LANCEJACK (The Union Series) Read online

  -- Book Two of The Union Series --

  PHILLIP RICHARDS

  Digital edition first published in 2013

  Published by The Electronic Book Company

  www.theelectronicebookcompany.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This ebook contains detailed research material, combined with the author's own subjective opinions, which are open to debate. Any offence caused to persons either living or dead is purely unintentional. Factual references may include or present the author's own interpretation, based on research and study.

  Copyright 2013 by Phillip Richards

  All Rights Reserved

  Language: UK English Spellings

  CONTENTS:

  Acknowledgements

  Author Bio

  1: Return to New Earth

  2: Situation Enemy Forces

  3: Man Down

  4: Deployment

  5: Nieuwe Poort

  6: Contact

  7: Bloodbath

  8: Old Friends

  9: Vengeance

  10: The Traitor

  11: The Citadel

  12: Betrayal

  13: Who to Trust

  14: The Warehouse

  15: The Transit Tunnel

  16: Utopia

  17: The Garden

  18: James Evans

  19: The Aftermath

  Also by the Author

  Author’s Notes

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to Florencio Duyar, who produced the amazing artwork for my latest book. It has been a pleasure to have worked with you and I hope that we might have the chance to do it again.

  You can view more of Florencio’s remarkable artwork here: chimeraic.deviantart.com

  Thank you to my wonderful wife for her steadfast support, encouragement and patience. Without you I probably would have simply given up!

  Thank you to those readers who took the chance and bought my previous ebook, and a special thank you to those who urged me to write another. I sincerely hope that my latest work lives up to your expectations.

  Finally, I couldn’t produce an acknowledgements page without a salute to all of those who serve in their nation’s armed forces. Soldiers don’t just fight for their country, they fight for their friends, and that makes them very special people indeed.

  Author Bio

  Phillip Richards was born and raised in Chichester, south England. He joined the Infantry at the age of seventeen, and he still serves today. During his service he has taken part in two operational tours in Kosovo, four in Iraq and a further two in Afghanistan. He is now a Platoon Sergeant, and he uses what little spare time he has to pursue his hobby, writing science fiction. This is the second science fiction novel that he has written, which has been influenced by his service within the British Army. The story and all of the characters within it are entirely fictional, however, so if you know him and think that you recognise yourself for good or bad reasons, you are mistaken!

  You can find details (and Amazon links) of his critically acclaimed first novel, C.R.O.W. at the end of this book.

  1

  Return to New Earth

  I took my first step from the dropship ramp and onto the surface of New Earth as a man might step onto a minefield, fully expecting something to explode beneath me. I scanned my new surroundings with my rifle half-raised into the aim, unable to fully override my instincts. Nothing exploded though, and no enemy darts cracked past my head. Instead a conscript stood in the darkness wearing a florescent jacket, pointing us all toward a dim flashing light to our left.

  ‘This way, please,’ he said without a shred of enthusiasm, and our small party wandered toward the light. There were five of us in all, not even enough to fill the dropship that had brought us down from orbit - the remaining space had been filled with supplies. I didn’t really know much about the others except that they, like me, were routine re-enforcements for A Company of the 5th Battalion English Dropship Infantry. Unlike me, however, they were fresh-faced recruits who had completed their training on Uralis, not long after I had completed my Junior Leaders course. They were Combat Replacements Of War: C.R.O.W.

  My respirator visor allowed me to see in the dark almost as well as I could by day, and so I quickly identified the entrance tunnel into our new home beyond the flashing light. Another conscript stood by the ramp that cut down into the rock toward a gaping airlock door.

  ‘Down the ramp, please,’ he pointed, and we followed his outstretched arm down into the airlock.

  ‘Good job,’ one of the group commented sarcastically, and somebody sniggered.

  ‘Those idiots are only good for filling sandbags…’

  ‘Shut up,’ I snapped over my shoulder.

  ‘Sorry, Corporal.’

  I didn’t disagree with the recruits. We, like the conscripts, had been pressed into service by the Union, but unlike them we had chosen to be something better. We looked down on conscripts and quite right we should, but a cheeky attitude would see a young recruit in a world of hurt once he arrived in his platoon. I needed to stamp it out before it happened.

  The airlock was lit by a dim red light that enhanced the blood red pattern of our combats, designed to camouflage us against the rocky New Earth landscape.

  I looked around at the newly trained troopers. With their armour, weapons and respirators they would be a menacing sight to somebody outside the military, but I was used to it. Somehow, despite my brutal introduction to the dropship infantry two years ago, it had become my life.

  The door to the airlock closed with a thump. With a rush of wind and a flashing amber light, the toxic air was exchanged for something we could breathe without the aid of our respirators. Finally the amber light changed to a steady green to announce that the air was safe to breathe. We still didn’t remove our respirators though, we had been through enough airlocks to know not to remove them until the inner airlock door was open. ‘Never trust blindly in technology’, we had been taught.

  With barely a sound the airlock door slid open, and our visors quickly adjusted to the brightly lit lock room beyond.

