Chapter 9 - Fifteen Miles

Admiral Constantine watched from the command tower of his ship as the rest of the fleet moved into position. He was an Admiral in name only, the Silverian Navy was nothing more than a glorified coastal guard, merchant ships requisitioned and redesigned to fit the smallest of guns. Only the light cruiser he stood on was a proper warship, the pride of the fleet, the SN Comet was antiquated irregardless, far outclassed by heavier warships, but not in speed. That was it’s focal advantage, the Comet could reach 30 knots, the engine properly maintained and looked after.

The inadequacy of the Navy was highlighted as the Protego narrowly avoided ramming the Asgard, instead dragging along the anchor of the Duke of Moncourt. Constantine sighed. At first, he had been excited upon receiving orders last night, annoyed by the idleness with which the Navy had been treated with, yet now he was having doubts and qualms. They were told to escort a shipping convoy to its location 150 nautical miles south to resupply badly mauled troops, a task which seemed easy, but with this lot? Most ship commandants needed refresher courses on electrical signalling and navigation, if these ships even had any electrical signals or automatic navigation in the first place.

Still, Constantine had to make do, and radioed in to lead the ship of the supply convoy. Thankfully, whoever was in charge replied with a sense of authority and professionalism.

‘You guys ready to move out?’ asked Constantine, ‘Cargo all strapped down?’

‘Yes, Admiral.’ replied the merchant, ‘We won’t lose anything overboard, hopefully.’

‘Alright, don’t stick too close, we’ll screen, just keep the convoy moving at all times.’

Constantine switched channels to each of his own fleet of seven, a few responding with a level of understanding, others blatantly confused. Once the message had gotten through, he called out to his own lot. Most of them were handpicked, known to be skilled and showing promise, and some were oldhands from foreign navies, their experience invaluable. Constantine himself was barely pushing forty years old, only seeing action against the odd pirate or smuggler every few months, a depressing career with no goal in vision. This would be the height of it, he realised, and that made him stand a little taller.

‘Alright, let’s get moving.’

{---}

Lager watched as the Spectres duelled in the skies, awed by the flashes of colour and pace at which the two sides clashed. It was inhuman for sure, and he was snapped back to reality as a whistle blew. The Imperials had still struggled to break through, the mines laid were doing their jobs well, destroying tracks and halting tanks on the spot, forcing their crews to repair under fire. When immobilised, some tanks were charged at with soldiers equipped with bundles of grenades, shoved into any openings and destroying them. The whistling came from the Command Tank, distinguishable by the long antennae, and a distressed-looking Colonel blowing commands in sharp tones. Every now and then, he would look up at the situation in the sky, back at his troops and then whistle more urgently.

Lager nudged the sniper next to him.

‘You see that officer with the cap?’ he pointed out the Colonel. The sniper nodded. ‘Try hitting him.’

‘Sure thing, bossman.’

Resting the rifle on a ready-made box, the sniper shifted himself into a comfortable position. In shallow breaths, he put an eye to the scope. It was at least 700 metres, a difficult shot to take. Eventually, he squeezed off a round, striking just below and pinging off the tank. Cursing, the sniper quickly followed through with another round, clipping the whistle in his lips. The Colonel didn’t risk a third shot, and buttoned himself up inside the tank, closing the hatch.

‘Shit, sorry bossman.’

‘No problem, you’ve given him a fright though, he ain’t gonna whistle for a while. Hunker down, this battle’s gonna go on for some time yet..’

As those words were spoken, a bright flash filled the sky. It was as if the sun had imploded, taking with it the clear blue expanse. Not a moment too soon, the spectres were gone, their Vafus empty, falling to the ground. Just to the side, a survivor made a streak in the air, plummeting rapidly, unconscious. A few seconds later, the Spectre disappeared from sight over a hill, followed by a heavy shaking of the ground. Only a miracle could decree their survival. The whistling began again.

{---}

“Hell yeah, finally!” Matthew drummed the inside of the truck with his fingers, which bumped and slid around the muddy roads, used time and time again until only a slush remained, ‘What’s it been, two months?’

‘Calm down.’ Simon said, cleaning his weapon, ‘Two months is barely enough, we haven’t even gotten through company tactics yet.’

