RECCE (The Union Series Book 4) Read online

  I didn’t care, though. I still felt an almost overwhelming sense of purpose in my return to the Bosque. The Union wasn’t stupid. We wouldn’t be arming Edo if we didn’t think that it would play into our hands. There was more to the current situation than met the eye, and I was curious to find out.

  We were led clear of the shuttle, toward a large atmospheric tent that had appeared to have been hastily assembled to handle the sudden increase in personnel flowing in and out of the enlarged FOB.

  I saw Sergeant Major Davies step out of the line ahead of me, just before the tent. He quickly spotted me and gestured for me to join him.

  ‘We won’t bother going in there,’ he said, catching the three Welsh troopers before they passed him. ‘Everyone going in there will end up bored to death with briefings. It’s all stuff you know already.’

  A couple of troopers eyed us enviously as they marched past. They knew as well as the sergeant major what was in store for them. I imagined the endless mandatory presentations they were about to be subjected to, and I smiled … sometimes being Recce had its benefits.

  ‘This place is massive,’ Griffiths exclaimed.

  ‘This is only one FOB,’ the sergeant major replied, stiffly. ‘We’re shifting tonnes of supplies into Edo every day. A gang of nuns could beat the Loyalists with all of this kit, or at least you’d think so.’

  I noted crates of smart missiles stacked amongst the pallets and raised an eyebrow. ‘Isn’t anybody worried about arming these people? We were fighting them not too long ago …’

  ‘I think the powers-that-be are more worried about making sure the border is restored and that the Loyalists don’t push south again.’ The sergeant major jabbed a thumb skyward. ‘Keeping the Alliance happy seems to be our main effort.’

  I nodded slowly. The logistical assistance we were providing was having a massive effect on Edo’s ability to fight without the need for large numbers of Union troops crossing the border - a move that would almost certainly enrage the Alliance - but at the same time, it made it clear that we were committed to protecting the integrity of the Edo province.

  ‘Follow me,’ the sergeant major said, and he led us toward an airlock on the far end of the landing pad.

  Slightly raised above ground level, the airlock was flanked by a series of large, angled hangar doors, presumably leading to underground aircraft hangars. Each one was large enough to fit two dropships side by side with ease.

  ‘The Alliance won’t be happy until they have their own boots on the ground,’ I said, prophetically, whilst we walked toward the airlock.

  The sergeant major shook his head. ‘Probably not. We should never have forced them off the planet anyway.’

  I regarded him for a second. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When we pushed the Alliance off this rock, we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into. We turned old Alliance provinces like Edo into rogue states who refuse to trade with us even if it dooms them to poverty, and we turned provinces like Europa into fascist states who think we should have finished the job and sent every Alliance citizen packing back to Earth. Then, to top it all off, the Chinese saw their chance and invaded New Earth while our backs were turned. Declaring war on the Alliance was probably the single most stupid mistake the Union has made in our generation.’

  ‘Then why did we do it?’

  He sighed, reminiscing. ‘Politicians would tell you it was because the Alliance were stirring up hatred and instigating local conflicts, but we all knew the truth back then … it was pure greed … if we pushed the Alliance out, then we held total control of all shipping in and out of the planet, as well as between the provinces themselves. That’s worth a lot of money, both here and on Earth.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ I agreed.

  The five of us crammed into the airlock, closing the door behind us and waiting for the air to be cycled.

  ‘So what’s going on?’ I asked, whilst we waited.

  The sergeant major hesitated, as if deciding whether it was safe to talk in the airlock.

  ‘We’re preparing to assist Edo in the capture of a key installation close to the border with Europa, right out to the northwest.’

  I frowned. ‘What happened to the advance? I thought when the FEA captured Dakar that would have been it?’

  ‘The advance stalled.’

  Griffiths jutted a thumb back toward the shuttle pad. ‘What, with all that kit?’ he said.

  “With all that kit,’ the sergeant major repeated, ‘the ability is there - sort of - but the will is not. Since the capture of Dakar, there’s been a lot of arguing between the FEA and their alter-ego, the Guard. It seems the FEA are keen to complete the push north to secure the Edo border, whilst the Guard are happier to stay where they are. The arguing has caused the whole advance to grind to a halt, which is what the Guard want anyway –’

  ‘To provoke the Alliance,’ I finished.

  Restoring the border would soothe tensions between the colonial powers. Why would the Guard want that? They wanted the Alliance to invade.

  He nodded. ‘The Guard have been doing everything they can to draw in the Alliance since the conflict began. They allowed the Loyalists to batter the FEA whilst they hid the majority of their forces out of harm’s way. Then they committed atrocities against their own population and blamed them on the Loyalists. They even accused the Loyalists of the massacre at Dakar.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ I blurted.

  The sergeant major shot me an angry glance, but before he could respond to my outburst, a green light illuminated to announce that the lock had completed its cycle. He opened the inner door without a word, and then led us down a sloping corridor into the warren below.

  Like all military buildings and warrens, this one wasn’t meant to be easy on the eye. Its corridors were lined with optical cables, every door was re-enforced, and every centimetre of floor was covered with cheap, grey, locally-produced tiles.

