Conquistadors, p.36
Conquistadors!, page 36
President Hamlin looked up at them, his eyes dull and unsurprised. Martín hesitated for a long moment, wondering if they were being conned – a body-double was well within enemy capabilities – and then stunned the man without warning. If the captive was the real President, his superiors could accept his surrender; if he wasn’t ... they’d keep searching anyway, just to be sure, at least until the enemy counterattacked. Resistance appeared to be fading away, but that was meaningless. There were enough enemy troops in Washington to make extraction very tricky indeed, if they didn’t hurry.
“That’s him?” Joyce sounded doubtful. “He’s the one in charge?”
Martín kept his thoughts to himself. The United States was a de facto gerontocracy. It made no sense to him – the Protectorate, to be fair, was careful to ensure its rulers couldn’t hold office indefinitely – but he wasn’t a local. President Hamlin was old enough to be his father, perhaps even his grandfather, and he wasn’t the oldest politician the locals had saddled themselves with. Perhaps it made sense to them – there were client states ruled by monarchs – or perhaps they simply couldn’t get rid of their leaders. Who knew?
“We need to get out of here,” he said. He hoisted the President over his shoulder and hurried for the door, double-timing it down the stairs. The transports were already powering up, ready to head back to Andrews. He could see the first one rising into the air, lines already dropping to allow the footmen to grab hold so they’d be carried back to base. “We need to ...”
A streak of light struck the rising transport. He hit the ground instinctively, half-expecting the transport to explode. The aircraft were tough, but they’d never been deployed against an enemy with real weapons ... not until now. The transport lurched violently, then tilted and fell out of the air, crashing down on the second transport. The crew sprinted out, running for their lives. The aircraft didn’t explode, but neither one was flight-worthy ...not now. They’d be lucky if they could be repaired on the spot, and they didn’t have either the time or the tools to do it. Everything had gone to hell.
“Shit,” Joyce breathed.
Martín couldn’t disagree. Their transports were gone ...
... And they were stranded deep in the heart of enemy territory.
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Washington DC, North America, Timeline F (OTL)
“The White House has fallen,” General Grey said, grimly. “The President is in enemy hands.”
Felix sucked in his breath. The enemy assault had come out of nowhere ... the timing could not be a coincidence. They’d been planning to remove the President and now the White House had been attacked, the President seized and perhaps taken away ... did the invaders think they could use the President as a puppet ruler, even though he was clearly in their hands? They’d certainly tried to use other government officials as puppets, with mixed success.
“General, the President is no longer capable of serving as commander-in-chief,” Felix said, thanking his lucky stars he’d been heading to the covert command post when the offensive had begun. The bastards had struck a handful of targets across Washington, including two they weren’t supposed to know existed, but the command post remained intact and undiscovered. “Accordingly, I am assuming the role as long as the President remains in enemy hands.”
He took a breath. Their plan to remove the President had been legal, from a certain point of view. Now ... there were contingency plans for the President being kidnapped by terrorists or held hostage within the White House, but none of them had ever been put into operation. General Grey might balk at Felix’s assumption of command, creating another crisis ... Felix cursed his luck under his breath as he waited to see which way the general would jump. If the enemy had waited a few more hours, President Hamlin would have been legally removed ...
And you’d have been in the White House instead, when the enemy came calling, he reminded himself, sharply. The nasty part of his mind pointed out that he’d been very lucky. You might be the one held hostage instead.
“Yes, sir,” General Grey said. Felix couldn’t tell if he were pleased, or relieved, or merely cooperating as long as the President remained unavailable. “What are your orders?”
“Recover the White House, by all means necessary,” Felix said. They’d been slipping thousands of troops into the city, ready to drive the enemy out of Andrews if – when – the peace talks failed. “Engage the enemy raiders, and take as many prisoners as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
Felix forced himself to relax as the general turned to his staff and started issuing orders. The command-and-control network was a mess – they were relying on telephones and other devices that wouldn’t have been out of place during the Second World War – but they’d had enough time to practice, testing how the network would hold up under enemy bombardment. There was no way they could control the battlefield as effectively as before, not when GPS was useless and turning on one’s blue force tracker was asking to be blown up, yet ... the local commanders knew their roles. The general didn’t have to micromanage. And if they did manage to take prisoners ...,
We might finally figure out what’s really going on, he told himself. And get some hard numbers on enemy capabilities.
In the distance, the guns started to boom.
Felix shivered, despite himself. Washington, DC, hadn’t been invaded since the War of 1812. It felt wrong, almost obscene, to be fighting a pitched battle around the White House ... that was the stuff of movies, not real life. The idea of Russian or Chinese troops storming the city was just absurd, no matter how many patriotic movies insisted they could and would. And yet ... he swallowed hard, feeling the weight of responsibility settle around him like a shroud. A great many men were about to die, sent into battle by leaders who remained at a safe distance from the battleground. All of those deaths would come to rest on his shoulders, after the fighting died away. He knew it had to be done, and yet ...
Do what you have to, he told himself, grimly. And let posterity take care of itself.
