Guerrilla (The Invasion of Miraval Book 2) Read online

  Guerrilla

  The Invasion of Miraval: Book Two

  By

  Justin Bohardt

  Guerrilla

  Justin Bohardt

  Kindle Direct Publishing Edition

  Copyright 2015 by Justin Bohardt

  Kindle Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Except where allowed by Amazon, this ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  When I penned the first novella in what would become a series entitled The Invasion of Miraval, I echoed a quote from the original television miniseries V, a dedication to resistance fighters. As I prepare this book for publication, a new dedication comes to mind, and while it might seem self-serving, it comes from a good place. This quote came from a kind soul who read Partisan and was kind enough to leave a few words of praise after completing it:

  “Simply put, Partisan is one of the best military fiction e-books I've read, period. The author had me when he quoted my favorite childhood tv-series, V in the foreword.

  This opening tale (I hope there are many more books) of a group of reservists and volunteer militia struggling against an overwhelming foe is a battle laced ride.

  Also, it is obvious that Mr. Bohardt had someone edit his work, unlike many of the other self-published books available on amazon. It is an easy read when you aren't stumbling over repeated passages, misspelled words, and worst of all, poor grammar.

  I highly recommend this book to any fans of V or Red Dawn, or anyone looking for a good read, period.”

  When you are independent, self-publishing author, the slightest amount of validation can take you pretty far, and this remains the most effusive praise I have ever received for any of my writing. For the record though, I do edit my own books.

  I would like to thank you, the reader, and all who support independent writers. Your support means the world to all of us, and as such, this book is dedicated to you.

  This also seems like an excellent time to remind you, dear reader, to leave whatever feedback you deem appropriate at the website where you purchased or downloaded this book. Cheers! JB

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Prologue

  Dag worked the action on the rifle, sending a spent shell into the air, and drew a bead on the black uniformed Dominion officer standing fifty feet away from him on the wing of the airship. Over the roar of the ship’s turbines, he heard the shell bounce off the metallic wing as he sighted down the barrel, his target’s body silhouetted against an azure blue sky marred only by the occasional cloud and the smoke pouring up from the damaged airships. Colonel Apeniv shot him a dark grin as Dag pulled the trigger. Click.

  In the chaos of leading the boarding party from his airship to Apeniv’s, he had lost count of how many shots he had fired. He went for the pistol at his belt as the Dominion colonel drew a glittering saber with a gold and gem encrusted hilt and charged. The wing rocked as Dag’s airship slammed into the enemy’s hull once more and the pistol clattered away, rolling down the incline of the wing. Dag dove after it, but Apeniv got there first and kicked the pistol off the edge of the wing, sending it tumbling down to the crystal waters of the Averillian Sea, thousands of feet below them.

  Apeniv stared down at Dag’s prone form with smug condescension. “A worthy effort,” he said. “Of a rat,” he added as he lifted his sword and drove it down toward Dag.

  Several days earlier…

  Colonel Ibraham Apeniv strode into the small, cramped council chambers for the bureaucrats and civil servants of Carriage Cross and noted that although it was mostly empty of people, dozens of binders, maps and notepads had been left for the secretaries and dogsbodies to clean up. The olive green and gold flag of Miraval had been torn down from the far wall and replaced with the black, gray and red emblem of the Dominion. Before it, standing behind a large conference table on a raised dais was General Kaezar Franck, a rotund balding man, whose tight-fitting black and gray army uniform was adorned with a red cape affixed by a knotted golden rope.

  Franck was busily shoving papers into a leather attaché and had not noticed Apeniv enter, so the colonel coughed slightly. Franck raised his eyes, spotted the new arrival, and muttered with annoyance, “Gods, it’s you.”

  Taking a moment to size up the thirty-year old blond haired, blue eyed man in his black uniform, Franck felt a moment of jealousy as his eyes lingered on the crossed silver saber shoulder boards that signified Apeniv as a colonel. Franck had been fifteen years older, a lot less trim, and a lot more deserving in his own opinion before being promoted to colonel. The golden eagle wings adorning Apeniv’s uniform on the upper arm was the main reason for the colonel’s rapid rise through the ranks and Franck’s near constant annoyance with the man: he was a leader of the Dominion Skyfleet.

  “General, you did send for me, yes?” Apeniv asked in a calm voice.

  “Of course I did- why else would you be here?” Franck muttered.

  “I thought it was perhaps because of the trouble in the Crest,” he replied without condescension.

  Franck decided to take umbrage anyway and snapped, “There’s no trouble in the Crest that the army and armored cavalry cannot handle.” Sighing, he added, “But the Imperator disagrees.”

