Chapter 30 Tenacity Under Siege #2
Cries split the air as the ground under their feet rumbled from a nearby concussion.
Cassandra spun as fragments of a massive warehouse blasted in all directions, burying nearly a hundred of her citizens in bricks, steel, and debris.
Suzanne screamed, drawing her shoulders in and pressing against one of their guards, as if trying to make herself small.
Dust coated her brunette hair, coloring it ashen.
Cassandra gasped at the sight. They had crowded in one place because of me, she thought. If they had spread out …
There was no time for self-blame. Cassandra’s eyes blazed to the east, her jaw set against their enemies.
She remembered the letter General Crane had sent.
I’ll spare the city and all its inhabitants if you surrender without a fight.
Hatred for General Garcia, President Irons, and every Republic soldier flared in her chest, stiffening her resolve.
“Hurry!” she shouted, waving the civilians on. “We’re almost there.”
“Aren’t we going to help them?” Suzanne asked with a plea in her voice.
“We can’t stop now. The first responders will come, save who they can.
” But they were overwhelmed. Who knew when they’d get there—or when the hospital would be blown to smithereens?
What sort of people would wage war on women and children?
Cassandra forced her feet forward. If they remained in the open, more would perish.
At a grassy knoll just past a water tower, she stopped and pointed. “This way! Watch your step. Go slowly if you must, to avoid a fall. Over that hill, you’ll all be safe.”
Hollis puffed out his chest, his expression dour. “You don’t expect me to descend that acclivity. Let’s go to the bastion.”
“Suzanne, lead them down,” Cassandra instructed as she stared her steward in the eyes. “Some caves still remain. Remember? We climbed down there as children. Show them where to dig. I’ll wait here until everyone else is safe.”
Suzanne swallowed and gave a solemn nod. “This way.”
Cassandra’s hard heart made room for pride in her youthful cousin. She would do.
“Benjamin, you served my father, and you’ve served me faithfully.
If you feel it is time you retired, I’ll accept your resignation.
If you wish to zigzag through machine gun and cannon fire back to the stronghold, you are free to go.
There isn’t room for a hundred thousand people behind those walls.
But below, on those sandbars, they have a chance.
I’m going to see as many of them to safety as I can. ”
Hollis folded his hands in front of himself and dropped his chin.
“You are Lord Britain’s daughter,” he uttered.
“He would be proud.” The aging steward lifted his gaze as bullets ricocheted off the water tower, barely missing them.
He cringed, but his feet remained firm. “I shall accompany you into hell if you ask it of me.”
Cassandra wondered if that was exactly where they were.
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 on over 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 grinned and 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.
“May I suggest a siege?”
Edgar rubbed his soot-streaked chin.
Finstemayer continued. “If we focus our fire on the ships, they’ll be forced to pull away. Surround the city. Starve them out, and they must surrender.”
“And if the ships resupply them?” he asked.
“Then we blast them out of the water,” Green said. “Our soldiers can scavenge the farms and ranches nearby, hunt the forests for meat. We won’t run out, but they will.”
Edgar glowered, disgust bleeding into his ire. “Sieges take so long. I’ll send messengers on horseback to General Roundtree to reinforce us after he captures Stonevale. With our combined forces, we’ll roll right over Marchland’s defenses. Until then … we’ll go with Finstemayer’s proposal.”
A weight settled in Edgar’s gut, heavy and solid like a lead ball. He was loyal to a fault, but, if this invasion failed, would Irons use the same axe on him that had removed his predecessor’s head?