The guns grew louder. Felix forced himself to wait. What else could he do?
***
James had known, all too well, that Essex’s military experience was very limited and his command experience non-existent, but ...
He stared at the display, hiding his shock somehow. Essex had fucked up badly ... so badly that no one would complain, not even pro forma, if James drew his sidearm and put a plasma bolt through Essex’s head. Launching a raid deep into enemy territory wouldn’t have been risky in any other timeline, save perhaps for the homeworld, but here ... he cursed under his breath as the scale of the disaster dawned on him. Two transports were effectively lost, and an entire infantry regiment was trapped in a relatively confined space. They had better weapons and armour than their enemies, but it wouldn’t save them if – when – the Americans started raining shells on their positions. If the defenders didn’t already have their targets in their sights, James would resign his post on the spot.
“What were you thinking?” James had to bite his lip to keep from snapping at the other man. He’d been halfway to Saudi Arabia when he’d been recalled, too late to do anything to avert the unfolding disaster. “You sent an entire regiment into a trap!”
He wanted to strangle Essex with his bare hands. No one would complain, but ... Essex was needed alive to take the blame for the sudden reversal. The Council would want a scapegoat and Essex, the man on the spot, would suffice. They couldn’t logically blame James for leaving his second-in-command in charge ... he put the thought out of his head as he studied the display. If it had been Ruddigore alone, and perhaps a handful of troopers, he might have written them off. Ruddigore would be much more useful in death than he’d ever been alive. But nearly an entire regiment was at stake ...
His mind raced. The detachment had only three transports remaining. There was no time to call others from Texas, or Saudi Arabia, and in any case flying them over Washington would be suicide. The transports would have to land at some point, rendering them hopelessly vulnerable ...the enemy would only have to hit the aircraft once to put them down, or – at the very least – force them to withdraw. The infantry probably couldn’t fight their way out either ... they certainly couldn’t bring the disabled transports with them. He briefly considered asking for a truce, perhaps offering to return the President if the Americans let his force withdraw without a fight, but even trying would be taken as a sign of weakness. The Americans would be fools to agree, not when they had an entire regiment at their mercy. They wouldn’t let the chance to hurt him badly, for the first time, pass them by ...
He had to act fast. “Assemble the armoured regiments for immediate deployment,” he ordered, pulling up a map. They were lucky most of the local area had been evacuated, and anyone within the area could be treated as an enemy and engaged without warning. “Bring in all the flyer regiments, and prep them for ground-support missions; prepare missile batteries to engage targets on the ground, as designated by local commanders. And dispatch recon drones to sweep the area between us and the stranded regiment.”
“Yes, sir,” Essex said.
James scowled. “Order all remaining forces in Texas and New York to switch to defensive positions,” he added. He couldn’t leave Essex in command of the outpost – he’d fucked up too badly to be trusted with command again, certainly of nothing more important than a garbage scow – but sending him back to Texas would also mean putting Essex in command of the castle. “You’ll take the flyer out West yourself, but leave Williams in command. I need you ready to assume overall command if something happens to me.”
He watched Essex nod, gritting his teeth. The man needed to be relieved, but it was hard to remove the second-in-command without a full council of war, not the least of which because he’d hand-picked Essex for the role. It had seemed a good idea at the time ... hopefully, letting Essex think he wasn’t going to be relieved, let alone court-martialed, would keep him from coming up with a story that pinned the blame on someone else. He’d have a hard time making it stick, but if Ruddigore died in the fighting ...
“I’ll assume command of the relief force,” he concluded. There was no way he could remain in the rear, not when he was gambling everything on one final throw of the die. He needed the credit for fixing the situation. “We move out as quickly as possible.”
“Aye, sir.”
Essex left, hopefully to make sure the orders were carried out. He was a good organiser, just not a ... James shook his head, then tapped his console to order that Sally – and everyone else on the base who wasn’t needed for defence – were hastily moved back to Texas, well out of range of enemy guns. He was mildly surprised the Americans weren’t shelling Andrews already. It wasn’t as if they could recover the base in a hurry, let alone put it back on an operational footing. James intended to make sure they recovered nothing more than a barren wasteland.
He lifted his eyes, studying the display. The stranded regiment was already taking heavy fire. The point defence was holding out, so far, but it wouldn’t be long before a handful of shells made it through the defences and crashed down. One direct hit on an IFV and the point defence would be gravely weakened, letting more and more shells through the defences to obliterate the regiment – and the White House. James could almost admire the enemy’s ruthlessness in being willing to destroy their own buildings, along with risking their leader’s life. But then, America was more sophisticated than any primal nation. The President did not rule by divine right.
To win or lose it all, he thought, as he turned and headed for the command vehicle. One final gamble, to win or lose everything.
