Gears of War: Anvil Gate

  Hoffman cut in. “And it still nearly brought the Raven down. We’ve already lost one bird that way.”

  Everyone was looking at the clock on the wall. Mathieson was sitting with one hand cupped over his headset earpiece, waiting for Michaelson to tell them what was happening with the hunting submarines.

  “Got him, sir.” Mathieson switched the radio to the speakers. “He says they’re tracking it. Listen.”

  “Victor, stand by,” Michaelson said. “Because once we fire torpedoes—even if they don’t hit the thing—the other one’s probably going to know all about it.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Clement can only detect one at the moment, so it’s going for that.”

  Baird always found the fly in any ointment. “Shouldn’t we be out there with the laser ready to deploy before they start shooting? Because the first thing that asshole’s going to do when it hears its buddy turned to glowie soup is go for the source of the torp noise or head for us, depending on its IQ.”

  Marcus stood up, like the decision was made. “Tell Michaelson to find a boat he can afford to lose. I’m going to prep the targeting laser. Baird, do your sat coordinates stuff.”

  Dom jumped up and tapped Cole on the shoulder. “You keep saying you want to take up fishing, Cole Train. Let’s go.”

  “Yeah, if the torps miss, I can always puke it to death.”

  “There’s a Gorasni crew out there as well.” Trescu got up and headed for the door. “So I take Baird’s place.”

  Hoffman looked resigned to the whole thing. It really was the only option left.

  “I always knew a committee could run the COG better,” he said wearily. “Okay, do it. The fallback position if the polyps manage to land is that we channel as many as we can into the storage tunnels, seal them in, and pour fuel down there.”

  “And then,” Ollivar said, “hope that there aren’t more on the way.”

  Hoffman went red in the face almost immediately. It was like watching a squid change color. Dom took a step back, ready to jump between him and Ollivar.

  “We fight until we run out of ammo or men or fuel or all three,” Hoffman snarled. “There’s nothing else we can do—except sit on our asses waiting for the right time to pull out all the stops. I have been there before, you goddamn parasitic bum. These choices do not get any simpler. And we’ve run out of time for fucking around.”

  Hoffman pushed his chair back and strode out. The squad followed with Trescu. In the passage outside, Marcus blocked Hoffman’s path.

  “You should keep Prescott where you can see him, Colonel,” he said. “Or is this something else?”

  “His job is to deal with the civilians. He can do that just fine with Major Reid.” Hoffman pushed past Marcus. “And in case you forgot, one of our duties is to evacuate the civilian government to a place of safety in an emergency. Ten klicks up the road is the safest we can do for now.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come on this mission.”

  “Think I can’t hack it, Fenix?”

  “If you get killed, then the top command of the COG will consist of Prescott and Reid. Maybe Michaelson will get a look in occasionally, if he’s a good boy.”

  Trescu just gave Hoffman a knowing look. Dom knew they’d never be best buddies. But the two men definitely had an understanding, even if that was a shared contempt for certain things—and people. If Dom hadn’t known Hoffman for so many years, and his inability to plot and scheme, he’d have suspected a coup was coming. But that wasn’t Hoffman’s style.

  Dom didn’t know if it was Trescu’s, though. He suspected it was. And much as he didn’t like Prescott, the man was their own, the legal head of state, and Dom couldn’t recall him ever doing something that went against the army’s wishes. Just being an asshole wasn’t a disqualifier. He wasn’t a dangerous asshole.

  “Yeah,” Hoffman said at last. “I’m more scared of that than getting my ass shot off.”

  Hoffman will do the right thing. Maybe Prescott’s chickened out and is trying to save his own ass. Okay. I can live with that.

  In the end, all that mattered to Dom was that he kept Marcus alive. His best friend was all he had left.

  The naval base was now in the grip of a quiet chaos. The evacuation of civvies was still going on and now nonessential military personnel were leaving. Every vehicle was co-opted to do the shuttling. The only stroke of luck in the whole pile of recurring shit was that the weather was mild, and an overnight outside wasn’t going to kill people like it would have done at Port Farrall. Dom sometimes thought back to what it would be like there now, whether it would have been smarter to stay put and lose the weakest to cold and hunger instead of uprooting everything to come here.

