Graham Paul - The battle for Commitment planet

"Hey," Michael protested. "Don't hold back, Anna. Tell me straight, why don't you."

"Somebody has to, Michael Helfort, somebody has to." Her face softened. "Come on. Coffee and something to eat, then I need to report back to the 120th. Even though we've given the Hammers one hell of a kicking, something tells me we're not out of the woods yet."

Michael sighed. "Okay. Lead on," he said. Monday, January 14, 2402, UD FLTDETCOMM administrative center, Branxton Base, Commitment

Michael closed Anna's latest vidcomm, more relieved than he liked to admit to hear that her regiment had been pulled out of the line at long last, the 120th reduced by a week's bitter fighting to a shattered shell of its former self, every last trooper left alive wounded, Anna included. Michael winced when he saw the impressive bandage she sported across the right side of her face; more dramatic than it looked, she had assured him, and nothing to worry about, though she might be left with a tiny scar.

Of course, Anna being Anna, he had not believed any of her assurances, not for one second. Still, she looked okay, and she had been promoted to lieutenant; Third Platoon, C Company, First Battalion, 120th NRA was her new command. Not bad, thought Michael, considering she had been a trooper only weeks before.

It had been a harrowing week for the NRA, operation following operation as ENCOMM fought to persuade the Hammers that any hope they might have had of destroying the NRA's heartland was gone, drowned in an ocean of blood. After the brutally successful, if costly, attacks on the Hammer's three beachheads, ENCOMM had returned the NRA to doing what the NRA did best: hit and run. Exploiting the fact that the Hammers' forces were bogged down around their beachheads, it had launched a relentless succession of operations, small unit attacks mounted from sally ports that appeared from walls of limestone rock, attacks that came and went before the Hammers could mount an effective response. The attacks had been devastating: Hammer units were decimated, then decimated again and again, their casualties measured by the thousand, access routes mined, infrastructure blown apart, equipment and supplies destroyed. One operation mounted by the 185th at night in the middle of a torrential storm had even managed to destroy an entire squadron of marine heavy landers without the loss of a single trooper.

Dollar for dollar, the most effective of all were the NRA's ghost squads. Two strong, they slipped out under cover of darkness, sliding their way past sentries, searching out exhausted Hammer marines sleeping the sleep of the dead. The ghosts would slip among the huddled shapes, cutting the throats of every second man, before slipping away into the night. Understandably, the effect on marine morale had been devastating.

The Hammers were now very jumpy, to the point where every marine and his dog would open up at the slightest suggestion of an attack. Only half jokingly, one wag from ENCOMM's staff had said that the Hammer's blue-on-blue casualties now exceeded those inflicted by the NRA. It was no joke, though; the Hammers were doing it tough.

Even so, the bastards still showed no sign of packing up and going home. How much longer? Michael wondered as Captain Adrissa called FLTDETCOMM's morning briefing to order.

"Welcome, everyone. Before we get into it, I just had a comm from ENCOMM. They confirm that at 06:00 this morning, the Hammers started to pull back from their beachheads in Juliet, Mike, and Quebec sectors. Quick-response forces are being de-"

The room erupted, a cacophonous mix of cheers, applause, and shouting, every last Fed present standing to acknowledge what Michael knew to be the NRA's greatest victory ever… and its least significant. He sat unmoved by the jubilation engulfing him. The Hammers might have given up, but that did not mean the war was over. Michael feared the opposite was true. The cost to the NRA in lives and materiel had been prodigious; any chance of the NRA making its long-delayed push out of the Branxtons and into McNair in '02 had now vanished, the ordnance and people they needed expended in the frenzied effort to keep the Hammers at bay.

"Okay, folks, okay," Adrissa said, her voice raised to cut through the hubbub. "Quiet, please. When we've finished here, there will be a meeting of senior staff. I want…"

Michael tuned out. What Adrissa did or did not want was not important; ending this godforsaken war was.

There had to be a way, he said to himself; there had to be a way.

Late that night, Michael lay awake, staring into the darkness, when the answer came to him. To be more accurate, it was a signpost pointing to where the answer lay. He swore. In all the work he had been doing for Adrissa, he had been looking in the wrong place. He would have to talk to Adrissa, something he did not look forward to.

More depressed than ever, he rolled over into sleep. Tuesday, January 15, 2402, UD FLTDETCOMM, Branxton Base, Commitment

Captain Adrissa made no attempt to mask her frustration, eyes and mouth screwed up into a frown of bitter disappointment.

"That's it, Lieutenant?" she said. "That's the best you can do? The NRA can't finish this war on their own, so we have to go ask the Feds? For chrissakes, talk about a statement of the blindingly obvious. I could have come up with that." Adrissa took a deep breath to steady herself. "I have to say I think you've let me down… and yourself. You are without doubt one of the best tactical thinkers I have ever come across, so I find it very hard to accept that asking the Feds for help is the only way out of this war. Shit, is that the best you could come up with?"

Michael fought to keep his temper in check, his cheeks coloring an angry red. "I'm sorry you feel that way, sir," he said, staring right at Adrissa, "but forgive me, sir, it doesn't matter what you think. If there's only one answer, there's only one answer… and it makes no difference whether you like it or not, sir. Trust me, there is only one answer, and that's to ask the Feds."

Adrissa stiffened; her mouth started to open to respond. She caught herself in time and sat back, gazing thoughtfully at Michael before leaning forward again. "I'm sorry, Michael. Forget what I just said. You're right. I hate to say it, but I think you are right. Thanks to Chief Chua and his microfabs, the NRA can make everything they need as long as it's not too big. What they can't make is solid-fuel rocket motors and warheads. If they could do that, they would not need the Feds. Without ordnance microfabs, not to mention the templates to drive them, they cannot make rocket motors and warheads. Not in a million years."

"No, they can't, sir. Yes, they do a great job stealing missiles from the Hammers, but the NRA can never steal enough to support a full-scale breakout from the Branxtons. All of which means they can keep fighting, maybe forever, and still not win this war."

Adrissa nodded. "Exactly… which means we have to find a way to persuade the Feds to lend a hand. Ideally, they'd supply us with ordnance microfabs and the knowledge bases to go with them."

"Which they'll never do in case the Hammers get their hands on them."

"Quite, so somehow they have to be persuaded to supply the NRA with the missiles they need. So, Einstein," Adrissa said with a half smile, "at least tell me you've worked how we do that."

Relieved that Adrissa was back on his side, Michael returned the smile. "Sorry, sir. Not yet. To be honest, persuading them comes second. We need to work out how we can talk to them first."

"Ah, yes," Adrissa said. "Now, that will be a problem."

"It will be. Our embassy's long gone from McNair."

"Yes, it is. Who handles Fed business now?"

"The Confederation of Worlds, sir."

Adrissa frowned. "Shit! Precious doesn't even begin to describe that bunch of sanctimonious pricks. Somehow I don't think we can use them to get a message off-planet."