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Rachel kept her head down as the missiles slammed home, giant explosions reducing the enemy camps to rubble. She keyed her terminal once she saw the enemy barricades, heedless of her safety, sending targeting coordinates back to the fleet. The missiles screamed through the air moments later, coming down hard. The barricades shattered, men and vehicles tossed in all directions. There was so much confusion that Rachel had no trouble getting through the remains of the barricades and into the city, heading straight towards the mansion. No one tried to bar her way.
The city was disintegrating, chaos spreading rapidly as law and order - such as it had been under the rebels - broke down. She saw more barricades being thrown up, seemingly at random; she saw fighters desert their units and run into the streets, either heading to their families or trying to desert after the first taste of combat. She wondered, idly, how the rebels would react. It was never easy to predict how someone would behave, when they came face to face with the harsh realities of war. The Marine Corps had had thousands of years of experience in screening recruits, and drilling them in combat before they fired a single shot in anger, and yet even the corps had its problems. The rebels would have to crack down hard, yet even trying ...
She kept moving. There didn’t seem to be anyone trying to organise defences, let alone a counterattack, although it was hard to be sure. There were districts that seemed quite heavily defended - and well-organised, with fire-fighters being sent to tackle the blazes - but in others, it was every man for himself. It looked as if some rebels were simply looting too, or worse. She spotted a rebel soldier pushing a woman against the wall, clearly planning to rape her. Rachel came up behind him, bashed him over the head and retreated as quickly as she’d come. She didn’t know what his would-be victim would do - scream, faint, run, kill her tormentor - and she didn’t much care. Right now, she had other problems. Her old instructors would have chewed her out for stopping to help, no matter how much the poor girl needed it. The mission came first.
Her lips thinned as she neared the mansion, trying not to scowl as she spotted improvised defences being thrown into place. The helicopters were orbiting the mansion, raining death on any enemy soldier foolish enough to show himself, but Rachel knew it was only a matter of time before they ran out of ammunition. The rebel CO seemed to know it too. He was organising his men carefully, getting them into position to either drive the helicopters away or block Richard’s men if they managed to fight their way up from the docks. Rachel drew her pistol as the CO stepped into view, shot him neatly through the head and ran for her life, keying her terminal to call down more fire from above. It was unlikely the fleet would aim missiles so close to the helicopters - it would be the height of irony if a missile accidentally took out both Roland and the enemy leader - but the helicopters should be able to provide covering fire. She heard a pair of machine guns chattering as she ran, then scrambled up a ladder to hide as the mob came after her. It was unlikely they’d realise she’d gone up. To a normal person, it would look as if she’d trapped herself.
She heard more explosions as she scrambled onto the roof and looked around. The city was surrounded by fires, the camps around the city burning brightly. It didn’t look as if anyone was having much luck fighting the fires. The enemy could no longer coordinate their forces. She checked her terminal and smiled, grimly, as all radio channels were blanketed by the message. It was unclear who, if anyone, was listening, but telling the city’s population to remain indoors and out of the line of fire was secondary. The important thing was to keep the rebels from communicating. They still had the numbers. If they got organised, the operation was doomed.
And we have to keep them from getting organised as long as possible, she thought, keying her terminal. The more time we have, the better.
***
Roland was almost relieved, despite everything, when they ran into the first ambush. A hail of bullets came within bare inches of striking him. He fired back, throwing a stun grenade after the bullets in hopes of knocking the enemy troops out. They kept firing, seemingly untroubled. Roland cursed as he unhooked a HE grenade from his belt, pulled the pin and hurled it down the corridor. He’d hoped the enemy below could be kept in ignorance of his presence as long as possible, although cold logic had told him that was little more than wishful thinking. He certainly hadn’t dared count on it.
The grenade exploded. The enemy fire abruptly stopped. Roland glanced at his men, then led the way forward. Four torn and broken bodies lay on the battered floor, all dead. A fifth man was dying, too badly wounded to be saved by anything less than a modern hospital ... a hospital that simply didn’t exist on New Doncaster. He gritted his teeth, then shot the man through the head. It was a mercy kill, and not the first he’d made during his short career, but it still didn’t sit well. If he could have saved the rebel ...
He led the way further downstairs, wishing they had better intelligence. The original builders might have stuck a bunker under the mansion - or a panic room, somewhere within the walls - but he had no idea where the entrance had been hidden. The handful of prisoners they’d taken had been unable or unwilling to shed any light on the question, save for a man who’d bragged so openly it had been impossible to take him seriously. The spooks had said he’d been trying to mislead them, and Roland agreed. He’d read the report anyway, just to be sure, but it was clear - now - it was a pack of lies from start to finish.