  But we can’t do that. That’s not how civilized folks do things.

  Michaelson stood at the brow of Falconer as the squad and Trescu prepared to board. He obviously planned on going along for the ride.

  “I did a deal with Ollivar’s merchant navy,” he said. “Want to see what we’ve got bolted on the foredeck?”

  “Can’t wait,” Marcus growled.

  “I didn’t ask what they used it for themselves, of course.”

  “Go on, sir, show me,” Dom said.

  Dom still took some pride in being the seagoing Gear in the squad, even if it was from his amphibious landing days in the last war. Michaelson had been around for that, too. He was a lot thinner, grayer, and more wrinkled than he’d been during the landing at Aspho Point, but he hadn’t lost that bravado. Michaelson liked a good scrap and would cross the road to find one. Maybe that was why he and Hoffman got on so well.

  There had been a 30-mm gun on the foredeck of the patrol vessel the last time Dom had been on board. The other guns were still in place, but this one had been replaced with what looked like a cross between a telescope and a missile launcher.

  “Thar she blows,” Michaelson said.

  Dom took a closer look. “Sir, that’s a harpoon.”

  “Explosive harpoon, actually. I want to think our seagoing Stranded brethren save it for robust negotiations with one another in trade disputes, but whatever they used it for, it might be a way of keeping a Lambent leviathan on the surface for a few seconds.”

  “Shit, sir, that’s going to be hairy.”

  Marcus strode up to look at it and cocked his head slightly to one side. “Water skiing. Maybe even being dragged to the bottom.”

  “I’m game if you are, Sergeant,” Michaelson said.

  “Hell, why not?”

  “What did you swap it for?” Dom asked.

  “Ten catering containers of canned pork. Don’t worry, it was well past its use-by date.”

  Michaelson seemed in his element. Falconer headed south out of the base, trailed by Gettner’s Raven, and took up position about six kilometers offshore. Trescu leaned on the rail alongside the squad and they all stared down into the black water to watch for lights, as if being on this relatively small vessel was any protection against a leviathan that could break the back of a destroyer.

  Trescu put his hand to his earpiece.

  “Zephyr is transmitting,” he said helpfully. So he still had his comms link to his fleet, then; Hoffman must have gone soft. “She wants to make her move. Captain Michaelson, I suggest we do this now. We’ve lost four hours already. These beasts won’t wait forever.”

  Michaelson pushed back off the rails and slapped Marcus on the back.

  “Toss a coin for the privilege,” he said.

  “It’s my job.” Marcus took off his armor plates and stacked them. Dom had never known him to do that before a mission. “You get ready to launch the lifeboats. If we blow that thing up, the shock wave’s going to rupture every weld and rivet on this tub.” He gestured at the armor and gave Dom a meaningful look. “You all might want to consider how long you can tread water in full fighting order.”

  “Damn,” Cole muttered. “Whatever happened to a nice boat trip ’round the bay?” br />
  Michaelson did an after-you flourish of his hand and Marcus padded along the deck to the harpoon mounting. The leviathan had lights. At least they’d see the thing coming.

  If it doesn’t come up right under the hull, of course.

  “Ready,” Marcus called. “Tell the boats they can blow its brains out any time they like.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Your priority is to stop the UIR advance within Kashkur. COG forces hold the central plains of the country and the extreme west, but the UIR is widening its corridors between the areas we still hold. The Anvegad Pass is blocked and must remain so if we are to stop the UIR closing the circle and inserting land forces from the east.

  (COLONEL CHOI, OFFICER COMMANDING 6 BRIGADE, KASHKUR)

  ANVEGAD, EASTERN KASHKUR: 32 YEARS EARLIER.

  Hoffman knew the tough reputation of Pesang troops but he’d never actually come face-to-face with one. Now he was looking at six of them, and he wondered if there’d been a mistake.