  I unclipped my helmet and pulled my respirator away from my face. The respirator was designed to be so unrestrictive that its user could almost forget that he was wearing it, the filters maintaining a supply of cool fresh air, but it was always a relief to finally remove it. The new recruits did the same and waited for further instructions.

  I realised that it was me that they were waiting for. I was a Non-Commissioned Officer, NCO, now, after all. But I was yet to get used to it.

  'Point your weapons toward the wall, lads,’ I ordered, ‘Ensure they're powered down and unload.'

  We checked that the magnets on our rifles were powered down with a quick check of the power button located beside the trigger guard of our MSG-20s. For safety’s sake, as well as the preservation of battery life, weapons were never powered up during a 'soft' drop onto a friendly planet surface. We removed our magazines and placed them away into our pouches - just as a man dressed only in combats emerged from a bulkhead at the far end of the lock room - my eyes flicked instinctively to his rank; he was a full corporal.

  'Lance Corporal Moralee?' He asked, and I nodded, ‘Cool. Welcome to Fort Lash. I’ll quickly show you to your accommodation so the new lads can get some head-down, then I’ll take you to your boss, mate.’
r />   I checked my wristpad and raised an eyebrow. Did the platoon commander really want to see me now? It was already past two in the morning.

  ‘Two platoon are on their way out on patrol, mate,’ the corporal said, noticing me check the time, ‘We should just catch them at the lock room.’

  I nodded, ‘Fair one.’

  With that, the corporal led us down into the depths of the warren, a purpose built underground fortress designed to provide its occupants as much protection as possible from orbital bombardment. Most military facilities were built underground, and much of the planet was networked with thousands of kilometres of tunnels and caves, a legacy of our recent war with China. Fighting underground was common in modern warfare, and it was a terrifying experience that I never wanted to repeat.

  Our route took us deeper into the rock using a large elevator capable of taking tens of troopers in one go. We stopped off at the armoury where we handed in our weapons and then went on to our accommodation. By then we were at the second lowermost section of the warren, with only life support, control rooms and essential stores beneath us. Even a nuke would be incapable of penetrating so deep.

  Only one of the new troopers was joining my platoon, the other three were all being split across the remainder of the company. The corporal took them around to their respective accommodation, briefing them each in turn.

  ‘Your names are on your doors,’ he said, ‘There’ll be some admin to do tomorrow and a couple of briefs. Get your heads down. Reveille is at seven and the cookhouse opens at half-seven. After you’ve eaten wait in your rooms for me to grab you. Happy?’

  They nodded, happy to have the extra hour, since reveille during our voyage to New Earth had been at six. I wondered if they had realised that hours were shorter on New Earth, so that actually the extra hour in bed wasn’t an extra hour at all!

  Finally we arrived at a bulkhead door marked ‘Three Platoon Lines’ in black stencilling. It was to be my home for the next two years.

  I waited whilst the corporal repeated his brief to the fresh trooper. His name was Patterson, and he was little older than nineteen. He reminded me of myself as I had been two years ago, young and terrified of my new surroundings.

  Once his brief was finished and Patterson had entered the lines the corporal turned to me, ‘Shall we?’

  We made our way back up toward the surface leaving the new troopers to find their rooms within their new platoon lines. I remembered how it felt to be a fresh trooper walking into his lines for the first time, not knowing what to expect. I was to be bullied and treated like a lower form of life for a whole month, and the abuse would have been for much longer had it not been cut short by the invasion of New Earth. It was common for new troopers to be bullied for up to a year before they were finally accepted by their peers. I remembered my tormentor from my old platoon, Woody, and his suck-up sidekick, Brown. Brown had started out as my most hated enemy, and somehow in the bloody chaos of the invasion he had become my friend. I missed Browner.

  ‘Your platoon are about to go on patrol around Nieuwe Poort,’ the corporal explained as we walked, ‘It’s a city about forty kilometres from here. You been there?’

  I shook my head, ‘No, mate.’

  The corporal nodded, ‘Right. It’s safe enough there, but Nelly’s been moving in apparently. We’ve been doing a lot of patrols there.’

  ‘Nelly?’

  ‘New Earth Liberation Army; NELA. New Earth JOint Command reckon they’re using old abandoned Chinese warrens to move about, so we’ve been blowing tunnels up and laying sensors to catch them out.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘Nah. We’ve not heard a peep. The rebels are too busy spanking the Russians in the north. Hopefully it’ll stay that way.’

  Apparently our Russian allies were struggling with a raging insurgency in several of their more populated provinces and had even requested assistance from the Union.

  ‘Hopefully.’ I agreed.

  Two platoon were carrying out their final kit check in one of the warren’s many lock rooms when we found them. The sections were lined up along the walls of the room with their equipment laid out at their feet, holding up items as they were called out.

  Kit checks were a critical aspect of pre-operational admin. Troopers never carried anything that wasn’t mission critical, and so forgetting an item was unthinkable, especially in the harsh environment of New Earth.

