by Rick Shelley
“We’ll manage somehow,” Fal said.
“I know you will, Fal. Keep this channel open for me. Once we start hitting the enemy, we’ll need to stay in touch. One more thing. Who’s your second-in-command?”
Jensen hesitated several seconds before he replied. “I guess that would be Cooper McBride of our 1st Battalion. He’s the senior battalion commander.”
“Make sure he knows he’s your backup, and have him contact Tefford Ives directly to make sure we’ve got two liaison channels operating. You’ll have to patch together a staff as best you can, once you know who you have left.”
After ending the conversation with Jensen, Lon had a few seconds of silence on his radio, a chance to take another look around to double-check the deployment of his headquarters detachment. Men who were clerks or drivers in garrison manned their rifles with every bit of competence that the men in the line companies possessed. In the Corps, everyone was a rifleman first. A secondary perimeter had been established around Lon. Seventh Regiment had moved out of the open field where they had landed, under the cover of trees and wild shrubbery, improving their positions as the terrain permitted.
What an unholy mess, Lon thought. More than six percent casualties before we get our first licks in. Six shuttles meant three companies, six hundred men, plus the casualties on the ground from the enemy bombardment. There’ll be hard questions to answer when we get home, even if we don’t lose another man in the campaign. And that was an unlikely possibility.
“It’s not working out the way we thought it would,” Phip Steesen said on a private channel to Lon. They were forty yards apart, in a Standard dispersal pattern. There wasn’t anyone above the rank of corporal within ten yards of Lon except for his aide and driver, Sergeants Howell and Dorcetti.
“You’ve been reading my mind again,” Lon replied, no trace of humor in his voice. “We thought we’d come in, show them we had them outnumbered, outgunned, and outclassed, and they’d be ready to cut their losses and run. I haven’t heard an offer to surrender and leave coming from the New Spartans yet.”
“I think we’re in for the fight of our lives,” Phip said. “All that stuff Jenny told me about the economics of this, why neither side can afford to lose.”
“Yeah, I remember. We ready to move out?”
“I’ve talked with all the battalion lead sergeants. We’re ready. The consensus is that it’s time to start getting a little payback. Can’t say that I have any argument with that.”
“Don’t let it get anyone careless. Times like this are when it’s most necessary to remember that we’re professionals. Four minutes, Phip. Get back to the lead sergeants. Make sure they keep a lid on their people.”
“I warned ’em all before, Lon. I’ll do it again, too,” Phip added before Lon could tell him to.
There were last-minute reports from CIC, Lieutenant Colonel Jensen, and the battalion commanders in 7th Regiment. Lon set up a command conference channel with the battalion commanders in both regiments. The order to begin the offensive would go directly to each unit. Seven battalions would attack simultaneously. There would be little air cover. The Shrikes that had come in to hunt the rocket artillery might be able to make quick strafing passes on enemy infantry positions, but they would have to burn for orbit again very soon, to replace the Shrike IIs that would be escorting the remainder of the Dirigenter force in. The ships could not be left without protection, not even briefly, as long as the New Spartans still had Capital ships and aerospace fighters to threaten them.
Two minutes. Lon glanced to his left, in the general direction of 1st Battalion’s positions, though it was too far away for him to see anyone there. That was where Junior was, with the two platoons he led—on the left flank, with no friendly troops to guard it. The units of the EDF weren’t all that close. Their job was to harass the sections of the New Spartan line that were not directly confronted by Dirigenters, to keep them from reinforcing the units caught in the middle. Any serious coordination with the local forces would have to wait until after this first battle was fought. Chancellor Berlino and his companions were still aboard Peregrine. They weren’t scheduled to land until the Dirigenters could make that safe.
Will we both make it through the day? Lon wondered, still thinking about Junior. Hidden deeper in his mind, Lon was almost unaware of What would I tell his mother? nagging at his subconscious defenses. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force his thoughts away from that unpleasant prospect. I can’t allow myself to be distracted, not now.
One minute. Time for a last hurried call to CIC for the latest updates. One of the enemy artillery units had—apparently—been hit by the Shrike IIs and put out of commission. The shuttles carrying the three remaining battalions of the strike force were on their way in and would soon be out of reach of the weapons aboard the New Spartan transports.
Time ….
Lon watched the last seconds tick off, then gave the command. “Move out.” Only right in front of his own position was he able to see any movement directly. The men of 2nd Battalion got up and started moving forward. For the first half mile—barring any surprises—they would move forward in three staggered skirmish lines, closing in as quickly as they could. Then, once they were in range of rifle fire from the New Spartans, the troops would switch to fire and maneuver tactics. That would be slower. How much slower would depend on the level of enemy resistance. With seasoned mercenaries on the other side, it might be very slow indeed. The corridors of advance for the battalions of the regiments on either side had been carefully calculated to minimize the chances for friendly-fire casualties.
Watch out for mines and booby traps, Lon thought, as if he were instructing his men. Watch for enemy electronics, not just helmets but also snoops. Remember that they’re good, damned good. We’ve got no room for mistakes.