All around, for miles, was a desolate wasteland. Wrecks of vehicles still littered the “road”, and the driver had to go to great lengths to circumvent the obstacles. Torrential rain had stripped away layers of dirt, which transformed into oozing mud. A man could sink if he jumped into a puddle, and would be left behind by his comrades to be sucked into the unyielding void.

‘According to this, there was a village here called “Bellenau”, or is that a V?’ Archibald fussed over an unfolded map.

‘Yeah well, I don’t see it.’

‘Was, Kate, there was a village.’

Oliver sat next to a dozing Ingram, the fun from poking his ear with a wet finger having lost it’s comedic value quickly. His snoring could infamously wake the squad next door to them, and many occasions had been settled at 3am with Ingram being restricted to the toilet for the night. Still, he slept soundly wherever, and the next morning showed no signs of discomfort, energetic as usual. Only the new addition, Leros, seemed to be wary at all, silently looking over the wastes. She hadn’t exactly bonded, but did provide useful pointers and tips sometimes, though it was clear she wasn’t telling the full details. Oliver didn’t mind, he wasn’t exactly social himself, and the evenings where he and Leros would lie prone in bushes without uttering a word to each other seemed to attach himself far better than any conversation would.

The truck lurched, and came to a halt.

‘Looks like the tyre ran over something sharp.’ called the Driver, ‘Sit tight for a while, this’ll take only a minute.’

Squad 5 were in the lead vehicle, resulting in all the other squads to stop behind them. An inquisitive face popped around the canvas, and shook Simon’s hand.

‘Ryker, man how you been?’

Emblazoned with the insignia of Squad 6, a howling dog, Ryker was an amiable sort, though far interested in other people’s affairs. Perhaps those qualities had boosted him to the rank of squad leader, a curious fellow with an interest in the curious. A recipe for disaster, or success.

‘I don’t know, really. Nervous, I guess?’ Ryker looked at the rest of the squad, ‘You’ve got great guys here, although mine are clearly better.’

Ryker winked, and Simon laughed.

‘We’ll see about that, man.’

‘Who’s your best shot then?’

Simon jabbed a thumb back at Oliver, who raised a hand in reply.

‘He’ll outshoot the whole lot of you any day.’

‘Really now, because Audrey’s the champion of-’

Simon never found out what Audrey was the champion of, as explosions pounded across the road. Without thinking, the squad hopped out of the truck, scrambling into positions. Ryker darted back to his own group, as in the distance the rear truck was aflame.

‘What was in that?’ asked Simon to their driver.

‘Just ammunition and supplies, but that’s all we got. Poor bastard.’

The last comment was directed to the burnt corpse of the ammunition truck’s driver, face down in the mud. Explosions continued to dot their position.

‘Alright, alright, Squad 5, get off the road, they’re targeting the trucks!’ Simon yelled. Down the line, similar orders were bellowed, and the Company snaked its way into the thick goo. Another truck disintegrated, cloth scraps singed and drifting, laying a foundation of dust. The bombardment didn’t stop for another ten minutes, all the while soldiers sank deeper and deeper. At last, the final shell landed square in the mud, failing to detonate. The Company spent five minutes surveying the damage. None of the trucks had survived, though casualties were gratefully scarce, only one man from Squad 2 had broken a wrist, and it was splinted by the medical team.

They were, however, in the middle of nowhere. The drivers had unhelpfully directed them to continue following the road, for another 20 miles, the “road” itself bending and made out only by tyre tracks from previous vehicles. Threat of another artillery strike still loomed, and movement was key. The temporary commander, Captain Irish, was rarely seen, a reservist thrust into command of a half-trained company, and his indecisiveness cost another hour before they trundled towards the objective, maintaining a gap between each squad. Oliver’s cloth cover had done well to protect his rifle, but the rest of his friends spent the march unclogging mud and sand from their weapons. Kate had a nightmare with her machine gun, and only with the combined help of Archibald and Peter was it properly restored. Yvonne fell back to have a word with Irish, after conferring with Simon following a hushed debate.

‘You still pumped, Matt?’ Simon grinned.

‘Shut up, my feet are killing’ me.’

‘Only fifteen miles to go.’

Fifteen miles to go, fifteen miles to safety, Oliver thought. A crow perched above a dead tree cawed. Fifteen miles to march, fifteen miles to war.