  ‘This warren was used to house aircraft and their cargo, before there was too much of it to fit underground,’ the sergeant major explained, gruffly. ‘We’ve been here since we withdrew out of Dakar - which for your information is approximately five hundred kilometres to our west - not that it matters to you … you won’t be here for long.’

  I was barely able to pay attention to his description of the warren, my blood boiling as I remembered the sight of desperate civilians fleeing for their lives from Dakar. The Guard deserved to pay for their barbarity. They were no better than the Loyalists themselves … but it seemed that nobody would ever know what they did to their own people.

  The sergeant major stopped outside a door at the end of one of the corridors. Unmarked and inconspicuous, there was no reason to assume that anything of interest was beyond it.

  He tapped a code into the pad beside the door whilst he spoke. ‘Half of this building was cleared out for our use on the day we withdrew from Dakar. It’s hardly a hotel, but it’s better than the patrol warren we were living in before, and a damn sight better than living in the trees.’

  Accepting the sergeant major’s code, the door slid open, revealing a large storeroom filled with rows of shelves twice as high as a man. Emptied out but for a few crates and random pieces of packaging, the room had been turned into makeshift accommodation. I could see that every shelf had been converted into a trooper’s living space, his kit spread out across it whilst he slept in his thermal bag.

  Everyone was asleep, despite it barely being nine o’clock in the evening. The platoon obviously knew they were going somewhere soon, and were catching as much sleep as they could before they deployed.

  Careful not to make a sound, the sergeant major took us across to the far side of the storeroom. He then led us through another door, this time into another large room that was devoid of any shelves or sleeping troopers. Instead there was a circle of chairs arranged around a hologram projector, all set up ready for orders.

  I couldn’t contain myself any longer, and asked, ‘How can
the Guard shift the blame for what they did in Dakar?’

  ‘There’s barely any communication infrastructure left inside Edo’s portion of the Bosque,’ he replied, ‘and what it does have is strictly controlled. The only information leaving Dakar is pure propaganda.’

  ‘We have evidence to prove that it wasn’t the Loyalists. What about the civilians that got away?’

  ‘Hiding.’

  ‘And the information we recorded?’

  Everything we saw through our visors - our net traffic, everything - was recorded and kept for us to analyse after our operations. Surely we could send that to the Alliance?

  ‘The same data that shows us engaging Guardsmen?’ the sergeant major retorted with an angry scowl.

  ‘Isn’t that the point?’ I argued. ‘They’ll see us trying to stop the Guard killing civilians and see them for what they really are. They might even want to help us instead of starting another war.’

  The sergeant major bristled angrily, and snarled, ‘I’m not getting into a row with you, Moralee. The world is what it is. The Guard probably don’t even need to blame the Loyalists for committing atrocities - they’re pretty good at killing civilians all on their own. The point is that the Guard are fighting a propaganda campaign to frustrate the Alliance, and we believe their reluctance to drive north is yet another ploy in that campaign.’

  ‘The Alliance fleet are on our doorstep,’ Griffiths pointed out, ‘so their “ploy” seems to be working.’

  ‘It appears to be,’ the sergeant major agreed testily, ‘which is why we’ve been trying to persuade the FEA to resume the advance, with or without the Guard.’

  That was easier said than done. The FEA were frightened of the Guard - who implanted officers into their chain of command, keeping them under control and warning of any sign of mutiny. I had no doubt that the Guard would happily wipe out entire units that refused to conform to their agenda, so getting the FEA to act without their blessing would be extremely difficult.

  ‘And they agreed?’ I asked.

  ‘No. According to the last message I received from the platoon commander, it was the Guard who suddenly changed their minds and decided to go on the offensive again, though we’re not sure why ...’

  ‘What about the Loyalists?’

  ‘They’re retreating,’ he replied. ‘Our involvement and the arrival of the Alliance fleet have them spooked.’

  ‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’d think so, but the powers that be don’t agree with you.’

  He swept an arm in a cutting motion, indicating that the conversation was over.

  ‘Orders are on call. We’re waiting for the platoon commander to return from Dakar, where he is sitting in on the FEA and Guard’s briefings. He should return some time tonight, so I’m expecting him to be ready to brief the men tomorrow morning. Obviously I don’t know the full details of our task yet, but I do know that you should be expecting to carry out a long-term deployment deep into the Bosque. I would imagine we will end up carrying out some form of covert insertion, followed by a move on foot to recce the target area prior to the arrival of our allies. From there, we’ll provide assistance to the attacking force in a similar manner to that which we provided on our last operation.’

  He looked over his shoulder toward the room where the platoon slept.

  ‘The lads have been conducting battle prep for the last several days. In a minute I’ll take you all to your sections and wake your 2ic’s so that they can sort you out. I don’t want you fiddling with your kit tomorrow when the boss gets back - you need to be ready to hit the ground running. As soon as you’re done, though, get your heads down. I’m anticipating our deployment to be tomorrow evening, so this might be your last chance to get some decent sleep. Understand?’

  We nodded in unison.

