fire at two hundred and fifty,” said Atticus, “mortars and snipers.”

  Denmead frowned. “That didn’t work before,” she pointed out, “why would it work now?”

  “Because this time we have brought something special to the party,” said Atticus, his binoculars tight against his head as he stared down the street. The enemy moved slowly, cautiously, checking each building they passed.

  In his HUD, Atticus watched the range countdown. As it hit two hundred and fifty metres, there was a pop from the mortar, and both snipers fired. The rifles opened up as well and, in moments, the street was empty of all but the Cans, which continued their sedate stroll.

  sent Atticus. There was some sporadic return of fire from the enemy, but they obviously intended to let the Cans clear the way. They had learned the hard way that captured railguns were not impeded by the walls of Ashton’s buildings, so now they kept well out of sight when the distinctive guns began to fire.

  “Almost,” muttered Atticus, setting down his binoculars when the Cans had reached the two hundred metr
e mark. There were pops from upstairs as the mortars fired again, although as far as Denmead could tell, they hadn’t hit anything yet.

  She was just about to say as much when a figure dashed from cover on one side of the street. A Marine, clearly, running fast, heedless of the danger.

  Denmead watched, horrified, as the Marine slapped something on the back of the leg of one of the Cans then ran on. The Can twisted at the waist, trying to bring guns to bear on the Marine, but a mortar round caught it in the chest, knocking it back a step and distracting the pilot.

  The Marine darted to the second Can and then he was away, sprinting back toward the cover from which he had emerged, dropping flashbangs and smoke grenades as he ran. Gunfire erupted from the buildings along the street, hosing the Deathless positions as the Marine dived over a wall and disappeared from sight.

  Then there were two loud bangs from the street, accompanied by blinding white light. The first Can staggered, then dropped forward as its leg snapped near the knee, right where the Marine had struck it with something. The twin-cannon fired repeatedly, throwing up huge sprays of dirt before the Can rolled onto its back and the pilot ejected from the front of the chest.

  Atticus ordered. He raised his carbine, adjusted for wind and snapped off a burst that scythed the Rupert’s legs out from under him. Moments later, a pair of Deathless troopers rushed forward and dragged the wounded officer into cover.

  The second Can didn’t topple but it did stop moving as viscous liquid gushed from the damaged leg and something burned brightly behind the knee joint sending up a plume of smoke. The Can pivoted, its upper torso turning until it could spray fire across the Marines’ position.