Blood Red Sand Page 3

  “Good,” Wagner said with a clap of his hands to break the tension, “then it’s settled. Defend New Berlin, Herr Feldmarschall. Be ruthless. I look forward to reading your reports on our latest victory.”

  With a smile on his face, Wagner turned away from his counterpart and made toward the long winding corridor.

  “You won’t be joining us on the field of battle, I take it?” Seidel called after him in a mocking tone.

  “No, Herr Feldmarschall,” Wagner said, without turning. “I’ll remain here building our legacy.”

  LANDING ZONE ZULU - 200KM SOUTH-EAST OF NEW BERLIN

  10.11 MST

  DAY 1

  Bullets snapped through the thin Martian atmosphere with savage precision. MEF soldiers screamed into their helmet mikes as they emerged from their shattered dropships and escape pods, only to be mowed down without seeing the faces of their killers. Rocket-propelled grenades from the enemy’s Panzerfausts slammed into the battered remnants of the downed MEF ships, murdering the survivors fighting to free themselves from the wreckage.

  With battle-hardened determination, McCabe pushed aside the anger that rushed through him and focused on the job at hand. Bounding between the twisted hulls of the downed dropships and escape pods, bullets raced past, eager to cut him down. He paused at the airlock of a smashed craft, ducking as bullet ricochets pinged the metal-strewn landscape and yanked on the release catch. The airlock slid open, but in the dull light he saw piles of limbs and broken torsos thrown over each other in a grim testament to these soldiers’ final moments. With a shake of his head, he lifted himself up and scanned the rest of the battlefield.

  What soldiers he could muster from the crash site had mobilised into firing positions, hastily making use of any cover they could find. Light machine guns chattered back at the enemy position ahead, but in the confusion he had yet to amass a force strong enough to go on the offensive. From the hundreds of columns of black smoke dotting the surrounding valley, it looked as though the entire battalion was scattered for kilometres in every direction. Dozens of EVA-clad soldiers ran toward McCabe’s rallying call, while more contacted him via their helmet comms advising of their ETAs and locations.

  “Sergeant,” Corporal Brown called over the comm system, “I’ve confirmed our location. This isn’t our landing zone. It’s Landing Zone Zulu. We’re closer to New Berlin then we are to Germania colony. That’s the Russian Liberation Army shooting at us.”

  Cursing under his breath, McCabe snatched up boxes of ammunition from the debris of a smashed dropship. Not only were they a thousand kilometres from their assigned landing zone, but they had landed point-blank on top of Russian collaborators who had defected to the Nazis during the war. These men feared being handed over to the Soviet authorities. To avoid that fate, they would fight to the death.

  “Any sign of the Fifth or Sixth Battalion?” he called back. “This is their zone.”

  “Negative, Sergeant. But there’s hundreds of crashed ships out there, and there’s some sort of jamming signal wreaking havoc with long range communications.”

  “Of course there is,” McCabe said and sighed. “Hold tight, I’m coming back.”

  Dodging and weaving between the piles of warped metal and mangled bodies, he bolted back to the lines, laden with what ammunition he could carry. He kept his gaze towards the grey structure that lay a few hundred metres away. His mind ran through a dozen scenarios. Lost in thought, he saw the hulking figure a second too late and ran full force into him. The EVA-clad soldier barely flinched from the impact. McCabe hit the ground. Out of instinct, he lifted his Lee-Enfield, but the soldier already had his own weapon aimed at him.

  “You are British, yes?” a heavily accented voice said to him.

  “Yes,” he replied, recognising the soldier’s weapon as an AK-47.

  “Good. Then we are allies.”

  The soldier lowered his weapon and extended a hand. Pulling him to his feet, the towering figure slapped a firm hand across McCabe’s EVA suit, dusting grains of rusty sand to the ground. Bullets continued to whizz past them, but the burly soldier appeared oblivious to the danger.

  “Junior Sergeant Boris Alexeev, Red Army military attaché,” he said with a proud thump of his chest.

  “How do I know you’re not one of them?” McCabe asked wearily.

  “One of who?” Sergeant Alexeev said, cocking his head.