  Apeniv remained silent, but he could not help but let a small grin creep across his face. He was certain Franck noticed it, but he also did not care. It was well known that Imperator Nicolai III had made it clear that he expected General Franck to be at the Miravallian capital of Alethia within three days of the initial invasion. The little war was supposed to be over before it had begun, but Franck had decided against using Apeniv’s Skyfleet, relying only on outdated wooden hulled airships that were constructed back during the last war between the Dominion and the Barrony Confederation.

  “I take it you’re against bringing the Skyfleet into the war,” Apeniv stated.

  “The Galleon-class airships proved useful at the Battle of Highskye, I’ll admit,” he said begrudgingly. “But these new models are untested in actual warfare.”

  “Once upon a time, so was the sword, the gun, the tank, the dirigible airship,” Apeniv rattled off.

  “Perhaps you’re correct,” Franck said as he sat down with a grunt and pulled out a map. He waved a hand for Apeniv to join him in the chair next to him, and then gestured toward the map. “Our entire advance has been stalled due to the possibility of a count
er attack coming from forces in the Crest, so the mountain rats need to be dealt with first. Your new airships are going to see their first action.”

  Apeniv looked at the map for a moment and frowned. “The new classes can move higher into the atmosphere than the Galleon-class ships, but they won’t be able to reach the peak of the Crest,” he said pointing to a town that was labeled Harren Falls.

  “You don’t need to get all the way up there,” Franck said. “We’re launching a two pronged assault. You’ll assign three of the ships under your command to escort the infantry and tank squadrons moving north from Carriage Cross.”

  “And the second prong?” Apeniv demanded.

  “Moving down from Highskye and into the mountains through this area the locals call the Rock Maze,” he said. “Turncoats have given us rather accurate maps of the area, and we have found a way through. The only trouble will be getting to the staging area. The rats have set up mortar nests up and down the west side of the river, and they could do some damage to the old Galleon-class ships if they spot them.”

  “The corvettes should be more than a match for them,” Apeniv replied. “A dreadnought would rip any defenses apart.”

  “Good,” Franck said.

  “With all due respect, general, we have the strength in numbers and firepower to launch an assault across the river and deal with any militia in the Crest. Why are we slowing down our advance?” he asked.

  “After what happened in the Crest, thousands dead, dozens of tanks destroyed, a handful of rats turning back an entire Dominion wing…” he began. “You know as well as I do that if you give these pathetic countries even the slightest bit of hope, they will fight us tooth and nail. The Imperator wants this victory quickly and he wants it done fiercely. When we go across the river, it will be with full force, understood?”

  “Yes, general,” Apeniv said as he stood up from his chair and saluted. “I shall see to the arrangements.”

  “You’ll need to liaise with Black Army and Grey Army commands,” Franck said as he stood and returned the salute. As Apeniv was striding out of the hall, he added, “Oh, and Colonel?” Apeniv turned around to face him. “You know as well as I do that this little incursion is nothing but a precursor to a coming war with the Confederation. The Imperator is paying close attention to our tactics and our technologies. If you want the Skyfleet to have any part in the Dominion army in the years ahead, I suggest that you don’t screw this up.”

  1

  Raslan Dagenham slumbered peacefully, seemingly for the first time in several days. He was dreaming of his father and the first time that he had gone hunting. Raslan, known better as Dagger or simply Dag, had been twelve and Aleksian, his younger brother, was annoyed that he was not allowed to go. Aleksian had always been the favored child of the boys’ mother, and it was she who read to him, taught him history, literature, and mathematics beyond what he was taught in school. Dag had never shown any patience for such things and Grace, Mrs. Dagenham to almost everyone, had therefore no patience or interest in him.

  Dag had heard his father and mother arguing about it from time to time when he was supposed to be asleep, but Mrs. Dagenham was one of the more stubborn women in Harren Falls. She hotly refused to show any favor toward Dag, stating that she was not certain how he was even her child, that he clearly did not respect her, and that she would not allow Dag’s attitude to poison the minds of Aleksian or the soon to be born Vara against her.

  The words should have hurt Dag, but he never really felt it. His mother was always so distant from him, and he never understood why. There was something that seemed right about it though, something that made the feeling of disconnection between the two of them seem correct. It was not something that Dag would have been able to put into words, but he never felt like he belonged to his mother as much as he did to his father. He had always looked far more like his father, that was true, but it went beyond that. Dag had studied enough biology in class and had observed enough in nature to know that all creatures instinctively knew their parents. In school, they had called it imprinting.

  As such, he should not have been surprised when he discovered the true reason behind his father taking him on his first hunting trip. What was surprising was that Raslan Dagenham Senior had stopped less than an hour in and suggested that they make camp. Raslan’s hunting trips often lasted for days, and so they would naturally have to make camp eventually, but Dag had not expected it when they were maybe only a mile into the woods and there were hours of daylight left. He was not one to disobey or question his father though, so he just nodded and started clearing away some brush from the area under a large oak tree that his father had pointed to.

