Invasion (Vegetable Wars Book 1) Read online

  VEGETABLE WARS

  BOOK 1

  INVASION

  A Semper Fi Press Book

  Copyright © 2018 Jonathan Brazee & Lawrence M. Schoen

  A Semper Fi Press Book

  Copyright © 2018 Jonathan Brazee & Lawrence M. Schoen

  ISBN-13: 978-1-945743-25-2

  ISBN-10: 1-945743-25-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this work are either the products of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Edited by Elektra Hammond and with input by James Caplan

  Cover by Jesh Snow

  DEDICATION

  To the SMOFs and fans who created

  the San Juan, Puerto Rico NASFiC

  and the Helsinki, Finland WorldCon.

  Your tireless efforts produced many wonderful outcomes,

  including two authors from different worlds coming together

  in the unlikely partnership that resulted in this book.

  Thank you.

  Vegetable Wars

  Book I: Invasion

  Part I: Dreams and Response

  “General, Second Battalion’s lines are crumbling. What are your orders?”

  Colby looked up from his console as he tried to comprehend what the red-faced colonel was asking.

  Second Battalion’s lines were crumbling? Which second battalion, and how the hell could that happen?

  The fact that one of his units was engaged was a complete surprise to him. The division was only deployed as a show of force, not to kick off a war.

  “General, what now?” the colonel insisted.

  Colby didn’t even recognize the colonel, but he cut the connection with his boss, the force commander, with whom he’d been discussing the political situation, and turned back to his console. A moment ago, the display had been clear, but now, red alarm stars were pulsing over the entire front. A swarm of red arrows were pushing through the blue unit symbols of his Marines. As he watched, Second Battalion, Fifth Marines disintegrated, down to 20 percent.

  “General!” the colonel insisted once again.

  Colby shook his head. He didn’t have an operations order for this. His G3 would have 50 such plans in the files for any contingency, but Colby wasn’t prepared for this. He looked around the Command Post, but his Three wasn’t there. Twenty faces looked to him for orders.

  Hell, I’m Lieutenant General Colby Merritt Edson, Republic Marines, and this is what I’m trained for.

  “What’s the status on the arty?” he asked, transitioning into command mode.

  “Two heavy and one light battery are in place, the mobile and one light are displacing,” a major replied.

  Colby powered up the terrain model in the middle of the CP, instructed his AI to overlay the battle onto it, and said, “Give me sheath volleys, here, here, and here. It’s too late for Two-Five, but maybe we can stem the tide and give us a moment to dig in.”

  A heavy battery, with its 24 tubes of 225mm shells, could create a virtual wall of steel, covering 1200 meters of front.

  “What’s the status on the Navy? What do we have in orbit? Can we get support?”

  “That’s a negative, General,” a lieutenant commander said. “The ship’s inner system drive is down.”

  “Tell the captain that he’d better get that drive up and running. We need those guns now!” he shouted.

  Damned piece-of-shit Navy! Never there when we need them.

  That wasn’t a fair accusation, he knew. He had Academy classmates in the Navy, and they were plagued by the same lack of replacement and spare parts as the Corps was, and half of the parts they did receive were faulty.

  No use bitching about it now. If no naval guns, then it’s got to be air.

  “Air Officer,” he shouted, “what do we have on station?

  “Nothing on station, sir,” a lieutenant colonel said.

  Colby had to take two deep breaths or he was going to go off on the woman. “And why the hell not?”

  “Your orders, General. You said not to waste flight hours. You said you didn’t want to break the aircraft.”

  Colby didn’t remember giving any such orders, although that had become standard practice. Air capability had become a balancing act between pilot hours and airframe hours. The pilots needed them to remain proficient, and the planes needed limited hours so the crews could keep them airworthy.

  “What can we get in the air, then?”

  “Two Specters and a Wraith, sir.”

  “Out of eighteen craft in the squadron? Hell, I’m going to have to fire me a squadron commander. Get those three in the air, now, priority of fire to. . .” he paused, taking a look at the developing battle on the terrain model. “Priority of fire for the Specters to Fifth Marines, the Wraith in general support.”

  “Who exactly is attacking us?” he asked. “Two?”

  Colonel Juan French, his G2, said, “The Defenders of Truth, General.”

  “What? The DOT?”

  That didn’t make any sense at all. The DOT was all talk and bluster. They’d never shown the will nor the capability to launch a military offensive.

  “Roger that, sir. It’s them.”

  “If they want to play with the big boys, we’ll crush them,” he muttered.

  He took a moment to digest the battle. Amateurs or not, they had pushed right through the division’s lines. Even if the Marines had not expected an offensive, there was no way they should have been able to prosecute their assault so well.

  “Who’s got Seventh Marines,” he asked, confused as to why he didn’t know such a simple fact.

  “Colonel Harris Bellemy-Mohamed,” the red-faced colonel said.

  Harris? My classmate? How did that slip my mind? he wondered before pushing the thought aside.