  The boss stood in the centre of the room, busying himself with his own equipment. He glanced up at me briefly as I approached him, and then continued to check that his gel armour was fitted correctly about his body.

  'Lance Corporal Moralee, I presume,' he said indifferently.

  I hesitated… 'Yes, Sir.'

  The platoon commander strapped his belt kit around his waist and ensured that the pouches were fastened correctly. He was a tall, dour looking man, and he spoke to me as though my very presence was an annoyance, 'I’m Lieutenant Moore. I’ve read your Junior Leaders course report. And your citation.'

  The citation for my Union Star read like something out of an action hologram, telling of how I 'Charged tens of Chinese soldiers with such ferocity that they broke and ran'. It was little more than propaganda, of course, I had been made into an example of the European trooper who would lead the Union to ultimate victory over its enemies. The medal, and the title that came with it, were not optional. Every day I cursed my old platoon commander for writing me up for that damned medal.

  'It’s all an exaggeration, Sir.' I said.

  The officer frowned, 'I hope you're only talking about the citation, and not suggesting that your course report was exaggerated as well?' He looked me squarely in the eye for the first time.

  'Sir,' I nodded. My Junior Leaders course report had been good, the war had forced me to grow up and I had experience that belied my time served.

  'Most citations are exaggerated, I find,' he said as he pulled his respirator over his head, breathing heavily to test the filters.

  Slightly taken aback, I decided to change the subject, 'When will you be returning from patrol, then, Sir? I'll use the time to square myself away.'

  'Two days. We're west of the city.'

  ‘West of the city’ meant nothing to me. I knew very little about the area we were based in, other than that it was in a province that neighboured Jersey Island, where I had fought alongside my old platoon two years ago.

  I nodded my understanding anyway, not wanting to appear stupid.

  The platoon commander checked his rifle, ensuring that the battery was fully charged and the sighting system was working correctly in conjunction with his visor display, 'I will speak to you upon our return, Lance Corporal Moralee, as you can see I'm somewhat preoccupied. The situation on New Earth has become far more difficult than you will remember.'

  I bristled. 'I'm sure, Sir,' I said flatly.

  'Corporal Johnston, are we good to go?'

  One of the corporals gave a thumbs up, 'Good to go, Boss.'

  'Well let’s get loaded into the lock, then, before the dropships leave without us!'

  'Roger, Boss! Let's go then, lizards!'

  With the NCOs hurrying them from behind, the platoon herded into the open lock.

  The platoon commander spared me a final glance as he clipped his helmet over his respirator, 'Get yourself in good order over the next two days. If you think this place is cheers-easy, you’re in for a nasty surprise.' He entered the lock.

  I clenched my fists as the inner lock door closed. What the hell was all that about? Had I said something wrong? The way my new platoon commander had spoken to me, anybody would have thought I was a crow fresh out of the warren jail for stealing rations, rather than a newly promoted lancejack.

  Eventually, whilst the lock began its cycle, I made my way back with the corporal into the bowels of the warren until I was happy I could find my accommodation.

  It didn’t take me long to find my room, right at the end of the corridor with the other NC
Os. I saw that my name was freshly painted onto the door - ‘Lance Corporal Moralee US,’ - the last two letters standing for Union Star.

  I sighed, wishing that somebody had forgotten to pass the information on to my new unit. Stupid questions were now inevitable: ‘How did you get it? How many Chinese were there in the tunnel when you charged them? What was it like?...’ Awful, that’s what it was like. One of my mates died and two others were shot.

  I stripped off my equipment, arranged it neatly into my lockers and then slipped into my bed, which immediately cheered me up. My own bed. No bunks, no bullying senior privates or snoring troopers, my room was my own. Junior Leaders was hard, but for just that reason alone, it was worth it. With that thought, I rolled over and tried to get some sleep.

  #

  I had almost grown used to having nightmares about the war. They didn’t come so often anymore, maybe because the memories weren’t as vivid as they had been immediately after the invasion. I hadn’t told anyone about them, I didn’t want people to think that I was weak, and I certainly didn’t want to end up in front of the unit welfare officer to discuss drugs and memory alteration. My head was my own, and I wasn’t having anybody messing around with it.

  My first nightmare in Fort Lash was no different from any other, up until I saw my old platoon sergeant, Sergeant Evans, amongst the bloodied bodies of my old comrades. It wasn’t the first time that he had appeared in my dreams, but this time the image was chillingly vivid.

  He looked me square in the eye as he said four words, ‘It’s not over, Andy.’

  As if I had been electrocuted, I sat bolt upright in the dark, soaked in sweat, the words still echoing in my head. I was half expecting to see him beside my bed, his voice had sounded so real. My nerves tingled.

  ‘Christ,’ I exclaimed, and examined my wristpad, it was almost six. It was time to get up, anyway.

  I made my way to the ablutions to wash and shave, trying to cast the memory of my most recent nightmare out of my mind. Fortunately the accommodation was entirely empty, and so there was no need to queue for a sink.