  Raslan collected some firewood wordlessly while Dag made a circle of stones to contain the fire. There was a worried look on Raslan’s face, but Dag was not certain as to why his father was so concerned. It was not anything in the woods, of that much he was certain. Raslan’s rifle was still strung across his back, the safety engaged, so there could not have been anything dangerous nearby.

  Once his father had come back with enough wood, he took a hatchet off its loop on his belt and chopped some of it into kindling. Raslan placed some dry brush he had gathered and the freshly chopped kindling into the center of the rock pile and took out his large buck knife and a piece of flint. A few strikes on the flint and several eruptions of sparks later, the kindling had caught and Raslan began adding logs to the fire.

  “I recognize that look on your face,” Raslan said as he set his pack and rifle down against the oak tree and pulled out his bed roll. “I know you’re curious about why we’ve stopped so soon. You’re more clever than your mother gives you credit for.”

  Dag did not know how to respond to that, so he simply imitated his father, putting his smaller pack and .22 rifle down against the tree. He then spread out his bedroll next to the fire before sitting down on it. Raslan though was not yet ready to explain anything to Dag. He pulled a teapot out of his bag, a tin of tea leaves, and his large canteen. Soon, the steel teapot was in the fire, warming, and Raslan had removed his green woolen cap, revealing the dark brown hair and eyes that he and Dag shared.

  A few minutes later, they were sharing a cup of tea and a tin of hard biscuits that Mrs. Dagenham had made for them before Raslan at last decided that it was time for him to say whatever was on his mind. “Have I ever told you about my brother Duggan?” he asked at last. His tone suggested that he knew the answer to the question.

  Dag had never heard of Duggan Dagenham, so he simply shook his head.

  Raslan nodded. “He was a little bit older than me,” he said. “But he’s been dead a long time.”

  Was this what his father wanted to talk about, Dag wondered to himself. It seemed like something that could have been discussed at the dinner table.

  “I’m sorry this is so difficult for me to say,” his father continued. “Your mother doesn’t want me to talk about it, but I personally think you have the right to know.”

  “Know what, father?” Dag asked.

  “Have they taught you in school about the Border Crisis of thirteen years ago?” he asked, seemingly changing the subject.

  “The Dominion wanted to annex a part of Miraval,” Dag replied. He did not pay much attention in history class, except when they were talking about the fighting and the wars. “A small section north of Greybridge.”

  “That’s right,” Raslan said. “We all thought we were going to war. The militia was called up, and every eligible man was conscripted and sent to Greybridge. My brother Duggan came with me, but he didn’t come back.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dag said as he saw a little emotion creep onto the usually stoic face of Raslan Senior.

  “It’s been a long time,” Raslan said, brushing some smoke away from his face. “The reason I bring this up is that Duggan was originally engaged to marry Grace Rosen. It was a match their parents had arranged.”

  This took Dag aback. Grace Rosen was the maiden name of his mothe
r.

  “Obviously, Duggan never came back from the Border Crisis,” Raslan said. “Our regiment was sent into the disputed area to try and give the Dommies a show of force. They rolled right over us and drove our regiment back into the river. I was one of the few who survived and I brought the news of Duggan’s death back to Grace, whom I agreed to marry in Duggan’s place. She almost didn’t accept.”

  “She didn’t like you?” Dag asked, sounding confused. His mother was usually warmer to his father, even though he tended to remain guarded around all of his family.

  Raslan shook his head. “No,” he said. “It was because I had you with me.”

  “Wait, what?” Dag demanded. That didn’t make any sense. Unless…

  “That’s right,” he said. “My wife isn’t your mother, and I’m not your father.”

  Dag’s eyes widened and a cold stone sank into the pit of his stomach. “My parents,” he whispered.

  “Were my brother,” Raslan said. “And a woman that he met in Greybridge while we were stationed there.” He looked uncomfortable again. “They were only together for a few days before we were sent into the disputed territories, but it was enough. When the Dommies had pushed us out and the government had agreed to release all claim to any land north of the river, we retreated to Greybridge and she found me. Duggan had introduced us once. I… I had to… my wife was not the only one to whom I had to break the news of Duggan’s death. It was even worse considering how far along she was with you.”

  Dag was at a loss for words. Finally, he managed, “What was her name? What was my mother’s name?”

  “Lorelei,” he answered. “Lorelei Plymouth.”

  “How come I came home with you? How come I didn’t stay with her? How come she’s never visited me?” he demanded all at once.

  Raslan looked despondent, shook his head, and said, “There were complications during your birth, Dag. Lorelei gave her last ounce of strength to bring you into this world. She held you for a few moments before she died.”