  They were tiny. They were also very young—most Gears seemed to be, but not that young—and the heavy machetes they carried on their belts looked too big for them. They formed up in a line and stood to attention.

  Shit. They haven’t even got full armor. That’s three-quarter grade.

  “Sah, we don’t speak good, but we understand okay,” one of them said. “You give us job, we do job.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Hoffman.” For some reason, he took an instant liking to this lad. “What’s your name, Gear?”

  “Rifleman Bai Tak, Hoffman sah.” He turned smartly and indicated each man in the line. “Riflemen—Lau En, Cho Ligan, Jati Shah, Gi Shim, Naru Fel.”

  Hoffman looked at Pad, realizing that this was all the support Anvil Gate was going to get. “Find these men some better armor, Private. I can’t send them out on patrol in their goddamn underwear.” He gestured to Bai Tak, tapping on his own chestplate to get the message across. “Heavy plate. You need more armor. And proper boots.”

  Bai Tak frowned slightly as if he was running through a vocabulary list in his head. Hoffman hadn’t realized how little Tyran these men spoke.

  “Ah,” he said, face lighting up in revelation. “Sah, no more armor. How we move around all quiet?” He stabbed a forefinger down at Hoffman’s regulation thick-soled steel-capped boots with their armored greaves. “How we climb in those? We fall and get damn dead, sir.”

  “Good point, Rifleman Tak.” So they weren’t as green and innocent as they looked. “Okay, go with Private Salton and get yourselves settled in. When you’re fed and supplied, come back here for a briefing.”

  They seemed to grasp things well enough, or at least they all moved fast and gave the impression of purpose. Pad gave Hoffman a knowing look as he followed them.

  He drew his finger across his throat, clearly delighted. “I hear they’re very light on ammo, too, sir.”

  Hoffman didn’t care how much ammo they burned through. He just wanted the Indies cleared out of the high ground behind him, because they were the ones who were going to drop mortars into the city, pick off his patrols, and harass any relief sent to the fort. They wouldn’t bring down Anvegad, but he didn’t want to lose a garrison and half the civvies stuck here just to prove a point about the strategic advantages of a gun battery on a mountain.

  He hadn’t lost anyone yet to the frontal assault. It had all been down to one asshole with a rocket launcher. And that asshole was going to pay for it.

  The bombardment from the Indie line to the south was sporadic. There was a lot of activity down there, and the gunners responded with the heavy-caliber belt-fed Stomper and the One-Fifty guns, but the main guns only fired twice. That drove the mobile artillery back a few kilometers.

  Hoffman was still trying to work out what the Indies’ game was. They weren’t keeping up sustained fire, and the shells were either landing short or striking the cliff beneath. The height of Anvil Gate made it hard for them to drop shots accurately. Hoffman suspected that if they’d inserted troops into the hilly country behind the fort, they wouldn’t risk shelling their own positions.

  They didn’t seem to be trying. But there was also the possibility that the commander out there was second-rate, and all they’d been tasked to do was hold the refinery.

  Does that solve all my problems?

  How long is this going to go on?

  Hoffman went up to the gun floor. The place was in almost total darkness except for faint illumination on the controls, and his eyes took a few seconds to adjust. The gun crew were either taking a breather or watching the Indie lines through field glasses. Evan was busy pumping grease into the hoist and loading mechanism.

  “Time to hand over to the relief,” Hoffman said. “Get your asses down to the medic. Just because you walked out of here doesn’t mean you’re still okay.”

  Evan wiped the nozzles of the copper-plated grease guns with a rag. “I think I know what they’re up to, sir. Look.”

  Hoffman steadied his elbows on the sill and adjusted the focus on his binoculars. The knot of Indie vehicles was moving around, and most of them had their lights on. The refinery that had always been a constellation of white, amber, and red stars on the horizon was in darkness, but the damn Indies seemed oblivious of the fact that their vehicles were very, very visible.

  “So they’re idiots,” Hoffman said.

  “I wouldn’t rule out stupidity, sir, but they know we’re stuck here without any prospect of resupply. I think they’re trying to get us to piss away our ordnance.”