  “Them.” McCabe nodded towards the sound of enemy gunfire. “The Russian Liberation Army. The collaborators.”

  The hulking Russian turned towards the sound of the enemy gunfire and began shouting in his native tongue. Raising his AK-47, he aimed in the direction of the enemy bunkers and bounded towards the MEF positions, blasting his weapon. McCabe followed close behind until they reached one of the forward firing positions. He threw the boxes of ammunition towards Corporal Brown and his soldiers passed the ammo clips around. Alexeev leapt towards their Bren gun emplacements and began redirecting fire towards the enemy machinegun bunkers, all the while shouting in Russian.

  “Is this all we have?” McCabe said, scanning the small groups of soldiers spread out across the wreckage.

  “Half the platoon is over there,” Brown said with a nod of his head. “On the right flank it’s a mishmash of platoons from B, C, and D Company. A couple of Frenchies, too. All-in-all, I’d say we’re screwed, Sergeant. Probably best to pull back and regroup.”

  McCabe examined the metal-strewn red sand and rocks in front of them. Aside from a few crashed wreckages, there was nothing but open ground. Any type of advance would leave them vulnerable to be mowed down by the RLA guns but withdrawing would give the enemy time to better prepare their defences. To his surprise, two machinegun bunkers guarding the main entrance fired on them while the rest stood silent. If anything, he hoped that meant the defenders lay unprepared and caught off guard by their sudden crash landing.

  “We need to take those bunkers now,” McCabe said after a moment’s deliberation. “Here’s the plan. Corporal, I want you to take First Platoon and flank them on the left. I’ll lead what’s left of B and C Company and hit them on the right. We’ll leave D Company with our Russian junior sergeant to lay down as much suppressive fire as possible until we knock out those guns. Understood?”

  “Understood, Sergeant.”

  Corporal Brown relayed his orders over their comm system and waited until the surviving NCOs acknowledged it. McCabe reached into his combat belt and pulled out three smoke grenades. He threw them onto the littered terrain ahead of the platoon and readied the men to move. Smoke grenades spewed dense white smoke from up and down the line as the soldiers of the MEF prepared to charge.

  With a single command from McCabe, everyone sprang into action.

  The Bren light machine guns continued to chatter back in response to the Russian Liberation Army’s attacks. He kept his head down as he burst towards the scattered remnants of B and C Company, making use of whatever chunks of metal he could find for cover. On the left flank, the gunfire sounded when First Platoon attempted to flank the enemy positions, and he signalled at the soldiers to move. He jumped over the torn wreckage in front of him and charged through the billowing clouds of white smoke from the grenades, throwing more as he ran.

  Bullets cracked past him as he dashed through the fog. Men yelled when enemy bullets found their mark, but McCabe held his nerve while he sprinted across the smoky, alien terrain. Seeing the bunker ahead, he roared at the soldiers under his command to keep up their advance. Those who carried heavier weapons took refuge behind the scant piles of scorched metal and opened up on the Russian guns. Everyone else followed McCabe as he surged ahead, firing his Lee-Enfield at the concrete and iron bunker.

  The RLA’s guns sprayed unrepentant death on the advancing soldiers.

  The platoons of B and C Company took to the dark red and brown sand. They crawled in waves towards their objective, and their colleagues covered them with as much fire as they
could lash at the enemy bunker. Even with the dense swirls of white smoke blanketing the battlefield, men died in droves as they pressed onwards.

  “Grenade!” McCabe called in warning before pulling the pin out and hurling the explosive.

  He repeated the action with a second grenade and flung it at the bunker. The MEF soldiers kept their heads down until the grenades detonated. Pieces of concrete and shrapnel burst from the side of the bunker, but aside from a momentary pause, the enemy weapons showered lead on the invaders.

  Cursing under his breath, McCabe inched forward again. Rusty sand and rock particles sprayed across his helmet visor as bullets raged across the ground in front of him. He pulled out another grenade, took careful aim, and threw it towards the target. This time, it landed in between the machine gun emplacements spouting from the bunker and disappeared into the darkness. The guns maintained fire until a deafening bang silenced them. The structure trembled and shook from the ammunition set off in a series of detonations. Heavy black smoke leaked from new cracks and exposures in the devasted bunker.

