Knox's Irregulars

by J. Wesley Bush

Overview

"Those fanatics think in slogans and talk in bullets. Such men can't be reasoned with... only fought."

Randal Knox never wanted to be a leader.

But as the firstborn son of the Prime Minister, he seemed fated to a life in politics. Fleeing his family plans, Randal enlists with the armored infantry, thinking he'll be safe on the snowy border with neighboring Abkhenazia.

When followers of the Prophet take control of the region, his haven turns into a slaughterhouse. A vast army of zealots invades New Geneva, routing its tiny defense force and sending the remnants fleeing for their lives. Knox is forced to take charge of a small band of survivors, sheltering them in the mountains. 

Knox has a choice. Will he hide safely in the catacombs beneath the city or embrace his calling as a leader? It could take everything he has, including his life, to save his people. The militia is scattered, his only allies are a turncoat Abkhenazi, a mad Belorussian immigrant, a beautiful but rookie medic, and a handful of armored infantry.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940156486502
Publisher:	Enclave Publishing
Publication date:	10/01/2014
Sold by:	Draft2Digital
Format:	eBook
File size:	1 MB

About the Author

J. Wesley Bush currently lives and works in Kiev, Ukraine, where he reports on economics. He has previously served as an airborne infantryman, military intelligence cryptolinguist, NGO worker, and historian. He also spent two years as a unicyclist in a circus. He is the husband of a lovely wife and the proud father of five boys.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Diplomacy is the art of saying 'Nice doggie' until you can find a rock.

— Will Rogers

Prime Minister Cameron Knox stood beside a hovering state car, watching an infantry colonel assemble his regiment on the landing pad of New Geneva's primary spaceport. Ferrocrete stretched for kilometers in every direction, broken only by the metal and transplas wedding cake of a passenger terminal, and a bare handful of ships still remaining landside - any merchant with sense had long since left for safer ports of call. Cold wind blew in from the north, picking up speed in the empty terrain and lashing his face with rain. He blinked it away, but kept stiffly at attention. The viewers needed to see strength and resolve.

Just behind the colonel rested a slab-sided troopship of the Terran Hegemony and two flagpoles: one bearing the tricot flag of New Geneva, the other the concentric rings of the Hegemony. Both of them whipped in the heavy wind, their halyards clanging incessantly on the steel poles.

"Open ranks ... march!" the colonel shouted.

The rows of soldiers opened up for inspection.

"Dress right ... dress!"

Platoon leaders sternly inspected their men. Knox imagined they would want to be sharp, especially on a day like today, with a swarm of trideodrones following their every move.

"Ready ... front! Close ranks ... march!" The rows reformed into their neat phalanxes.

"Present ... Arms!"

That was his cue. Cementing his face with a confident smile, Knox strode out to the formation, giving the drones a wave as they shifted to cover him. The colonel faced right and offered a salute. "Sir, the men are yours."

"Thank you, Colonel. Dismissed," Knox said, taking his place at the front. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted as shuttles began exiting the terminal and heading their way. The Hegemony troops were early. Apparently everyone was in a hurry to leave. Two minutes later, the shuttles were grounded and the Hegemony troops had disembarked and formed into ranks. Their commander gave an order, and they began marching in columns toward the New Genevans, punctuating each left step with a near-stomp as was their custom.

In normal times, the ceremony would call for a speech from the garrison commander, but the Hegemony was slinking away, increasingly unable to maintain order on its core worlds, let alone far-flung jerkwater planets like this one. They had no speeches for the New Genevans, but a bright-voiced tenor began singing from the rear of the Hegemony formation, with the rest answering lustily in return.

"Goodbye to New Geneva;
The third stanza was cut short as the Hegemony troops halted and faced the Genevans. With measured step, a color guard emerged and marched to the flagpoles.