“Phip, we’ll let the advance move three hundred yards, then move my command post to just this side of that creek out there, behind that patch of heavy undergrowth. We’ll set up there, close enough to see some of what goes on, far enough back that we shouldn’t have to scramble to get out of the way.”
“Right,” Phip replied. “I had already marked that spot. There’s a rock outcropping to give us a little protection from stray shots, too well concealed by the trees for there to be much chance the enemy registered it for their artillery.”
Both of them could hear gunfire, just starting. At first there were just scattered shots from three or four points, quickly answered by Dirigenters, but within thirty seconds the firing became general. “They didn’t wait for us to come to them,” Lon noted, still with a channel open to Phip. “We sure didn’t move a half mile before the action started.”
“Suits me,” Phip said. “The sooner we start, the sooner we can make a finish of it.”
That’s easy to say when we’re this far away from it, Lon thought. He knew he was where he belonged, out of immediate danger, in position to direct the entire fight, but he couldn’t banish a nagging guilt at being relatively safe while sending thousands of men into imminent peril, knowing that some of them would not live through the engagement. It wasn’t just that his only son was one of the men in danger. He had felt this way before, long before Junior joined the Corps.
Lon scanned the various command frequencies, eavesdropping on reports from company commanders to their battalion commanders, even from platoon leaders to their captains. The New Spartans had used the time well, forming lines facing in both directions, closing the gap on either side, preparing what defensive protection they could. The shuttle carrying Colonel Hayley and two dozen other wounded men from 15th Regiment got off the ground, trailed by the Shrike IIs that had attacked the New Spartan rocket artillery.
“Been a long time since we fought a pitched battle this soon after grounding,” Phip commented in one of the rare silences on the radio. “Offhand, I can’t remember ever fighting this soon.”
Once or twice, Lon thought, but he remained silent, switching channels again a
nd again, stopping just long enough to catch what he could. Offhand, he couldn’t remember where or when those instances might have been either. There had been too many fights on too many worlds … and far too many deaths.
“I make it three hundred yards 2nd Battalion has moved,” Phip said a moment later. “A long way short of the half mile we hoped. They’ve dropped, using fire and maneuver now.” The advance slowed dramatically, one platoon of each company moving forward a few yards while the rest laid down covering fire. The next platoon would leapfrog them, and the next, and ….
“Right, Phip. Let’s get our people moving,” Lon said. He waited until the order had been passed, then got up and starting moving toward the location he and Phip had chosen for their next sanctum. The distance was only about two hundred yards, but before Lon had run half that distance, he felt as if he had run a mile. Lon paused for no more than twenty seconds, sucking in a couple of deep breaths. His chest was heaving as he gasped for air. He was a little light-headed. For an instant his vision blurred, then cleared after he blinked several times, quickly, and shook his head.
This is ridiculous, he thought. I know damn well I’m not this far out of shape. He shook his head again and trotted the rest of the distance, moving more slowly now. At least there was no incoming fire to worry about. Yet.
The rock outcropping that he had spotted was nowhere more than eight feet higher than the ground just north of it, rising abruptly on the left and dwindling away gradually on the right. On the far side, the south, the rock fell sharply into the edge of a shallow, narrow creek—five feet wide and two feet deep—that meandered across the entire 2nd Battalion front. Much of the stone was covered with a mosslike growth. Vines climbed up over the top from the creek on the far side. A number of bushes hemmed the rock in on either side.
Lon did not simply collapse against the rock and slide to the ground, though the notion tempted him until his breathing got back to something approaching normal. He remained on his feet, protected by the rock, looking around to see that all of the men who were with his headquarters detachment made it to their new positions. Without instruction, they formed their new perimeter and started scooping out slit trenches, working quickly in moist soil, taking advantage of the terrain to give themselves what protection was available.
Before Lon had a chance to say anything, he heard two explosions, separated by five seconds or less, well separated, almost blanketing other explosions farther away.
“They’ve got that rocket artillery working again,” Phip said on their private channel. “Most of it’s still going against 15th, but that’s two aimed toward our people, near both ends of the line, in 1st and 3rd Battalions.”
Junior? screamed in Lon’s head like the stab of a severe headache, but what he said was, “Get reports on casualties when you can, Phip.” His voice sounded almost calm.
What do we do next? Lon asked himself. He wasn’t too disconcerted by the fact that the preliminary plan of attack had proven inadequate, obsolete almost before it could be begun. Once we get on the ground, we start with a blank page. It was all too frequently like that. Few enemies were considerate enough to do exactly what the Dirigenters hoped they would do.
Lon’s musings were interrupted by a call from Fal Jensen. “We’ve got to do something about those rockets,” Jensen said. “They’ve got us zeroed in. We’re taking casualties from those and from the enemy on the ground in front of us.” There was no hint of panic in Jensen’s voice now, but there was tension.
“Keep pushing forward, Fal. Get close to the New Spartans on the ground and they’ll have to quit firing rockets at you. It’s going to be at least twenty minutes before the next flight of Shrikes can get in, longer than that before we get our heavy weapons on the ground and out of the box. We’ve still got to deal with the enemy on the ground between us.”