  Hoffman thought it over. Whether the Indies intended that or not, it was the reality he had to face. A full magazine and shell store looked comforting until you began an assault, and then it evaporated faster than you ever thought possible. It was early days, but all the supplies would run out.

  But inviting fire? The Indies had lost vehicles. That meant they’d certainly lost drivers. Suicide troops were always a possibility, but acting as live bait with the near certainty of death—sitting there, waiting for it—was something very few sane people would do, even Gears. Hoffman had seen men and women do crazily heroic things in combat knowing full well that they stood little chance of coming out alive, but it wasn’t calculated and long-drawn-out. They made an instant decision because something had to be done; smother a grenade with your own body, drag that wounded comrade to safety from open ground, charge that gun position. It was the moment when self ceased to exist and the only thing the Gear saw was necessity because his buddies would die if he did nothing.

  “I don’t buy it,” Hoffman said. “Nobody sits and fries unless they’re religious crazies or something. You remember those Tennad sailors who crewed those little suicide submarines? Ordinary guys. Sane guys. The Indies had to weld the hatches so those poor fuckers couldn’t change their minds. Because most of them did.”

  “Yeah,” said Evan. “I agree. Now watch the lights.”

  Hoffman took a while to work it out. Vehicles seemed to be milling around, no unusual thing in itself because they were probably ferrying fuel and equipment out of the refinery for their own use. It was a field of moving points of light. At night, it was hard to judge depth and work out the relative positions of whatever was carrying the lights.

  It was just that the movement was … odd.

  It took a few moments to sink in. Hoffman defocused and tried every trick he knew to get his brain to see the movement differently instead of letting it apply the patterns it was used to. Then he saw it, and the whole picture shifted.

  “They’re moving too precisely,” he said. “They’re following each other at fixed intervals.”

  “Now, how many can you see making sharp turns?”

  “Shit.” Hoffman was suddenly fascinated. “They’re making big, open loops.”

  “Hard tow. Decoys.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  Evan chuckled. “I like an officer who talks like I do.”

  “Okay, two flaws in that theory. One—the lead vehicle has
a live driver, and that’s the one we’re most likely to hit. Two—the vehicles we destroyed earlier were definitely being driven. Separate. Under their own power.”

  Evan started pumping the grease again. “You can rig a vehicle to push it as well as hard-tow it. We don’t always hit the lead vehicle. And the first guys we hit probably just underestimated the range and accuracy of these guns. They got the message fast.”

  It was still mindlessly dangerous, but there was a chance of surviving. That was enough for some.

  “And at night, we don’t even know those are vehicles.”

  “Sappers rig dummy lights to look like any number of installations. It’s low-tech and sounds stupid, but at night, it works. All the Indies have to do is keep tempting us to fire.”

  “And while we’re looking that way, we’re distracted from what’s happening behind us.”

  “See, they’re not as dumb as we think, are they?”

  Hoffman wasn’t sure he could trust his own judgment now. He should have spotted that right away—hours ago. Nobody would attempt a conventional frontal assault on a battery like this in open terrain. There had to be more layers to it.

  Maybe Hoffman was concussed, but Evan had taken a pounding too, and he seemed to be functioning okay. Sometimes there was no excuse for missing the obvious.

  “Okay, let’s assume that’s what they’re doing, and hold back accordingly.”

  “One more thing. The big guns need to be maintained. The more we keep firing without relining these babies, the less accurate they get. They must know that.”

  “But that’s a long time, isn’t it?”

  “No. It’s about three hundred full charge firings, which we could rip through in no time.”

  “How many on the clock now?”

  “Maybe two hundred.”

  “Replenishment’s still going to be our major problem.”

  “Yes, sir. It is.”

  Hoffman slapped Evan on the back. “Good work. Now change crews and get some rest.”

  Hoffman was pretty sure he could work out the tactics now. Attrition, diversion, isolation. He wasn’t so sure about the intention to keep the Anvegad pass closed to stop COG troop movements out of Kashkur, though—unless control of the fort was part of that.