Doom Star: Book 05 - Planet Wrecker (18 page)

As the meteor-ship
Spartacus
crossed the emptiness between Jupiter and Mars, Supreme Commander Hawthorne continued his desperate war. He refused to relent against Political Harmony Corps or the Party, as he tightened his grip on Social Unity.

He became leaner, and his shoulders took on a stooped bent. Bags developed under his eyes. A week after he declared North America conquered by the Highborn, a stubborn discoloration entered and remained under his hollowed-out eyes.

There were pockets of resistance in North America, but all reports indicated a major redeployment of the best FEC formations.

Then the Starvation Riots changed in nature and intensity. Underground PHC people joined in several, and nine cities erupted in outright rebellion. The worst offenders were in the Greater Syrian Sector. Aleppo, Beirut and Damascus declared themselves independent soviets.

“It’s only a matter of time before they call in the Highborn,” Hawthorne told his war council. They met in an underground bunker outside of New Baghdad, with harsh lights overhead.

The hard-eyed field marshals and generals around the conference table waited for his next words. These were his best commanders, culled from every failed front. Two had been snatched out of North America in near-suicide flights. They had shown themselves bitter defenders. Each had personally drawn his or her sidearm on more than one occasion and summarily shot defeatists and disloyalists. There was no surrender with officers like these.

“The three rebelling soviets are an infestation of defeat,” said Hawthorne. “They are a cancer in the body politic. If they are allowed to mature, their poison could quickly spread to others and then I foresee chaos of the worst kind.  No. I will not allow that to occur. We must quash these so-called independent soviets, and do it quickly and decisively.”

“I recommend a thermonuclear solution, sir.” The speaker was Field Marshal Baines, formerly in charge of the North American Front. “It’s what I’d wish I’d done to Montreal. Three fusion weapons will decapitate the rebellion.”

“How will you reestablish control of the cities after that?” Hawthorne asked.

The squat field marshal shook his bald head. “Respectfully sir, there will be no reestablishment of control. You kill rebels. Hit with surface thermonuclear strikes and then use city-busters. The special missile burrows deep before exploding, ensuring massive destruction. We’ve been developing the idea for use against strategic Highborn cities.”

“You mean captured Earth cities?” asked Hawthorne.

“Yes sir, the Free Earth Corps traitors.”

“But these aren’t FEC-controlled cities,” said Hawthorne. “They’re in the Greater Syrian Sector, in the heart of Social Unity.”

Field Marshal Baines pointed a blunt index finger with his thumb cocked at a ninety-degree angle, as if he was a boy with a make-believe gun. “When I found a defeatist or a coward among my soldiers—” The Field Marshal’s gun-hand moved upward as if from recoil. “I killed the offender. It cost me a soldier, but it instilled resolve in the others. It let them know what was in store for anyone who failed in his or her duty. As you pointed out, we can’t let this rebellion infest others. Burn them out fast. Drop fusion weapons, and use city-busters on each.”

Hawthorne rubbed his eyes. It was a brutal proposal, but it would solve the problem. For a second, he considered it. They had no time for niceties. Their backs were to the wall and this could dissolve the iron in the planet-wide resistance. Then he shook his head. Would he turn on the people? He needed horror. That was true, something to shock and dismay. What kind of—ah, maybe there was another way to dismay these rebels.

“We will strike with speed,” Hawthorne said, “but with cybertanks instead of thermonuclear weapons. I’ve read reports that people run away in terror when they hear the approaching treads of cybertanks.”

There was a rustle of uniforms as the field marshals and generals shifted in their seats.

“Yes,” Hawthorne said. “I understand your unease. Bringing the cybertanks up out of the cities and onto the surface is a risk. The Highborn might have secretly ringed new laser satellites around us. Those lasers could burn out the tanks. General Manteuffel, you have a comment?”

“Cybertanks are a strategic asset instead of just another tactical battlefield weapon, sir,” said Manteuffel, a small, athletic man. He had once helped Hawthorne defeat a cybertank in New Baghdad, allowing the Supreme Commander access to the then ruling Director.

