The countdown to the release of The Gallant, Star Legend book three, begins. Strictly speaking, this is a Sunday snippet due to the fact that I forgot to post it yesterday. I blame lockdown.

If you’re new to the series, you can read snippets from The Valiant, the first book in the Star Legend series here.

The Gallant, Chapter One

Wright was in deep shit, in more ways than one. His platoon had penetrated too deeply into an EAC-held district of Kingston, and now they were cut off from the rest of the Britannic Alliance forces. If they didn’t fight their way out soon, they would all be killed.

Almost as bad, Brigadier Colbourn was furious with him.

He’d given Corporal Taylan Ellis a compassionate discharge without following proper protocol, and from the way the brigadier had reacted, he might as well have sold the BA’s Caribbean assault plans to Dwyr Orr.We are at war! the brigadier had thundered. You don’t have the authority to give her a discharge.

True.

Her connection with Arthur could make her vital to our plans.

Also true.

Now, his snap decision, taken out of sympathy for Ellis’s plight, could mean his court martial, imprisonment, and even execution—after the Alliance finished retaking Jamaica.

An alarm blared, echoing from the surrounding buildings.

All around him in the factory where they’d taken refuge, the Marines instinctively ducked. He’d guessed the same—it was an ‘incoming’ alarm. They were about to be bombed by their own side.

Great.

Kingston’s power had been out ever since they’d landed a week ago, but pulse fire from enemy troops broke the overwhelming darkness of a cloudy night. The EAC hadn’t moved on their position yet. They were keeping them pinned down, though, maybe waiting for reinforcements.

C-RAM kicked into life, spurting salvos of tracer slugs, trails of smoldering sparks. The juddering report of their firing shook his teeth and bones. Where the slugs destroyed the Alliance shells, explosions lit the sky like macabre fireworks.

This industrial sector of the city, where armament manufacturing plants abounded, was inevitably hotly contested. The Crusaders’ automatic defense systems had been triggered. Would their troops be withdrawn? Nice idea, but unlikely.

Boom!

The wall on the opposite side of the street exploded, spraying masonry into the air. A chunk of it crashed to the ground outside and shattered. Flames licked up in the bombed building, quickly growing brighter and taller.

Wright’s comm sprang to life.

“SITREP, Major,” said Lieutenant-General Carol, the officer coordinating the Royal Marines’ role in the offensive.

“Still pinned down, sir.”

Every attempt they’d made to leave had been met with heavy pulse fire. They were in a stinking situation, and that was before their own side started bombing them.

“Well, you’d better unpin yourselves,” said the lieutenant-general. “The army are shelling the area.”

“I’m aware of that, sir,” Wright replied tersely.

Another missile made it through the C-RAM fire. The ground shuddered.

“They’re aware of your presence,” said Carol, “but securing that section of the city is vital. They held off as long as they could. The latest report says EAC presence south-west of you is minimal. Try to get out that way.”

“Check.” Wright had more to say but held his tongue. The previous report had stated the EAC had abandoned the industrial area. When they’d encountered resistance upon entering it, Carol had told him to press on. It was only rearguard action, he’d said. Then the enemy had closed in behind them.

He didn’t place much faith in the reports.

“You’re on your own, Major,” said Carol. “Unfortunately, no one has any spare capacity to help you. When you get out, go to the Prime Minister’s Palace.”

“Understood, sir.”

Carol closed the comm.

The Alliance’s determination to win back Jamaica came easy when its military leaders were many kilometers distant. Carol was safely tucked away aboard HMSS Gallant in high Earth orbit. Wright wondered if he would be so bullish if he were here, hunkered down while death dropped from the sky.

He had no choice except to take the report at face value and attempt an exit to the south-west.

“We’re leaving in two minutes,” he told his platoon.

He ran to the relevant outer doorway, crouching low, dodging bench legs, half-built armaments, and production belts. A barrage of pulse fire was flashing at them. The EAC was redoubling its effort, predictably not trying to escape the shelling.

Propping his shoulder against the door jamb, he peeked out. They were in the center of a disaster zone. Abandoned vehicles, upturned dumpsters, and smashed-up food stalls littered the streets, along with the occasional corpse. The avenue leading south-west was a straight line. They would be able to travel fast down it, but they would also be easy targets for every EAC soldier watching from the surrounding buildings. It would be like running down the target end of a shooting range.

