Crucible by Gordon Rennie Page B

Ghazeleh's armoured divisions could make the crucial breakthrough past the ring of Nort ground forces around Nordstadt, these shuttle flights were the only link between the outside world and the Souther forces cornered inside the besieged city.
    Except even this final link seemed to be slipping for reasons Halmada and his comrades didn't understand. They were flying only twice a day now, and carrying a lot less troops and supplies down each time. Hell, a couple of times this week, they had even flown down with their holds completely empty.
    Troop reinforcements. Ammunition. Food and med supplies. These things were the lifeblood of the Souther army in Nordstadt and these were the things it was now secretly being apparently starved of. All of the aircrews realised this and none of them were happy about it, but the hanger decks of the orbital bases were swarming with armed, grim-faced military policemen and, far more significantly, nameless, ever-watchful officers whose uniforms bore no unit or divisional insignia. The shuttle crews knew when to keep their thoughts to themselves. There didn't have to be any insignia on those uniforms for anyone to know those wearing them belonged to S-Three, the Souther military's secretive and much-feared intelligence and covert ops service.
    There was a black bag operation in motion. A state of permanent martial law had been declared years ago for all personnel serving in the Nu Earth theatre of military operations, and summary executions weren't unknown. Halmada and the others knew enough to just carry out the orders they were given, fly their shuttles and not ask any questions. Which was exactly what the spooks from S-Three wanted.
    They were at the atmospheric envelope now, the point where Nu Earth ended and the blackness of true space began. Nordstadt and its attendant horrors were far below them, lost beneath the impenetrable murk of the chem-cloud cover. Halmada thought of his son Philippe, maybe fighting in a hellhole just like the one down there, and then he thought of all the other tens of thousands of Souther troops trapped in Nordstadt. He prayed that the generals who consigned them all to fight and die in these places knew what they were doing.
     
    General Fyalla Ghazeleh raised his binox and watched the entire might of his three divisions' mobile artillery batteries fall on the Nort positions. Giant plasma-bomb shells exploded like starbursts, turning night to day and incinerating everything within a three hundred metre radius of their point of impact. Howitzer-launched seeker missiles buzzed angrily through the air, searching out Nort tanks dug in hull deep into carefully prepared defensive positions. Waves of incendiary shells turned lines of trenchworks into rivers of fire, while volley after volley of high-explosive rockets blew apart bunkers and hard shelter blockhouses.
    Ghazeleh was a general of the old school. "Blood and Guts Ghazeleh" they called him at Milli-com, while his own troops took pride in being led by the man they had nicknamed "Fighting Fyalla". Ghazeleh was happy to lay claim to either title. Yes, he pushed his boys hard - and girls, he reminded himself, although the idea of sending women into combat had never rested easy in the mind of this particular old warhorse - but they went into battle knowing their commander would never willingly throw their lives away for nothing.
    If only other Souther commanders thought as he did, he angrily thought to himself. Especially those vainglorious jackasses at Milli-com.
    "Beg your pardon, sir?"
    It was the voice of his executive officer Colonel Garr, standing beside him on the hull of his command tank. With a start, Ghazeleh realised he must have said that last thought aloud in his trademark blunt growl.
    He chose to ignore the man for a moment, preferring to concentrate on the far more pleasing spectacle taking place in the view through the imaging sights of his binox. The Norts had pulled back to their prepared