And we’re not allowed to hit him for trying to mislead us, Roland thought, sourly. It would set a terrible precedent.
His mind raced as they reached another stairwell, only to be greeted with a hail of fire. The enemy CO was thinking fast, Roland thought. He’d thrown an ambush together in a tearing hurry, trying to buy time for the senior leadership to escape. Roland hoped the helicopters were enough to deter their bodyguards from escorting their principals above ground - no close-protection team worthy of the name would take such a risk - but there was no way to be sure. Was there a secret tunnel, perhaps leading to a mistress’s apartment, somewhere underground? The people he’d consulted hadn’t known. If there was, it would have been a very well-kept secret. It might even have been left off the original - now missing - plans.
“Set charges,” he snapped. The stairwell might as well have been designed to ambush people coming from above. There was no way to hurl grenades down without running the risk of the weapons being caught in the middle, detonating uselessly. He didn’t have the grenades to spare. “Quickly.”
His men hurried forward, slapping the demolition charges into place. Roland glanced at the walls, silently calculating how much they could take. How strong was the mansion? He didn’t know. The spooks had calculated the building had been designed to be a fortress, but the rebels had overwhelmed it so quickly Roland suspected the spooks were wrong. Setting off so many charges within the building was asking for trouble, if the walls were weaker than they thought. He didn’t want to accidentally bring the entire mansion down on his head. It would be an embarrassing way to die.
“Charges set,” Corporal Salter said.
“Take cover,” Roland ordered. He took the detonator and braced himself. “Three ... two ... one ...”
The charges detonated. The floor ahead of him dropped, falling onto the enemy position like the hammer of God. Roland felt the entire building shake, once again, and looked up. The ceiling seemed unsteady, but - thankfully - the walls seemed to have directed the blast downwards. He snapped orders, rappelling into the hole and landing on the bottom, weapon sweeping for targets. The enemy position had been shattered. He breathed a sigh of relief, then ordered his men onwards. The enemy leaders would be trying to escape. It could not be allowed.
***
“This way,” Patrick urged. “Quickly!”
Sarah followed him, feeling numb. It was hardly the first time she’d been in danger, but there was something about this threat that made it hard to think. The government troops had landed right on top of the mansion and come crashing through the roof, trying to find her ... it galled her that she’d let herself be targeted, that she’d let herself be talked into moving into a place the enemy knew as well as herself. They’d probably already found the plans in the government offices on Kingston, then used them to target their attack perfectly ...
An explosion, so close she thought the mansion had been hit, shook the building so violently it threw her to her knees. She struggled to her feet, dust and pieces of plaster falling from the ceiling and landing in her hair. Behind her, she heard people panicking. The operators were meant to be shutting everything down, wiping computer files and destroying telephones before they could fall into enemy hands, but she feared they were on the verge of breaking. The sound of gunfire, just outside the mansion, grew louder. The enemy were dominating the surrounding streets ...
Patrick caught her arm. “We need a diversion!”
Sarah tried to think of something, but nothing came to mind. There were no underground tunnels, at least as far as she knew. The bunker was a death trap. The last reports had made it clear the enemy was advancing, to the point they might get to the mansion to support the commando force before her people could organise a counterattack. She doubted they could hold the city for long, not when the rebels still ruled the island, but whatever happened wouldn’t come in time to save her. She reached for the pistol at her belt as they hurried down a flight of stairs, passing a row of fighters heading up. Sarah hoped they’d slow down the invaders, perhaps even stop them. She feared it wouldn’t be anything like enough.
The ground heaved. She heard windows shattering, pieces of glass and debris crashing to the ground. Someone was shouting ... she stumbled along the corridor, clutching her pistol as she heard creaking and groaning echoing through the mansion. A handful of servants were already gathered near the doors, peering out onto a scene from hell. The buildings on the far side of the walls had been devastated. Half were missing, knocked into piles of rubble; the remainder were badly damaged, covered in bullet scars or burning. Another explosion thundered in the distance, a fireball rising into the sky. Sarah felt a sudden twinge of an emotion she didn’t care to look at too closely. She’d unleashed something similar, when she’d sought to take control of Kingston. And now the government was doing the same to her.
