The fully loaded hovercraft were cramped and uncomfortable, and the troops inside were anxious to get out and do what they had to do. The Federal Police were a force intended to keep order on Earth, and they were accustomed to intimidating pliant populations that didn’t fight back. They weren’t happy about being detached for service in space, and the sooner they rounded up the troublemakers and got back to base – and ultimately to Earth, the better.
The flotilla split up as it came swooping in from the sea. The west coast of Carlisle Island was easier terrain for hovercraft - mostly beaches, some sandy, others rocky, but all of them flat enough for easy maneuvering. They had a list of suspects along with the locations of their residences. Marek was first on the list, and two of the craft veered off to the north, zipping along the shoreline to his modest oceanfront home. It was a prefabricated unit, small but pleasant. The two craft landed in the broad meadow in front and hatches opened on both sides. Federal Police in light hyperkev armor streamed out. They were armed with assault rifles, and they moved out, taking positions all around.
Marek was watching, but not from the house. The Feds deployed quickly, but raggedly; Marek wasn’t impressed. He tried to think what Colonel Jax or General Cain would have said if his troops had ever looked that sloppy. His people were deployed all around the house, hidden in the rough hills just inland. They were waiting for his order to fire. A week earlier he’d have never ambushed the Feds this way. He’d have waited until there was no choice, tried to capture them unless they forced his hand. But that was before the federals had murdered more than 50 civilians in Weston. The reactions to that incident had varied, usually shock and grief, followed by rage. But Marek went straight to the rage. Not a fiery, uncontrollable fury; that was not his personality. His anger was just as strong, but it was cold, calculating, focused. And patient. He realized what kind of war this would be. The Feds would try to break them, to inflict enough pain to shatter their spirit. To win, they would have to be just as brutal, just as merciless. There would be no pity in this war, no quarter. Those responsible for the massacre in Weston would pay; he was committed to that.
He flipped on his headset to give the order. He opened his mouth but paused for a few seconds. He didn’t think much of the Feds, but still, this was different than attacking Caliphate or CAC forces. They’d already exchanged fire at the armory, but that was spontaneous – no one even knew who had fired first. But now he was giving a deliberate order, commanding his troops to fire on Alliance personnel. Emotionally, he wanted revenge for the people of Weston. Intellectually, he knew what had to be done. But he still needed a few seconds to bring himself to give the order. But only a few seconds. “Fire.”
Anton’s troops had the Feds on the run. They were at the Winton house, a sprawling structure in the hills of southern Carlisle. Surrounded by carefully tended gardens, it looked as if it had been there for centuries, though it was less than ten years old. Now it was a battlezone, the exotic plants and flowers trampled by the boots of soldiers.
The Feds had come for Jack Winton. It was obvious he was part of the conspiracy – no one else in the area had the transports needed to haul away so many weapons. But Winton wasn’t home; he was commanding the rocket launchers on the bluffs, a kilometer to the south. Instead, Lucius Anton was there, having jogged down from the rocket positions to take tactical command of the forces hiding in the scrubby brush. He’d ordered everyone to hold fire until he gave the order, but he had mostly young and inexperienced recruits, not his veterans from Carson’s World. Someone panicked – he thought it was Troy Evans – and started shooting. Once the surprise was lost, Anton ordered everyone to open fire immediately.
The Feds were cut down all around their transports, but the shooting had started too early, and there were still police inside the vehicles. Anton swore under his breath and ran down the hillside, calling to the troops close to him to follow. Charging an armored transport wasn’t what he’d had in mind, but now there was no choice. The Feds caught outside were cut down, and the ones in the transports were disordered and trying to get their engines started so they could get away. Anton’s troops swarmed around the nearest two vehicles, most of them firing wildly. Fuck, he thought, watching his inexperienced soldiers, we’ll be lucky if they don’t shoot each other. “Control that fire! Pick your targets, and for fuck’s sake, make sure you aren’t shooting at friendlies!” He was shouting into the comlink, but he knew it was a waste of effort. They were running on adrenalin now, and without the discipline of trained troops he had little hope of re-imposing order. Not in the 30 seconds this fight would last.
Now that the original plan was out the window, it was time to finish this before things spiraled even more out of control. Anton fired on full auto, taking down four Feds who were standing just inside and right next to one of the transports. Then he dove forward rolling on his side and tossed a grenade into the open hatch. It wasn’t ideal; they wanted the things intact, not torn to shreds inside. But the grenades from the militia stores were fairly weak, designed to be thrown manually, unlike the ones made for use with powered armor with integral launchers. It would tear things up a bit, but probably nothing they couldn’t fix.
Two of his amateur troopers caught on quickly, and they raced up to the hatch and sprayed the inside with fire. The grenade hadn’t killed everyone in the transport, but the occupants were stunned and unable to respond quickly enough to evade or return fire.
At least ten of his people stormed the second craft, but the defenders inside were ready and they put up a fight. Anton was still busy with the first vehicle, and he only had a peripheral view of the fighting at the second. Still, he saw at least 3 of his people get hit before they wiped out the crew.
By the time they took the two hovercraft, the third was lifting off. Anton lunged toward it, a grenade in his hand, but he got caught in the backwash and thrown to the ground as the craft zipped away.
“Jack, we missed one.” Anton watched the fleeing hovercraft, getting a bearing on its trajectory. “Coming around the west coast.”
“On it.” Winton’s response was clipped, tense. They didn’t have much tracking equipment, so his people on the bluffs needed a visual before they could paint the target with lasers and take it down.
Several minutes went by, and Anton and his people began tending to the wounded. Finally, the comlink crackled to life. “Got him.” Winton let out a deep breath. “Just. He almost got away.”
Marek had been clear – he didn’t want any of these craft escaping. For one, he didn’t want them getting back with any intel on Carlisle’s defenses. But just as important was the message he wanted to send to the Planetary Governor – that he had one hell of a fight coming.
In the end, Winton’s crews had to shoot down two more craft, but nothing escaped. Marek’s troops had captured 7 of the hovercraft, perhaps 5 or 6 of them with light enough damage that they could quickly put them to use.
They had casualties – 12 wounded in all of the scattered fights. Only one was killed, one of Anton’s men…18 year old Troy Evans, shot in the head rushing a hovercraft after his hasty fire had compromised the plan. Yes, this is war, Anton thought. Even the taste of victory is bitter. He sighed and started walking alone down a rugged path, his boots scraping softly on the loose gravel. Evans’ mother lived just up the road, and she was going to hear the news from him, no one else. He wasn’t going to tell her – he wasn’t going to tell anyone – that the shot that killed Troy had come from one of his comrades. This is going to be a hard war, he thought sadly as he rounded the hillside and headed into the valley.