  “Forward!” McCabe thundered and lifted himself to his feet.

  He pushed ahead with the surviving members of the Second Battalion and swung around to the rear of the bunker with his Lee-Enfield at the ready. With a nod at the nearest soldier to try the entrance, he took up a firing stance.

  The soldier unlatched the warped metal door to the bunker and swung it open. He tossed another grenade in for good measure before slamming the door shut. The detonation finished off anyone who could have survived the first blast, but the MEF soldiers lashed the bunker with bullets to be certain.

  When McCabe swung his attention to the remaining bunker on his left flank, a series of bangs confirmed its destruction. He ordered all available units to converge on the entrance to the main enemy installation, while soldiers under his command took up an all-round cover position at the metal doors. McCabe made his way to the console hanging by the main entrance, and after studying the layout, shook his head.

  “It’s going to take a codebreaker to crack through that,” Corporal Brown said, falling in beside him.

  “Either that or some C4.”

  Sergeant Alexeev joined them “You British,” he said in a half laugh, half sneer, “you don’t need explosives. Just some Soviet ingenuity.”

  Shouldering past McCabe, the stocky Russian pulled a small cone-shaped object from one of his EVA suit’s compartments. He took a few moments to align the point with the console screen. Without warning, he drove the cone-like object into the console, splitting the screen and causing it to spit electrical sparks.

  Undeterred, he twisted his hand while pushing the object deeper into the console circuitry. Corporal Brown opened his mouth to question the brawny Russian’s actions when the sound of machinery humming to life resonated from inside the blast doors. After a few seconds, the doors lifted. Confused shouts flared up from the other side.

  Without prompting, the two MEF soldiers on either side of the door pulled their grenade pins and hurled them through the exposed entrance. Another series of explosions erupted, followed by the shrieks of the wounded.

  “Forward!” McCabe roared and charged towards the smoke-filled entrance. “Move it! Move it! Move it!”

  Bullets rained down on the MEF soldiers when they surged through the now-opened front entrance. Alarms wailed as atmosphere seeped from the massive warehouse behind the door. Grey-uniformed soldiers sprinted between various strange-looking trucks and crates, scrambling to heave on their own version of EVA suits. Above them, on walkways snaking around the perimeter of the building, EVA suit-wearing Russian soldiers poured out of unseen rooms, blasting sporadically at the MEF soldiers running to confront them.

  The first wave of MEF soldiers took up firing positions on either side of the entrance. Bullets pinged down at them from every direction. Blood splattered across McCabe’s visor as a round punched through the head of the soldier in front of him. The fallen warrior’s body slammed hard onto the ground. Roaring in anger, McCabe braved the onslaught and raised his Lee-Enfield towards the enemy above. In careful, controlled actions, he aimed at a stream of enemy defenders. Focusing on the lead Russian soldier, he exhaled, squeezed the trigger, and watched his bullet find its mark. Before the enemy soldier had fallen, McCabe’s sight fell on the next soldier in line, and he fired again.

  Waves of bullets battered the MEF foothold at the entrance. Men howled as RLA weapons cut them down. Those who lived found themselves hauled back outside in a vain attempt to seal their wounds in whatever way possible. Those who died instantly were dragged out of the way so as to not hinder their colleagues’ furious advances.

  “Corporal Brown, take the left. Sergeant Alexeev, take the centre. I’ll take the right. Move it, people!”

  MEF soldiers armed with Bren light machine guns poured fire onto the upper levels, carving enemy soldiers to shreds. Bodies flailed and collapsed in their droves when the three columns of MEF soldiers moved in their respective directions. Screams of anguish filled McCabe’s ears as wounded men crumpled all around him, but he pressed on. Leading his small band of followers, he cut across the length of the warehouse area, searching every nook and cranny for signs of a concealed enemy. Grenade explosions and gunfire filled the air while the invaders cleared the rows of equipment and vehicles and pressed on towards the upper levels.