Knox kept his expression level for the sake of those watching, but felt bile rise in his throat as the color guard inexorably lowered the last Hegemony flag on the planet. Certainly he had lodged complaints against the Hegemony fleet; and granted, in election years he'd fanned discontent against the "Earthers" for votes. Every Founder's Party politician did that. But none except a handful of ultranationalists actually wanted them gone. New Geneva had flourished under the benign neglect of the Hegemony. In its sixty-year history it had grown from an impoverished colony of religious expatriates to an economic and technological marvel all out of proportion to its tiny population.

Now, that era was ending. No more would orbiting battlecruisers and the threat of bombardment protect New Geneva from its much larger and increasingly hostile neighbor to the north.

The color guard unfastened the flag from its keepers, folding and presenting it solemnly to Knox. With a final salute, they returned to their positions. At a command from the adjutant, the Hegemony unit filed aboard the troop carrier silently. Within moments, the New Genevans were left completely alone.

Facing about, Knox injected his voice with confidence, not only for the soldiers, but for the three million sets of eyes watching via live tridfeed as well. "At long last our dream of a free and independent nation is realized!" he called out, the soldiers dutifully answering with a hurrah. "We look forward to peaceful and prosperous co-existence with Abkhazia, our friends to the north, and congratulate them on their independence as well. Let today mark the beginning of a new era of mutual respect and cooperation between our two peoples."

Acknowledging the soldier's cheers, he turned and walked briskly to his state car. Not until safely hidden from sight did he slouch down in the seat, letting out a defeated sigh.

And so independence came to New Geneva.

* * *

"I gotta admit, Corporal, your father almost sounds like he means that rubbish. He's good."

Corporal Randal Knox laughed, glancing up from the small tridscreen his fire team was clustered around. "My old man can be persuasive when he wants to. Nearly talked me into going into politics, and that's saying something." He looked back in time to see his father disappear into a waiting car.

Randal snapped the tridscreen shut and tossed it into his pressure tent. "Show's over - best get back to work. Queue up for inspection, you lot," he said, allowing some informality since their bivouac site was well away from any higher-ups.

Grumbling, the men clambered back into their LANCER suits - Light Armored Night-optimized Combat Rig - keeping the helmets locked back. Randal looked over the team, his for eight months now, ever since Levin got promoted to sergeant. They were family – together they'd chewed dirt, marinated their livers, and even shared an explosive episode of amoebiasis after swimming in the wrong lake. First in line was Kimathi, a tall East African immigrant and the assistant team leader. Next came Rogers, the heavy weapon specialist. He was earnest, a squared-away trooper who planned to serve for life. Tavish, meanwhile, was hot-headed and quick to challenge orders, but a savant with his autoloading mortar. Last came Sanchez, only three months out of armored infantry school and still round-cheeked with baby fat.

Stepping up to Kimathi, Randal craned his neck to inspect him. Kimathi had nearly ended up in the foot infantry - his LANCER suit was the largest the army's supplier made. Opening a panel on the armored suit's breastplate, Randal surveyed the faintly-glowing monitors concealed beneath. "That right leg still catching?"

"Fixed." Kimathi rarely used two words when one would do.

"Good." Randal moved on to Rogers, and glanced down the tube of the massive railgun affixed to the suit's left shoulder. It was locked in the "safe" position, rotated to rest diagonally across the back of the unit. Once assured it was free of obstruction, Randal knelt to check the housings on the outside of each leg. Carbon fiber spikes lodged in the housings and shot deep into the earth each time the railgun fired — the only way to keep the suit upright given the devastating recoil of the gauss effect.

Next he checked over the caseless light machine gun bulking the right forearm of Rogers' suit. Each LANCER variant had the LMG in common, though the shoulder weapon was modular and issued in one of three types: autocannon, autoloading mortar, or railgun. The cannons were vicious against light armor, the mortar good for indirect fire, and the railgunner could wreak havoc from great distances.

He heard the soft chime of his comset.

"All leaders down to fire team level are to report to the TOC for briefing," came the grating voice of the Battalion XO, Major Tarrington.