He gauged the intensity of enemy pulse fire coming from different locations and spied out what wreckage, recessed doorways, and overhangs would provide cover. Splitting the platoon into teams, he gave detailed orders. Sergeant Elphicke and Lance Corporal Patel would lead the teams that left first. The sergeant had been with him through many campaigns. Patel was new to her position, but she’d proven herself competent and trustworthy, if a little too eager.

He ordered all who could be spared from defending the factory to assemble at the exit.

Elphicke’s group began laying down cover. Wright sped with his Marines toward an overturned truck. Their movement provoked a volley of shots from the enemy, despite the efforts of the covering team.

They made it to the truck.

Nestling his back against the truck’s axle, he gave the signal. Patel’s group burst out and sprinted for a dumpster farther down the street while Wright’s sprayed fire at the hidden EAC troops.

It was time for Elphicke to leave. His team had the farthest to go—a bus shelter had miraculously survived the fighting unscathed. The metal shell wouldn’t withstand solid rounds, but the enemy had stuck to pulse fire so far.

Wright gave the order, and the sergeant took his turn at being a moving target, along with his men and women. Patel’s group helped provide cover, and the next team made ready to leave the factory.

And so the retreat began, each set of Marines leapfrogging another, gradually making their way down the street.

Meanwhile, the shelling had continued. The EAC’s C-RAM was effective about three-quarters of the time. The final quarter of BA missiles was getting through, gradually turning the industrial district to burning rubble.

The last team left the factory and raced to the dumpster where Patel’s group had briefly sheltered a few minutes before. Now it was Wright’s turn.

“We’re moving,” he said to his team. “Stay tight and low.”

Firing rearward at the enemy closing in on the now-deserted factory, he and his Marines left the truck and sprinted for the bus shelter, which was now little more than a smoking ruin.

Streams of tracer fire lanced across the sky. A missile screamed overhead and flew into an upper story window, exploding and blowing off the building’s roof. Burning confetti showered down.

“Sir,” came Patel’s voice through his comm.

“What is it, Lance Corporal?”

“There’s a barricade across the street. They’ve cut off our escape route.”

He silently cursed. “How many hostiles?”

“Hard to tell. Not more than fifteen, I guess. We experienced less fire the farther we went, but now we’re stuck.”

So there had been some truth to the report. He synced with Patel’s vidfeed. Blocking the street in front of her, turned side-on, were an armored personnel carrier, two jeeps, and an ice-cream van. All were piled high with debris from the streets, weighing them down. The ice-cream van stood in the center of the barricade, sporting the slogan The Creamiest Ice in Jamaica and, underneath, Stop Me and Buy One.

Emblazoned over the van’s signage in massive letters was a single word of graffiti:

RESIST

The window was closed. There would be no iced treats for anyone today.

“Do you have any survi-drones left?”

“Uh…five, sir.”

“Send them over the barricade.”

Her vidfeed shifted as she complied.

The marble-sized drones activated and connected with his suit’s system. Their visual and scan data amalgamated and played on his HUD, displaying the line of vehicles growing closer and then moving below. They reached the other side of the barricade. Eight EAC soldiers were near it and four or five more crouched in doorways. Then the display flashed red and cut out.

The Crusaders had an anti-drone device. It was to be expected. But the brief view he’d had of their setup was sufficient.

It was time for his team to leapfrog to their next position. They moved, attracting heavy fire. The troops to the rear were closer and becoming bolder. He thought about the barricade. If he delayed too long, his entire platoon would be caught against the barrier, sitting ducks. He made his decision. He would prefer to be there for the attempt, but he had no choice.

“Wait for Sergeant Elphicke to arrive, Patel, then try to break through. Keep me updated.”

“Yes, sir.”

He comm’d Elphicke.

He hoped Patel and the sergeant could do it.

To the rest of the platoon, he said, “Double time, Marines. We have business ahead.”

Colbourn’s wrath seemed a better alternative to what lay in store.

I hope you enjoyed this week’s Saturday (Sunday) snippet. The Gallant goes live on 28th May 2021.