“I’m aware of that,” said Hawthorne. “I helped change their designation several years back. I’m willing to gamble, however. I don’t believe the Highborn will risk revealing hidden laser emplacements—given they even exist—for the destruction of several squadrons of cybertanks.”

“Several squadrons, sir?” asked General Manteuffel.

“I fully appreciate your concern,” Hawthorne said. “The cybertanks are potent battlefield weapons of massive capability. In the end, they may be too massive, too potent and too concentrated in destructive ability. They’ll draw the enemy’s strategic elements onto them. Yet of what use are these strategic weapons if we never use them? No. This is a strategic moment of critical necessity. We must engage the cybertanks.”

Hawthorne scanned the frowning field marshals and generals. “I am reminded of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte at Borodino,” he said. “The Emperor of France had invaded Russia. For weeks on end, Napoleon had attempted to catch the main Russian field army and destroy it. Each time he lured them into a trap, they slipped away. Finally, deep in Russia on the road to Moscow, the Russians made a stand at Borodino. There the Russians and French fought a terrible battle. And in the battle came a critical moment. Napoleon’s generals begged him to send in the Old Guard. They were his elite soldiers, the bravest veterans in one large formation. Yet they had become a strategic asset to Napoleon, his one trustworthy formation. In the depths of Russia, he feared sending them into battle. He feared that they might take staggering losses and thus he would find himself in the heart of the enemy homeland without a reliable formation left. His very person might become exposed then. So at the Battlefield of Borodino at the critical moment, he held onto the Old Guard. Despite his begging generals who saw the opportunity, Napoleon kept the Old Guard in reserve. He won the battle, but at great cost in French blood. And the surviving Russians escaped in good order. If he had used the strategic asset, he likely would have swept the Russians and won the Campaign of 1812. And he would have likely remained emperor until his death.”

Silence filled the war-room. Many of the field marshals and generals looked down at their hands. In the back, a woman stirred, a slim woman in a black jacket and who wore dark sunglasses.

“May I interject a thought, sir?” asked the woman, Security Specialist Cone.

“I require honesty,” said Hawthorne.

“The cybertanks are your best security units,” said Cone. “The people dread them. I’ve also worked with General Manteuffel and know he’s spent many sleepless nights maneuvering the various cybertanks to the needed locations.”

“We situate the tanks with care,” Manteuffel said, nodding deferentially to Hawthorne.

Cone’s expression never changed. “Many of the cities seethe with unrest. My security teams…the air in many of the cities is charged with explosive tension. I am not a military expert, but I’m certain the removal of cybertanks in certain metropolitan areas could allow the ignition of new rebellions. I’m concerned and wonder from which cities will you take the tanks?”

“That’s an interesting question,” said Hawthorne. “Which cities do you suggest?”

With an economical move of her right hand, Cone swept dark hair from her forehead. “If I may be blunt, from none of them, sir.”

Hawthorne felt the pressure build behind his eyes as he grudgingly accepted Cone’s analysis. Yes, he saw the argument and realized its truthfulness. Social Unity was like a balloon squeezed too hard. Soon it had to pop. If it did, mass chaos would grip Eurasia and Africa. The Highborn could walk in as occupation troops. Mankind would forever live as secondary citizens to the Master Race.

The pressure became physically painful so Hawthorne began to nod slowly. “It is a bitter task defending the indefensible. But we will not stop as long as there is breath in our bodies.”

He closed his eyes. He was so weary. Worse, he knew that his words just now had sounded pompous. What led dictators to utter such phrases? Hmm. Is this what the Shah of Iran had felt like before he fled from the Ayatollah Khomeini and the chanting mobs? Where could he run? The Shah had died soon after running. Standing and dying seemed infinitely preferable to running and dying like a coward.

Hawthorne’s eyes snapped open, and he scanned the field marshals and generals. In several he caught questioning looks. It confirmed in him the desire to die with a gun in his hand, firing at whoever came to take him down. Maybe that was too melodramatic, but it fit his growing certainty that he had two choices, and only two. Hawthorne stood up, his chair scraping the floor behind him. The time for hesitation or timidity was over. Wars led to brutality and to atrocities. And this was the most brutal war in history.