  He addressed the Welsh replacements: ‘This is a good platoon. You won’t have any trouble here, I’m sure. No nonsense, screw the nut, do your jobs well and we will get on fine. Griffiths, you will be in One Section, under the command of Lance Corporal Moralee. Sanneh and Lloyd, I’ll take you to your sections now.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the Welsh troopers acknowledged.

  We followed the sergeant major back into the room of sleeping troopers, and he looked to me, gesturing toward one of three thermal bags laid out along one of the lower shelves close by.

  ‘Lance Corporal Smith is there,’ he whispered.

  I nodded. I rarely heard my 2ic referred to by his proper rank and name. Due to his short stature, he had earned the nickname Puppy, probably during his early years in the dropship infantry, but nicknames tended to stick, no matter how long you served.

  Leaving me and Griffiths behind, he then led the remaining two Welsh troopers away to their own sections.

  I crouched beside Puppy’s thermal bag and gave it a gentle shake. At first there was no response, but after another shake he began to stir, wriggling within his bag. A hand emerged from the top, slowly pulling the zip apart, until my 2ic’s face became visible, eyes slightly open.

  For a moment he stared at me drowsily, trying to work out who had woken him from his slumber. Then realisation crept across his face and he smiled.

  ‘Ah …’ he said, groggily, ‘so you finally turned up to do some work, then?’

  ‘I couldn’t leave it all to you, could I?’ I said.

  Puppy opened his bag further, propping himself up onto his elbow. He extended a hand toward me, and we shook in greeting.

  ‘Good to see you, mate,’ he said, earnestly.

  ‘And you.’

  Puppy’s eyes flicked to Griffiths. ‘I take it you’re Gritt’s replacement?’

  Griffiths nodded. ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘This is Griffiths,’ I introduced. ‘He’s attached from 6th Battalion.’

  The 2ic smiled mischievously. ‘Well … I suppose a Welshman is better than nothing …’

  Griffiths said nothing, seemingly unimpressed by Puppy’s attempt at banter. I wasn’t aware of any animosity between our two battalions, instead, I figured, Griffiths obviously didn’t have much of a sense of humour.

  Puppy wriggled out of his bag and swung his legs over the shelf. Wearing only his combat trousers and socks, he leant down and pulled out an open container filled with ammunition, batteries and equipment. Perching back on the shelf, he removed the items and placed them into two separate piles: one for Griffiths and one for me.

  ‘Add this to whatever ammo you’re already carrying,’ he told us, ‘then let me know your totals so I can double-check my maths. We’re carrying the same scales as the last op. Oh yeah …’ He slid out a smart launcher from under the shelf, along with a spare missile. ‘…that’s for you, Griff. Enjoy.’

  The Welsh trooper took the launcher without a word, turning it over in his hands as he inspected it for serviceability. He didn’t appear bothered by the extra weight he had to carry on his back. Griffiths looked tough. He was easily in his mid-twenties, despite still being a private, and I guessed he had seen his fair share of hardship during his service in the dropship infantry.

  We removed our daysacks and webbing, then began packing away the ammunition and equipment.

  ‘How are the lads?’ I asked, as I slotted grenades back into their pouches.

  ‘Fine,’ Puppy replied from the shelf. ‘A bit disheartened by what happened in Dakar.’

  ‘It was pretty bad,’ I agreed, sadly, recalling the massacre.

  ‘At least we did something, mate,’ Puppy said. ‘We didn’t just let it happen.’

  I cautiously looked around for the sergeant major. He was at the far side of the storeroom, introducing the other two troopers to their new sections.

  ‘I wouldn’t talk too much about that,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘I don’t think the sergeant major is too happy with me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Puppy grinned. ‘When has the sergeant major ever been happy with anyone? He must like you - otherwise he would have had
you sacked.’

  Griffiths regarded us curiously for a second, wondering what we were both talking about. Every trooper, conscript and soldier loved to gossip, and anything involving an NCO coming close to being sacked was enough to cause ears to burn.

  ‘I don’t think he had a choice,’ I sighed.

  My Section 2ic shook his head. ‘Trust me, mate. I’ve known that man for a while longer than you, and if he wanted you out of the platoon you’d be packing your bags for the next troop ship leaving the system, no questions asked!’

  Perhaps Puppy was right. I remembered what the sergeant major had said to me in the Bosque, before we attacked Dakar: “I choose who commands the sections in my platoon, and if I thought you weren’t up for the job, even for a second, I’d sack you on the spot.”

  Maybe he still had faith in me. It was his job to put our noses out of joint when we stepped out of line, after all, whether he agreed with us or not. It wouldn’t look good if he simply gave me a hug and said ‘Well done’.

  Once we had finished adding our fresh supply of ammunition to what we already had, we both confirmed our new quantities with Puppy, who checked our totals against his own on his datapad. Part of his role was maintaining a balance of ammunition so that every trooper in the section was as effective as each other. We couldn’t afford to have one man carrying a tonne of ammo whilst his mate carried only a couple of magazines.

  We then finished off by synchronising our datapads, adding ourselves to the section net.

  Puppy tapped against his datapad, flicking through our vital signs to check that our own datapads were providing him with a live feed. Satisfied, he then switched it off and pointed toward an empty space on the far end of a shelf across from him.