Jay Allan - The Cost of Victory

The engagement transformed from a pitched battle to a series of costly search and destroy missions against scattered enemy positions. The Alliance forces were re-provisioned by the returned supply and transport fleet, while the CAC and Caliphate holdouts were cut off.

Cain commanded 1st Division, or what was left of it. General Gilson had been in the hospital and Brigadier Slavin was dead. The special action battalion was assigned to onsite security at the cave, and the rest of the division was taken out of the line and assigned to guard the prisoners until they could be loaded onto transports and shipped out.

Holm assigned 2nd Division and the Oceanian units to dig out the last of the defending units. The outcome of the battle was no longer in doubt, but there was still a month of brutal fighting before the general was able to declare combat operations concluded.

He looked out over the assembled officers, their job done, at least for now. With Garret’s victory in space and the total defeat of the enemy ground forces, it was possible they had won the climactic victory of the war. Though no one dared say it out loud, everyone present wondered if the fruit of this victory might be peace.

“I Corps will be remaining here indefinitely, so we’re going to start reorganizing and rebuilding. We will be expanding our facilities here significantly to accommodate a long term presence, so we have hard work ahead, though I daresay it will be a little easier than the work we have done to date.” The officers around the table smiled grimly. The work they had done had been difficult indeed, and costly.

Holm reached down and picked up the cup that had been sitting on the table in front of his seat. He motioned for the other to rise and do the same. “To our fallen brothers and sisters.” He raised his glass as his officers repeated his toast.

Still holding his cup aloft Holm smiled. “And to the Corps. Now and forever!”

Li An sat at her desk, a crystal glass of bourbon sitting untouched off to the side. She was frustrated and angry. Her plans, so carefully prepared and well-conceived, had completely unraveled. “Liang, you incompetent fool. You almost succeeded in your mission and you threw it away and let Garret escape in a lifeboat?” She was taking to herself, her voice soft but dripping with anger and bitterness. “If I get my hands on you, hell itself will be a relief when I finally let you die.” Garret’s survival, and his subsequent actions, had turned her grand plan in Epsilon Eridani into a total disaster. They had been on the verge of a stunning success; instead, they lost the war there.

Liang was, by all accounts, a prisoner of the Alliance now. Not only had he allowed Garret to escape the trap she’d so carefully planned, he’d managed to get his task force obliterated as he withdrew. He’s probably in one of Stark’s dungeons, she thought, giving up every secret he has. She couldn’t even take it out on his family. His parents were dead, and his wife was the daughter of a Committee member. And the last thing Li An needed now was more trouble with the Committee. She knew where enough bodies were buried to survive this, but there was no question that the series of debacles had seriously damaged her position.

The war had been a disaster. The CAC navy had been virtually destroyed, and its ground forces were sorely depleted. It would take years, and financial resources they didn’t have, to recover. The Caliphate was also prostrate, crippled by the loss of the vital resource-producing worlds that had been its primary source of wealth.

Europa Federalis and the Empire had made their own peace, quickly accepting the lenient terms offered by the Alliance. But the treaty being negotiated at the Ares Metroplex was anything but lenient. The Alliance was dominant, its victory decisive. The CAC and Caliphate would pay dearly for the peace both desperately needed.

Worst of all, the Alliance had control of the alien artifact. She didn’t know much about it except that it was a technology thousands of years ahead of Earth’s. That game, at least wasn’t over. None of the Powers would allow the Alliance to monopolize such a find, and even with Garret and Holm to fight their battles there was no way they could stand up to all of the Superpowers long enough to research and adapt the new technology. She’d never actually gotten anyone inside the facility, though, and she didn’t have the proof she’d need to put together a grand coalition against the Alliance. She didn’t have it now, but she was determined to get it.

She looked over at the credenza, two boxes sitting opened on its polished wood surface. The first was a case of bourbon, a very rare and expensive one. There was a card attached: With all my love, Gavin.

Stark had gotten the better of her, she had known that already. But it wasn’t until she opened the second box that she realized just how he’d done it. It was a large cube of clear polymer, and inside, suspended artfully, was a head. A pale-skinned face framed with white-blond hair stared out at her, lifelessly. Carillon.

All the effort to turn a member of the Directorate and the fool gets himself caught. She figured that Carillon’s death had likely not been a pleasant one. Gavin Stark did not take kindly to betrayal; she knew that much.

She hated the smug bastard, and she was determined to have her revenge. She turned her chair and leaned back, looking out over the harbor to Kowloon. “This is not over, Stark,” she muttered to herself. “Enjoy your success while you can, because the wheel will turn.” She reached behind her, taking the bourbon in her hand and raising it to her lips. “Yes, my friend. The wheel will definitely turn.”

Thirteen thousand kilometers away, two old friends were sharing their own drink, though it was Scotch, not bourbon.

“To victory.” Gavin Stark sat behind his massive mahogany desk, smiling broadly. He raised his glass, admiring the caramel color of the Scotch in the almost priceless ancient crystal glass. Stark admired antiques; his office was furnished with old and extremely valuable pieces. His desk had been salvaged from the wreckage of Langley; it had belonged to the last director of the old CIA, and before him to a U.S. president.

His companion was standing at the side table, another priceless antique, pouring his drink. He added a splash of water to his Scotch, something he had been doing more often in recent years. It brought out the flavor of the fine single malt, he felt. “To victory,” he responded, raising his glass before taking a drink and walking over to one of the guest chairs. “But not arrogance,” he added as he sat, slowly lowering his aching joints into the plush leather seat.

Stark laughed. “Do you think I will let success go to my head?” He leaned back, stretching out in the massive leather chair. “You know me better, my friend.” He picked a small piece of lint off of his otherwise spotless tuxedo. “I am well aware of the many problems we still face.”

The older man smiled. “Yes, there are always more challenges. But it is a moment for limited celebration.” He ran his eyes over his companion’s perfectly tailored suit. “You should be leaving soon.”

“Are you sure you won’t come?” Stark was looking forward to the Presidential reception, even if he was going under his cover as a megacorp executive and not the mastermind of the Alliance Intelligence services. “It should be amusing.”

The old man laughed. Jack Dutton had been a power in Washbalt for seventy years. “I have been going to these things since before you were shaving. They have all been interminable. Now I am old enough to have an excuse to stay home.” He took another drink. “But by all means, you enjoy watching that pompous ass take credit for the victory.”