“Field Marshal Baines is correct…up to a point,” Hawthorne said, as he nodded at the squat commander. “We shall deploy troops around the cities and demand their surrender. Then we shall obliterate one of them with a rain of nuclear death and with however many city-busters are needed. After that, we shall call on the two remaining cities to surrender. If either fails to comply, we shall destroy the next one. Hopefully, in this manner, we shall save two cities and certainly one. Whatever else happens, however, we will crush this rebellion and return unity to our socially advanced state.”

“Have you made a decision on the cybertanks?” asked Cone.

“They will remain where they are,” said Hawthorne. “In this instance, the fusion weapons shall be our fist. The deployable troops will merely be the occupiers. Now—to other matters….”

“Sir,” said Captain Mune, “I highly recommend you take a different course of action.”

Five swift days had produced a change in Hawthorne. His shoulders still stooped and there was a blue tinge in the bags under his eyes, but his heart no longer thudded as if on the verge of a heart attack. It had been a long time since he’d been outdoors under the sun. It was a strange feeling, a good one.

The lanky Supreme Commander stood on the top of his APC. The heavily tracked vehicle was camouflaged green. Instead of benches for infantry, the inside of the armored vehicle held the highest-grade communication equipment on Earth. There were four other vehicles circling Hawthorne. One was a bio-tank with a silver-dome canopy. The other three were carriers. Fifteen bionic soldiers circled the vehicles, facing outward with their gyroc rifles.

The bionic soldiers, the vehicles and Hawthorne were in the hills around Beirut. They were presently parked under tall cedar trees. The wind ruffled the top branches. Below them in the valley by the blue Mediterranean Sea was the rebellious city. Tall buildings and masses of domes and glassy cubes made up the highest level of Beirut. Underground were another twenty-eight levels, holding nearly thirty-one million people.

Hawthorne’s heart turned cold then. “This is incredible,” he said. He stood on the APC, with hi-powered binoculars glued to his eyes. He scanned the city, at the mass movement in the streets. He saw people, hordes of people moving outward like a swarm of ants.

“I don’t know how, sir,” said Mune. “But they must know we’re here.”

Hawthorne lowered the binoculars. His face felt pasty and his heart began to thump. “How…how did they get out?” Then he shook his head. “No one is in control, or not in full control,” he said, answering his own question. “It’s a rebellion. The people are boiling up out of the lower levels.”

This was the chaos he needed to prevent in the rest of Eurasia and Africa. What would happen if the people boiled up out of the cities everywhere?

“We don’t have enough troops here, sir,” said Mune. “I suggest we move to a more defensible position.”

Hawthorne gulped for air as he lifted the binoculars and continued to scan Beirut. Keeping the billions of inhabitants in the kilometer-deep cities made control easier. The physical evidence was down there before him. How many troops would it take to control so much human mass? Sealing off a level
in
the city only took a handful of troops.

A bionic soldier popped his head out of the APC’s main hatch. “There is no answer to your ultimatum, sir.”

Hawthorne heard the words as he scanned back and forth. Look at all of them! They just marched out of the city. He adjusted the controls, zooming closer. This was laughable. Many held clubs or knives. What did they think they were going to do? Hawthorne cursed softly. They were so skinny, and they wore rags for clothes. Many were shirtless and about half of those he could see lacked shoes. Were all the cities on Earth like this? The idea was shattering, sobering and in the end, sickening.

“Shall I order Field Marshal Baines to repeat the ultimatum, sir?” the bionic soldier asked.

Hawthorne shook his head. Who was he to order nuclear devastation on these desperate people? Even though he kept the binoculars pointed at them, he closed his eyes. He knew then what the Shah of Iran must have felt. To have the force to annihilate and then to feel such pity—it could freeze a man. It could steal his resolve. Stand and fight to the end, bitterly, or run, or surrender to the Highborn.