  He opened up the comms on a Person-to-Person line and passed, “Colonel, this is General Edson. The DOT is sweeping through Fifth Marines. I need you to pull back, then create a hasty line of defense along the ridge running from zero-three-three-eight to zero-three-four-five. I’ll give you air and arty support, but you need to move it now. You’ve got forty mikes to get into position.”

  “Uh, Colby, I’m not so sure we can do that. We’re having problems with our ammo. I think you gave us a bad shipment.”

  “I what?” he asked astounded.

  “You’re the Commanding General of the Marine Corps Logistic Command, so yeah, I put in on your shoulders.”

  “What the. . . ? Logistic Command?” he asked, going apoplectic. “I’m your fucking division commander, and I’m ordering you to move, now!”

  “Get us good ammo, and maybe we will. I’m not going to fight without it, Colby.” The colonel’s smug tone underscored addressing him as “Colby” and not “General.”

  Colby stood up in his chair, barely keeping the volcano inside of him from erupting. Classmate or not, this. . . this refusal to follow orders was completely unsat.

  “I’m going to court martial his ass as soon as this is over. He’ll rot in the brig!”

  No wonder he never got his star, the piece of shit. How did he even make O6?

  He forced the colonel out of his mind. He had an entire division under his command, and he didn’t need the Seventh Marines to cru
sh the DOT. Maybe if he slid Ninth Marines to the north. . .

  “General, one of the Specters just went down,” the air officer told him.

  “The DOT have Gen Six Anti-air? Since when?”

  “It wasn’t shot down. One of the ion thrusters fell off,” she told him in the same calm and collected voice as if telling him his hover back at home needed a new rearview cam.

  “It. . . it fell off?” he said, wondering to what level of hell he’d been sent.

  “That’s what the pilot said.”

  An explosion shook the CP, dust rising from the ground to obscure the terrain model. Captain Jersey Rialto, his long-time aide, rushed in and took him by the arm.

  “We’ve got to get you out of here,” the captain shouted, pulling him towards the hatch. “I’ve got a Hydra ready for you.”

  “Wait, Jersey,” he shouted, resisting the burly captain’s pull.

  The dust was settling enough so he could see the terrain model. Seventh Marines was falling apart before his eyes, blue lights winking out as the running count of Marine KIAs kept rising. Ninth was in contact, and as he watched, the Wraith was shot out of the sky. Unbelievably in less than five minutes, a Marine division had been rendered combat ineffective. It was categorically impossible, but there it was right in front of his eyes.

  “Sir, the Hydra won’t wait forever,” Captain Rialto said.

  “Tell the pilot to take off,” he told his aide. “I’m staying.”

  Captain Rialto hesitated, and for a moment Colby thought his aide would bodily pick him up and load him on the shuttle, but then the young man nodded and stepped aside.

  A series of snaps filled the CP, making everyone duck, including Colby. He looked up, and a line of holes stitched the walls of the CP. They’d taken fire. He turned back to the terrain model, and where a moment ago there were no DOT forces within five klicks of the CP, now they were surrounded. The rifle company assigned to CP security was in a fight for their lives, and they were losing that fight.

  Generals didn’t fight battles, they planned them. That was the SOP, at least. But Colby was a warrior at heart, and there really wasn’t any option left to him.

  “You, prepare a report back to Force, let them know what’s happened. Everyone else, suit up! We’re going to fight!”

  There was a loud “Ooh-rah!” as Marines and sailors rushed to the line of battlesuits in their cradles. Captain Rialto beat Colby to his suit and had started powering it up for him. Colby jumped up and grabbed the support bar, twisting his body like a pro as he slipped into the suit.

  “Ready?” the captain asked.

  “Hit it.”

  A moment later, the suit surged to life, straightening and coming back erect. Lights flashed as systems came online. Colby inhaled deeply. He’d had a long career, both as an enlisted Marine and officer, and he’d spent much of that time in his combat armor. There was a smell, a cross between a locker room and a garage, that both got his blood pumping and made him feel at home.

  Colby had no idea how the DOT was defeating Marines, and he didn’t have much of a hope that any of them would survive, but if he was going to go out, he couldn’t think of a better way to do it, fighting with his fellow Marines.

  As his suit gave a final confirmation, Colby reverted to company commander mode, quickly outlining a basic plan which the colonels, sergeants major, and other senior officers and enlisted acknowledged, Colonel French became a platoon commander. Sergeant Major Lammi, who’d been his sergeant major when he was a recruit all those years ago, became his first sergeant, as the entire CP staff thundered to the sound of gunfire.

  “Get some!” he shouted, filled with elation.

  He charged forward, seeking targets as the Marines around him opened fire. Two DOT fighters hesitated as they saw him bear down on them. Their bright red T-shirts emblazoned with the insipid logo of a hand holding a star made them easy targets. The younger one, a slender, pock-marked youth who couldn’t have been twenty, raised his old rifle.

  Youth or not, he was the enemy, and Colby raised his own 18mm chattergun to cut him down. The young man fired, his round pinging harmlessly off Colby’s chest carapace.

  You shouldn’t have come, son, he thought, as the sights of his chattergun locked on the boy’s center of mass.