The air felt cold as he hurried outside, glancing around the airbase as he made his way to the lead vehicle. The armoured regiments were assembling quickly, infantrymen bracing themselves to cover their flanks as they moved north. Long lines of evacuees were making their way to the transports, glancing from side to side as the sound of distant explosions grew louder. They looked nervous ... James cursed under his breath, wondering how morale had become so badly damaged so quickly. The PEF was used to victory, not defeat. It just didn’t happen. Even if they yanked the stranded regiment out of the trap, their spirits would still take a beating. He told himself he’d find an easy target afterwards, to rebuild the confidence that should never have been weakened. But then, they’d never fought a technologically advanced enemy before. The Americans were savvy enough to be dangerous, and numerous enough to make up for their technological weaknesses.
He scrambled into the command vehicle and took his place, noting the display lighting up as more and more tanks and drones linked into the network. His sensors were already sweeping Washington, noting the location of enemy guns and missile batteries ... the former, he noted grimly, putting out shells at a disturbingly high rate. In hindsight, the decision to discard projectile weapons in favour of plasma cannons and long-range hypersonic missiles might have been a mistake. The enemy could launch shells on ballistic trajectories, while the PEF relied on line-of-sight.
You go to war with the army you have, not the army you want, he reminded himself, sharply. The analysts would tear apart his performance, and that of his army, and make recommendations for improvements ... none of which would happen fast enough to help him. How could they? You can worry about what might have been later.
“Sir,” Lieutenant Hawkweed said. “The final units have checked in. We are ready to deploy.”
James nodded, pasting a calm and confident expression on his face. “Signal Ruddigore that we are moving out,” he ordered. He wished there’d been more time for probing the enemy lines and planning missile strikes. They’d noted dozens of enemy positions, but he wasn’t fool enough to think they’d gotten them all. “And then begin the offensive.”
“Aye, sir.”
***
Lieutenant Derek Tyrone lay on the floor in an abandoned house and peered through a carefully concealed peephole, allowing him to spy on the airbase without being spotted by the enemy. The house belonged to a military wife who’d abandoned it on short notice and he’d been reluctant to risk damaging the wall, but he’d been a Navy SEAL long enough to know that the enemy might be observant enough to spot a face at the window and quick enough to put a bullet through his head before he could duck. An American sniper certainly could and he dared not assume the invaders were less capable, particularly as they had no reason to care about property damage. They could easily take down the entire house just to be sure of taking him out.
He sucked in his breath as he watched the enemy armoured column roll out of the airbase. They’d deployed with impressive speed, he noted; he wasn’t sure their American counterparts could have moved so quickly, not unless they’d already been ready to go. If the row upon row of tanks was the enemy’s idea of a quick-reaction force ...
The thought made him grimace as he reached for the makeshift transmitter and tapped out a quick message, a handful of seemingly random bleeps with a prearranged meaning. The entire system was almost laughably primitive, but he’d seen insurgents use something similar in Iraq. There were no electronic emissions, no way to detect the system without stumbling over the cables; there was no way to tap the lines, he’d been assured, without doing it physically, which would make the interception blindingly obvious. They still didn’t take chances. Even using Morse Code was a risk.
There was no reply, but he hadn’t expected one. He returned to his post and watched as the enemy offensive flowed forward, the tanks swinging their guns from side to side in hopes of intimidating any watching eyes. He had to admire their speed and flexibility, even though he knew they were enemy vehicles. And yet they were driving right into a trap.
We did it too, more than once, he recalled. We just had enough firepower to blast our way out of the trap. Do these people have enough firepower too?
***
“Keep your head down,” Joyce snapped. “Incoming ...”
The skies lit up, dozens of explosions flickering and flaring high overhead as the incoming shells were intercepted by laser point defence. Martín kept low, hearing pieces of debris rattle to the ground as the enemy shells disintegrated. He had no idea if their armour could handle a hit from falling metal and he didn’t want to find out the hard way, not when they were being fired on from all sides. The IFV’s main gun traversed as a sniper opened fire, spitting a hail of plasma bolts in return. Martín watched the building explode and hoped, rather vindictively, that the sniper had fallen to his death. The enemy were closing in, while the regiment was dangerously bunched up ...
He cursed under his breath as they shoved a makeshift barricade into place. Plasma weapons didn’t need reloading, thankfully, but they were short of just about everything else they needed to hold the area. Smaller detachments were spreading out, seizing the buildings surrounding the White House, yet the enemy was pushing them back. The front lines were so hazy there was nowhere, save for the White House itself, that could be said to be safe ... and even that was questionable. A bullet cracked past his head, so close he was sure he’d felt its passage; he lifted his rifle and fired back, driving the enemy into cover. He didn’t think he’d hit the bastard.
The enemy fire seemed to intensify, mortar shells hurtling into the air and descending on the White House. The enemy mortar teams were good, Martín noted; they were setting up, firing a handful of shells and getting the hell away before the defenders could call down drone or missile strikes. Hell, they were actually being more careful than they had to be. The infantry regiment didn’t have any counterbattery capability of its own, apart from the drones and long-range missile launchers. He saw a flash of light in the distance, followed rapidly by a fireball, and gritted his teeth. There was no way to know if the missile had actually taken out an enemy mortar team, or if the missile had simply arrived too late to do more than blow a hole in the city. He hoped it had collapsed some of the tunnels. The last thing the regiment needed was enemy troops making their way through the underground network and popping up behind them.