With a sigh, Randal began the long trot to the Tactical Operations Center, calling back to Kimathi, "Run 'em through battle drills until I get back. Practice reacting to artillery fire. Something tells me that'll be useful soon."

* * *

Bivouacked farthest out, Randal was one of the last to arrive. The others from the armored infantry company were already unsuited, the LANCER shells standing empty in rows outside the command tent. He shed his armor and ducked inside.

Self-inflating chairs stood in rows, turning the TOC into a makeshift briefing room. The officers and higher noncoms had taken the chairs, so Randal was left milling in the back with the rest of the low end of the military food chain.

A large someone jostled him from behind. He turned to give the guy a dirty look, but found his best friend, Jack Van Loon, grinning like a fool. Returning the smile, he punched Jack in the stomach hard enough to steal wind. "They'll let anyone in this place these days ..."

Jack laughed weakly, rubbing at his belly. It had been getting softer since his wedding four years past. "Speaking of which," he said, nodding toward the front of the room where Major Tarrington had just arrived.

Randal's expression soured. Tarrington, the battalion executive officer, looked like a badger, but lacked the friendly disposition. "It's people like him that give anal retention a bad name."

Naturally, that was the moment the crowd chose to quiet down. Tarrington cleared his throat and spoke in a tone that promised many hours of extra duty for Randal. "If the junior enlisted are quite finished, I'll begin the briefing."

Sensing Jack's chuckle behind him, Randal sent an elbow back to Jack's midsection, nodding contritely to the Major. Tarrington flicked on a holoprojector and displayed a topographical map of the area. Military symbols covered it, showing what Randal recognized as friendly troops and known or suspected Abkhazi force dispositions.

The two sides faced one another across a shallow valley paralleling the Abkhazia-New Geneva border, each positioned on high points along either side. The New Genevan contingent was split in two by Crenshaw Pass, the pass being the main reason any troops were committed to the barren stretch of terrain at all. It was the smaller of the two arteries through the rocky isthmus separating New Geneva from Abkhazia. The bulk of the New Geneva Defense Force was committed to the other one, seventy kilometers to the west, astride the only major road linking the two countries.

"I've called you in because Infosec reports several attempts to hack our Nets today. Crude attempts, but I thought it best to brief you in person. Command has just raised our alert level to a four." Tarrington paused to let the muttering die down before continuing. "Keep your men in chemical gear anytime they're out of their pressure tents. Tighten up your noise and light discipline, and when your men go to the bog, make sure it's in pairs."

He called up a blinking cursor on the holo, motioning with it toward the opposite side of the valley. "Our intel assets report a heavy Abkhazi troop build-up all along the border. Our best estimate places at least two divisions facing us across the valley. That's about thirty thousand of them to the twelve hundred we've got in our reinforced battalion." Randal heard Jack mutter an oath. They were bound to be outnumbered, but it was still daunting to hear the odds.

"Events in Abkhazia are moving quickly. As you know, the Purists have been busy killing off any dissent since they took power eighteen months ago. With the Hegemony gone, Abkhazia has given us forty-eight hours to stack arms or they'll attack. Negotiation is proving difficult, as they've expelled our diplomats.

"You've probably noticed a lot of extra suborbital flights the past two days. They're deporting any foreigners and infidels they didn't already kill when they liquidated the ghetto in Samarkand. Our government has provided several of the suborbitals — the Abkhazis threatened to walk the civilians through the mountains if we didn't. The pilots are under a strict flight path that keeps them away from anything sensitive.

"I've ordered the dronekeepers to double up their surveillance schedule. In addition, Division HQ has been kind enough to attach a company from the Seventh Dragoons to us. Their armored scouts will be pulling round-the-clock recon and surveillance patrols."

The scout company commander gave an acknowledging nod. The Major continued. "This is a big job, so I'm detailing Corporal Knox's team to assist them."

He favored Randal with a small smile. That's lousy, Randal thought. Scout suits were built for extended duration patrols, but the heavy suits of his armored infantry were intended for shock assaults. Long distances were grueling.