  Colby triggered the gun, but instead of a whine of 20 rounds being fired, there was a clunk. He tried to fire again, but nothing happened. In front of him, the look of terror on the young man’s face disappeared to be replaced by one of surprise first, then satisfaction. His buddy had already fled, but he started walking forward.

  Colby didn’t understand why his gun hadn’t fired, but the boy was playing with fire. Not only was Colby experienced in combat and fighting, but he was in a battlesuit, armor that massed 540kg empty. He’d crush the boy with one blow of the fist.

  He stepped forward to meet the boy, but the suit remained motionless. It would not respond to his movements. Colby checked the readouts, and 18 of the 23 were red. His suit had crashed hard, and it wasn’t going to be moving again without a complete overhaul.

  Colby didn’t understand how a suit could fail like that, but he couldn’t just sit there, spam in a can. He hit the emergency molt. . . and hit it again when nothing happened. The bottom light, which he’d never noticed before, was clearly marked “Molt,” and it flashed red.

  The faceplate of his armor was clear, and even without his combat display being projected on it, he could see the battle unfolding, at least what was in view. Over the young man’s shoulder, he saw Captain Rialto rushing toward him. Colby allowed himself a small exhalation of relief before his aide exploded in a huge ball of fire.

  “No!” he shouted, unable to believe that Jersey was gone.

  To his right, he caught sight of Colonel French, on his back, with three DOT fighters prying at him with what looked like crowbars. French’s arms waved feebly until one of the fighters managed to push his crowbar right through the colonel’s torso despite the armor.

  This cannot be happening. It’s impossible!

  And then the young man was standing in front of him, his pimply face up against Colby’s faceplate as he tried to peer inside. He held up a hand beside his face as if trying to cut down the glare. After a moment, he shrugged, and with a wicked smile, reached into his cargo pocket and brought out a small GT-3 grenade.

  ‘Oh, shit,” Colby said, his heart jumping to his throat.

  The GT-3 grenade burned rather than exploded, and at 2300 degrees Celsius, Colby’s combat armor wouldn’t even slow it down.

  The young man held the grenade up in front of his faceplate, making sure Colby could see it. He pointed to it with his free hand and opened it suddenly, then dropped the open hand slowly, mimicking a detonation and it burning down through his armor.

  He’s enjoying this, the piece of shit. Just get it over with.

  The man placed the grenade on Colby’s shoulder, steadied it, then took half a step back. Colby tried to move, hoping to knock it off, but his suit remained stubbornly frozen. His tormentor cautiously reached over and set the detonator before hopping back five meters. Colby could just see the grenade sitting there, but he chose to focus on the young man instead, vowing to put on a brave face.

  A small sun erupted on his shoulder, blinding him, and a moment later, an unbearable blast of heat engulfed him.

  “NO. . .

  . . .” he shouted, kicking out his leg. Duke yelped in protest as she fell to the floor.

  It took a moment for Colby to come to his senses, his heart pounding as if to burst through his chest.

  “Sorry, Duke,” he muttered as he sat up in the dark.

  Colby’s dreams haunted him. They all had a similar theme. Sometimes he was a sergeant, sometimes a captain, sometimes a general, but he was always in a position of authority, and the situation was always dire. He never actually knew what was going on, in the same way he’d often dreamt as a kid that he had a test for a subject he hadn’t studied. In thes
e dreams, his Marines looked to him for answers, answers he didn’t have. Whatever he could devise never worked, not necessarily because of his plan, but because equipment always failed.

  “Sergeant Major Lammi, glad you could make an appearance,” he muttered.

  He often dreamt of people he’d known as a Marine or as a child, but this was the first time his boot camp sergeant major had been in one of his dreams. Heck, he hadn’t thought of the man for decades.

  The clock on his nightstand flashed a subdued blue 0423. He considered trying to go back to sleep but knew better. Once his nightmare woke him up, sleep tended to escape him. With a sigh, he rolled his feet out of bed as Duke crept back up and lay beside him. She gave two whumps of her tail and was fast asleep again.

  “That’s right girl, it’s easy for you.”

  The long-haired, ruddy gold dog had been a bedraggled mess when he arrived and took possession of the farm. Four baths and a bar of soap later, she emerged as a rather pretty dog in the golden retriever vein.

  He got out of bed, took care of his toiletries, then sat at the battered desk he’d scrounged from a neighboring farm when he’d first arrived. He pulled up his account. As usual, the inbox was pretty empty. There was a message from a former Marine who’d been lance corporal in the battalion he’d commanded some 17 years prior. The lance corporal was inviting him to his wedding. Colby didn’t remember the man, but if the former Marine thought enough to invite him, he deserved a response. The wedding was on Ceylon 2, so he couldn’t really go, but he wrote a congratulatory message with what he hoped were enough semper fi platitudes to fill the bill.

  He pulled up the latest crop prices, but that somehow got sidetracked to a story on ancient Phoenician agriculture, and that led to the god Ba’al, which led to Norse gods which led to. . . suffice it to say that two hours later, he was still at his console and hadn’t yet learned the day’s price for pyro berries.