“Are we getting any help from the Elysians?” Jensen asked.
“Very little so far, but they weren’t supposed to be doing much more than harass the enemy away from our positions.”
“If we’ve got any liaison, the more they can do right now, the better off we’re going to be, Lon.”
You know what liaison we’ve got, Lon thought. Jensen should know better than anyone. He had been aboard Peregrine, privy to the discussions between Bob Hayley and Chancellor Berlino.
“Just as soon as I get a chance, I’ll put a call through to Berlino,” Lon said. “But don’t expect much, not soon. Even if they have forces available, it’s going to take time to get them in position to act. We’ve got to sort out this mess on our own.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Jensen said before signing off.
If he doesn’t pull himself together, he’s going to be no help at all, Lon thought, frowning in the privacy of his helmet. Maybe he’s spent too many years in staff jobs, not enough on the line. Lon had known Jensen, casually, for years, as he knew all the senior officers in the Corps. But he did not know him well, and what he had heard so far did not give him great confidence. I’m going to have to find out who else is left over there, just in case, he thought. But, like so much else, that would have to wait until the immediate situation was in hand.
“Lon.” Phip waited for Lon to acknowledge the call before he continued. “I’ve been checking with the noncoms up front. I think we underestimated the number of New Spartans here, maybe by fifty percent. They must not have left all their transports in orbit. Maybe some of them had to make two trips to get everyone here. There could be as many as eight thousand of them on the ground between us and 15th Regiment. We sure as hell don’t have them outnumbered two to one. Even when we get the rest of our people down here, the numbers won’t be much better than even.”
“The way they’ve hit us so far, I can’t say that surprises me,” Lon said. “How good are the estimates you’re getting?”
“I wouldn’t bet against them no matter what odds you offered,” Phip said. “I’ve sorted through the usual exaggeration, cross-checked, everything. One other thing. One of Junior’s platoon sergeants says the New Spartans do have those needle guns we heard about, at least a few. Says they can turn a tree to mulch in ten seconds, but the effective range doesn’t seem to be much past a hundred yards.”
“We get the chance, I’d like a look at one of them, and a little ammo—something to take home and let the R&D people play with,” Lon said. “But I don’t want anyone taking foolish chances to get it.”
“I already passed the word, Lon,” Phip said.
Lon sat with his back against the rock outcropping and took out his mapboard, a specialized complink that unfolded for use in the field. He put as much of the area around University City on the screen as he could to get a feel for the battle that was developing. The New Spartans were not being shy about using active electronics. There were so many blips that they blended into smudged lines—red for the enemy, blue for the Dirigenters, yellow for the few members of the Elysian Defense Force who were involved in the fight.
I hope someone on Peregrine is going through this, trying to get a solid estimate of enemy numbers, Lon thought. By increasing the magnification and going through the area one small grid at a time it would be possible to tell exactly how many enemy soldiers were using helmet electronics at any given time. Something we can report back to Dirigent on with reasonable assurance. As soon as possible, he was going to have to send an MR out, report to the Council of Regiments on what they had found and what had happened—including the fact that Bob Hayley was out of action for at least the next several weeks … if he survived. I might not even know that for another hour or more, Lon thought, glancing at the timeline on his visor display. I guess I need to wait until I get something from the medtechs about Bob, if he’s going to survive.
He looked up from the mapboard. And I’m going to have to make a recommendation on whether or not we need another regiment to reinforce us. His immediate impulse was to say, Yes, we need help, but it was too soon to make that call, and—in an
y case—it would be at least a month before help could arrive.
By then it might be far too late.
13
“We’re at a stalemate here, Lon,” Lieutenant Colonel Vel Osterman, CO of 2nd Battalion of the 7th, reported. “The New Spartans are dug in. We can’t break through their lines without taking unacceptable levels of casualties, and I’m not sure we could do it even if we weren’t worried about losses.”
“Have your men dig in as best they can until we get the situation sorted out, Vel,” Lon said. Less than an hour and a half had passed since the Dirigenters had landed. So much had happened so quickly that it seemed impossible. “I’m getting the same kind of reports from other units. For the moment, I’m more concerned with holding what we’ve got and keeping the New Spartans contained until we can bring our full force to bear.
“Our 4th Battalion and all the heavy weapons will be down in a few minutes. I’ll put the rocket batteries to work as soon as they’re out of the box, the long guns should join in about fifteen minutes later, and the tanks will head full tilt toward the enemy, along with our 4th Battalion. I just got off a link to Chancellor Berlino. He’s going to see if more of the Elysian Defense Force can move against the New Spartans, but that’s going to take time, probably several hours.”
“I hope we can shake something loose sooner than that,” Osterman said. “Anyway, so far the New Spartans haven’t shown any inclination to try to push us back. They’re in improved positions, dug in well. They’ve had three days to get ready for us. That’s part of the problem.”
“We get all our people down, it’ll be more their problem than ours,” Lon said. “They’re geared toward mobile operations, the same as we are. Static defensive positions rob them of a good part of their strength. As long as we’re on the outside with freedom of movement, the advantage is still ours.”