Patrick swung around, raising his gun with one hand and shoving her down with the other. Sarah barely had a second to spot the dark-clad men coming out of the shadows before their guns barked, sending Patrick’s body to the ground. She raised her own pistol, only to have one of the attackers stomp on her hand hard enough to force her to let go. The gun went off, the bullet cracking into the distance. Sarah grunted in pain as a man landed on top of her, wrenching her arms behind her back and wrapping a plastic tie around her wrists before searching her roughly. Her mind churned as the rest of the servants received the same treatment. She didn’t look that much like Wilde, the rebel leader and spokesperson. Perhaps if she pretended to be dumb, they’d send her to a POW camp instead of shooting her out of hand. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had. It would have to do.
“That’s her,” one of the men said. “She had a bodyguard. It has to be her.”
Sarah’s heart sank. Shit.
***
Roland had been told, once, that some of the most dangerous people in the known universe had looked harmless.
He believed it. Belinda could easily have been taken for a dumb blonde by someone who looked at her tits and not at her eyes, while Rachel was short and wiry and hardly the kind of person who would be put on a recruitment poster. There was a certain safety in being underestimated, although his instructors had pointed out that looking ready and able to fight could deter someone from actually trying their luck. And yet, looking at the rebel leader, part of him was tempted to wonder if he’d caught the wrong person. Sarah Wilde didn’t look very impressive. She was clearly hardened by life, but she didn’t have the same attitude as a professional soldier. If she hadn’t had a bodyguard with her, he would have been sure he’d made a mistake.
“Get her upstairs,” he ordered, as he checked his terminal. The mansion’s defenders were running now, abandoning their posts instead of fighting to the last. He didn’t blame them. Richard’s men were cutting their way through the streets, opening a path he could use to either secure the city or withdraw before the rebels counterattacked. “And then see what you can get from the records.”
“Yes, sir.”
Roland nodded, trying to ignore the sudden wave of fatigue. It wasn’t that late, but he felt as if he’d been fighting for hours. His men half-carried Sarah Wilde upstairs, leaving the rest of her escorts for later processing. Roland hoped they’d talk, although he feared their knowledge would be out of date very quickly. The rebels would have been wiped out long ago, if their organisation was too fragile to survive losing a handful of key personnel. The government had had few qualms about authorising torture to force prisoners to talk.
His terminal bleeped. The advance units were nearing the mansion. The rebel forces were breaking up and withdrawing, heading for the barricades and the open lands beyond. Roland issued orders, directing the fleet to drop missiles on the retreating units. It didn’t sit well with him, but a retreating force was one that could rearm, then turn around and come right back. Better to crush it now then give it time to come back. He sighed, then looked up as Rachel stepped into the room. She looked as tired as he felt.
“Parts of the city are still in enemy hands,” she said, flatly. “They’ll cause trouble tomorrow morning.”
Roland nodded. The rest of the force should be landing now, ensuring he could keep the city secure, but it wouldn’t be easy. Controlling an entire city never was, particularly when the inhabitants feared they’d be kicked out of their new homes, or enslaved, or simply executed without trial. It would take time, time he feared he didn’t have, to convince the citizens the government had no intention of going back to the bad old days. He knew they wouldn’t believe him. Deep inside, he feared he wouldn’t be telling the truth.
“When Richard arrives, tell him to clear and hold a corridor, but to leave the rest of the city alone,” he ordered. Gunfire sputtered in the distance, then died out before he could feel more than a flicker of alarm. “We’ll try to hold, at least long enough to draw what intelligence we can from the mansion before we have to leave.”
“Yes, sir,” Rachel said. “And what were you thinking, jumping out of the helicopter first?”
Roland blinked, unsure who’d ratted him out. Most of his men didn’t think Rachel was anything more than his assistant. The ones who didn’t know about Sandra assumed Roland and Rachel were sleeping together, even though it was a serious breach of regulations. They wouldn’t tell her. Why should they? He realised, too late, she hadn’t known. But his reaction had told her everything she needed to know.
“I owed it to myself to take the risk,” he said, finally. Now the operation was a success - he certainly hadn’t planned to stay in the city, covering himself if he needed to withdraw - he was suddenly very aware of just how much could’ve gone wrong. “If the operation had failed, my career would have failed with it. I wanted - I needed - to be on the ground.”
“You did well,” Rachel agreed. She met his eyes. “And just remember, this isn’t the end of the war.”
Roland nodded. The rebels had taken a beating, and it had cost them dearly, but they were still a very capable force. Baraka was hardly a small island. The rebels would have all the time they needed to reform, appoint a new leader and resume the offensive. And yet, he knew the rebels had been badly shocked. Who knew? Perhaps they’d be more inclined to negotiate, now the government had proved it could hit them where it hurt. They might just see reason after all.
And we won time, he thought. That’s what we need most of all.