  “Who’s leading this attack?” a voice crackled over McCabe’s comm channel. “I repeat. Who is in command?”

  McCabe signalled at his section to carry on so he could respond to the distorted communication. “This is Sergeant McCabe, Second Battalion, Third Brigade. Who is this?”

  “Sergeant McCabe,” the voice said over the roar of static and gunfire. “This is Major Wellesley. I have reinforcements. We’re coming in from the north. Standby.”

  He clicked on his left arm console and initiated the verification protocols. It took a few seconds for his EVA suit’s built-in computer to confirm the security code sent along with the comm signal. His console flashed green when it registered the sender as Major Wellesley.

  “Understood, sir.”

  McCabe relayed the major’s arrival to everyone on the comm channel and proceeded on his mission. Loading a fresh clip into his Lee-Enfield, he nodded towards a set of stairs and motioned for his motley section to advance. Privates Denny and Bingham took point, and he trailed close behind, eager to take the fight to the enemy. They had reached the top of the stairs that connected to the upper level when a series of bangs barked out at them. The soldiers in front of him tumbled backwards, nearly knocking him down the stairs. Bringing his weapon to bear, McCabe took aim at the approaching enemy and squeezed the trigger, dropping the RLA fighters.

  Bullets rang out, impacting the walls beside him as the enemy fought for control of the central warehouse area below. The remnants of his section turned their guns on the enemy beneath them and returned fire, showering the Russian Liberation Army soldiers and scattering their section. On the opposite side of the room, Corporal Brown’s dwindling platoon-sized force forged ahead on their path, periodically firing at hidden enemy soldiers. Trickles of MEF reinforcements stumbled through the exposed doorway and threw themselves into the fray, keen to keep the pressure on the defending Russian defectors.

  “Forward!” McCabe shouted. “Let’s show these bastards how it’s done!”

  He drove onwards until they reached a corridor with three armoured airlock doors nearby. At the end of the hallway, a single set of stairs connected to the ground level. The sound of boots banging on the metal staircase brought his make-shift section to the ready. Four soldiers wearing MEF-style EVA suits raced to the top and paused after seeing him and his assembled force.

  “Identify yourself!” McCabe demanded, his weapon pointed at them.

  It took a split second for him to realise that the four soldiers wore strange black visors, unlike the MEF’s semi-transparent ones. He tightened his grip on h
is trigger, but the new arrivals acted first.

  “Up yours,” the lead soldier shouted and tossed a cylinder to the floor.

  McCabe moved to kick the suspected grenade away when a blast filled his ears. A deafening sound like a million belfries ringing sliced through his skull, paralysing him. His vision went blind as a searing white light filled his eyes. For a terrifying moment, McCabe thought he’d been killed in an explosion. Only the surge of pain from someone punching him in the kidneys told him he was alive.

  Still blinded and deafened by whatever struck him, rough hands seized his weapon and slammed him forward. He grunted when his helmet smashed into the ground. He tried to lash out at his attackers, but they bound his hands behind his back. The ringing in his ears receded as another pair of hands dragged him along the ground into the nearby room. By the time they dumped him onto the floor, his vision had returned. He made out four silhouettes of the black visor-wearing soldiers standing over three of his unmoving soldiers. He glanced to either side and saw the blurred outlines of a distraught Private Jenkins and Murphy.

  One of the Black Visors finished securing the room before returning his attention to McCabe and his two soldiers. The Black Visor took to a knee and tilted his head, studying him.

  “Who are you?” McCabe demanded.

  He could barely make out his reflection in the polished darkened visor of the helmet glaring at him. He could see no features of the face that lay behind the helmet, but for a chilling moment, he got the sense that whoever it was smiled at him.

  “We’re the good guys, asshole.”

  It took a moment for him to register that the harsh voice that spoke those words sounded female. “Why are you doing this?” he shouted. “Release us now!”

  The Black Visor reached for a handgun fixed on her belt. She slid it out, cocked it in a swift motion, and pressed the barrel hard against his helmet.

  “I don’t take kindly to orders from MOF scum,” she said in a menacing tone.