Major Tarrington dismissed them and Randal slipped outside before the man could reprimand him. Jack caught up, still chuckling. "If he didn't have kids, I'd think Tarrington had a crush on you ..." "You only hurt the ones you love, right?"

"Just you be cautious. Your old man is Prime Minister, but Tarrington won't let something like that hold him back. I'll wager you pounds for rubles he votes Social Democrat. He just seems like one."

Randal grinned. He was a good Founder's Party man himself, but Jack was so far out on the right wing there was danger of him falling off. "I'll be careful," he promised, setting off at a dogtrot for his team.

* * *

Reaching the bivouac area, he drew up short. Near his pressure tent stood the slender suit of an armored medic, olive drab crosses emblazoned on its shoulder plates. Its helmet was unsealed and resting on the integral backpack containing the unit's life support. The rectangular "Doc-in-a-box" issued each medic sat on the ground nearby.

His breath caught as he noticed the suit's occupant. She was lovely. Even from a distance he could make out soft brown hair and a fair complexion. The graceful lines of the medic suit were a nice complement to her features.

While she was a pleasant change from the four hairy guys with whom he spent each day, he still grumbled to himself. Whoever she was, she was the last thing he needed to deal with. "What are you doing in my area, Private?"

"I ... they've placed me with you, Sergeant Knox." This was followed by a rough salute. "Private Ariane Mireault reporting as ordered."

"Corporal Knox," he amended. "And don't salute in the field. We call that a sniper check - it tells the bad guys who to shoot." He looked her over a moment. She seemed even younger than him. "Does your mum even know you're here?"

"She signed permission for me to enlist, Corporal."

That meant she'd come in at seventeen, which made her either desperate or actually wanted a military life. He decided the latter option didn't seem likely. So she was desperate. Better and better.

"Haven't seen you around the battalion before. I imagine you're fresh out of Basic Indoc?"

"Yes, Corporal. They shuttled us here straight from graduation."

"Brilliant. Go re-camouflage your pressure tent – it looks like a soup sandwich. And try to stay out from underfoot." Turning, he bounded off to Kimathi and his team, the ground surveillance sensor plotting them about two hundred meters to the west.

Later, as dusk settled in, the fire team shared a meal of chicken and barley field rations. A low whine sounded behind them and moments later the sleek form of the Platoon Support Vehicle crested the ridge. The skimmer kept to treetop-level as it flew to Randal's area, using its bottom-mounted jets to settle in between two firs.

Randal was there to greet the vehicle as the cockpit bubble slid back into its enclosure, revealing the platoon's terrible twosome — Johnny Warfield and Jeni Cho. Johnny was strapped into the pilot's chair wearing his usual jester's grin.

Jeni slipped from the dronekeeper's harness, alighting from the skimmer. "Oi, Randal!" A mischievous smile played across her lips. "I heard something interesting on the coms. The Colonel was talking to Division HQ."

Randal knew she shouldn't be anywhere near the Divisional ComNet, but pointing that out would only make her clam up. She was like some capricious goddess who wanted to be entreated for the favors she bestowed. He settled for a non-committal grunt. "Huh."

"Uh-huh," Jeni answered coyly, making a show of looking around for eavesdroppers. Just as Randal was tempted to give her a good shaking, she finally relented. "One of the other dronekeepers spotted a mobile bridge and some of the Abkhazi's new Proviso-class resupply vehicles moving into place."

After the build-up, he was a little underwhelmed by the news. "Merciful heavens, a portable bridge. We're doomed."

Jeni made a rude gesture. "You have your whole life to be a prat. Pace yourself." She took a cleansing breath. "The bridge, and those resupply vehicles, are corps-level assets. Do they seem a little more significant now?"

That changed things. "They could have five divisions en route."

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Knox's Irregulars"
by .
Copyright © 2014 John Wesley Bush.
Excerpted by permission of Third Day Books, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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