At the same time across the lines
“Get me Colonel Green on the horn,” barked General Edgar Garcia. Explosions ripped through the sky, ringing in his ears and shaking the ground, though they were too distant to threaten his mobile command post at the army’s rear. His dark hair and gray uniform were dusted pale with grit. He took a swig from his canteen, swished, and spat muddy water onto the broken asphalt.
“Yes, sir!” Sergeant Blanchard dialed up the radio, its antenna extending from the armored vehicle’s roof.
“Why can’t these people maintain their highways?” Edgar grumbled.
“Here, sir.”
Edgar snatched the radio from Blanchard’s hand. “Green? What the hell’s going onover there?”
“We’ve got artillery fire coming from the river,” he reported over the staticky, crackling device. “We can’t get eyes on them, but, if those ships are Verdancia’s, we sure were misinformed.”
“Then get eyes on them! And keep bombarding the town. Hit the enemy base if you can, but putting pressure on the town will bring them to their knees.”
“Yes, sir!”
Green clicked off, and Edgar paced across the blazing asphalt to a canvas-covered cargo truck. Near it, General Schuler stood on a folding ladder, binoculars pointed toward the battle. “Are we through yet?” he demanded.
“No, sir,” she replied. She glanced down, the brim of her cap shading her eyes. “But we’re doing damage.”
“Break out those three laser cannons Dr. Venz wanted us to try,” he instructed. “I’m putting you in charge. Drive them a little nearer the line and have those tech operators blow up some buildings.”
“Will do.” Descending the ladder, Schuler took charge of the truck, its crew, and driver.
Garcia strode to the ladder to watch through his own binoculars. After sighting the number of damaged and destroyed artillery pieces, he cursed, his mood descending in a bitter spiral. They’d lost over five thousand with virtually no enemy casualties in that cursed bog north of the fortress.Is that all this country is—swamp and ambush?Behind him, tents were filled to the brim with the injured, some from battle wounds and others from reptile bites or suffering high fevers.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, settled himself, and looked again. The laser cannons were in place, Schuler directing their crews.She seems to know what she’s doing, he thought, still disgruntled that a woman held his rank. Around him, medics rushed new wounded on gurneys past him to the tents, supply personnel hurried crates of ammunition toward the front, and thunderous roars continued to assault his ears.
Peering closely, he watched the odd-looking weapons rev up and fire pulses of light over the Verdancian redoubt. A building burst into flames. He grinnedand hollered down to Sergeant Blanchard, “I like those. They don’t make so much blasted noise. Get a pad and pencil to write a report. I’ll dictate to you.”
As the hefty, bearded man moved to obey, Edgar returned to his entertainment. His delight quickly turned to anger, then something darker. A rocket—Verdancia wasn’t supposed to have rockets—slammed into one of the laser cannons, annihilating it and its crew. General Schuler took cover just before the strike. She looked shaken, possibly injured, though she was still on her feet.
“Shit,” he muttered, a grimace deepening on his tan face. Those were expensive, and they were his responsibility. The other two continued to fire, zapping destructive power into targets. Just as he was steadying himself, one detonated on its own.
Edgar raced down the ladder and seized the radio Blanchard had left on his armored car, the metal hot enough to sting his hand. “Schuler!” he yelled. “What the hell was that?”
“It overheated, sir, from the best we can tell,” she answered, tone tight with strain. “A large projectile hit the other one.”
“Pack up that remaining laser cannon and get it back here fast,” he bellowed. “We can’t have it be destroyed too. And tell Colonel Finstemayer to make a push for the center of their line. I want this city in our hands by nightfall, understood?”
Before she could reply, he hurled the radio onto the pavement. Pieces flew off. Circuits and wires spilled out. He didn’t care. Fuming, Edgar paced. Blanchard returned with pad and pencil.
“Ready to take your report, sir.” His eager expression enraged Edgar even more.
“Forget it.”
By the time night fell, Marchland still held. The Iron Army had suffered two thousand deaths between the failed frontal assault and enemy artillery fire. Another four thousand lay in hospital tents. Edgar growled at his officers, dirt packed under his nails and in his ears. “I was told they had catapults, swords, spears, bows and arrows, and they fired rockets at us today?”
Schuler replied, “I sent scouts who reported AlgonCree naval vessels—modern and well-armed—are supporting Marchland from the river. Which means …” She grimaced and sucked in a breath.
“That Fort Hammond and the river—probably the Gulf—are back in Verdancian hands,” Edgar grumbled. “Rust it all! AlgonCree? Modern and well-armed? How does President Irons expect us to conquer the continent if all we get is the same propaganda and rhetoric as the masses?”
No one dared touch the question. Edgar felt as if someone thrust a hand into his gut, grabbed his vitals, and yanked. Misinformed. Betrayed?
“First, the surprise attack en route,” he began. “Vacated towns. Terrain problems. AlgonCree allies to the rescue. Wonder cannons that self-destruct. Casualties piling up. At this rate, we won’t have the manpower to take Nelanta, which is just—” Spinning before his officers, he threw a frustrated hand in the air. “Preposterous!”
“General Garcia, sir.” Colonel Finstemayer was a slight man, shorter than Schuler and older than Green. Short, gray hair framed the bald top of his head, his moustache trimmed, and the pipe he clenched between his teeth, unlit. Edgar glanced up, giving the man his attention, as he seldom spoke.