by Rick Shelley
“Two of them are going to need trauma tubes as fast as we can get them. Hang on while I tell everyone to get down. Your son is leading a platoon to try to flank the ambushers.”
Lon used the delay to order one battery of self-propelled 225mm howitzers to drop a load on the New Spartan positions. “Take care with the coordinates,” he told the battery commander. “We’ve got men within fifty yards of them.” Junior’s okay. So far, he thought with relief—almost with too much relief, considering how many other men were also in harm’s way.
“Fire mission on its way,” Lon told Taiters when the captain came back on line. “I’ll get the medtechs and trauma tubes started your way while you finish off any of the enemy the artillery misses.”
“Will do, Colonel, and thanks.”
It was only marginally appropriate, but after he had sent the medtechs on their way, Lon dialed up his son’s platoon channel to listen in. He could hear gunfire more clearly over this channel—Junior apparently was much closer to the New Spartans than Captain Taiters—but there was no unnecessary chatter. The order to take cover had already been given. He heard the whistle of incoming artillery rounds and then the explosions. The first blast was isolated, but the rest overlapped each other so thoroughly that it was impossible to guess how many rounds had been fired.
When the barrage ended, there was only an instant of silence before the rifle fire resumed. Lon heard Junior say, “Come on. Let’s finish this before they pull their heads outta their asses.” Stifling a laugh was almost painful for Lon. He shook his head. Colorful, he thought, but at least he communicates effectively. For many young officers, that was the hardest skill to acquire.
Lon blinked several times and looked around. The march had not stopped, but Lon had allowed his vigilance to flag ever so slightly while he concentrated on the problems of his son’s company. He continued to listen as Junior’s platoon closed with the remnants of the New Spartan ambush, but he forced himself to pay more attention to his own surroundings. Briefly, he switched channels to tell all of his commanders about the ambush on the rear guard, and to urge greater vigilance in case there were other attacks along the flanks or against the point. Then he returned to monitoring his son’s channel.
“We’ve got them all, Captain,” Junior reported to Jaz Taiters. “Two of them still alive, but in extremely bad shape. I don’t know if either will last long enough to reach a tube.”
A few seconds later, Taiters called Lon to give the same report. “One of the company’s medtechs is already with them,” Taiters said. “He said there doesn’t seem to be much purpose in hurrying trauma tubes, that they’re not likely to make it.”
“I’m sending them anyway, Jaz,” Lon said. “We make the effort whenever possible.”
“Yes, sir, that’s what I told the medtech.”
“We’re setting up a temporary hospital near where I am now,” Lon said. The SMO, Major Norman, was handling the details, and positioning the two platoons of line soldiers who would provide security for the medical personnel and wounded—and move the temporary facility to new locations as that became necessary. It would not be left too far from the bulk of 7th Regiment. “Bring the casualties here. We’ll treat those we can and make arrangements to evacuate anyone hurt too badly to return to duty after a few hours in a tube. When we can.”
When we can might not be anytime soon. After Taiters acknowledged the message, Lon dropped out of the line of march and went to where Major Norman was setting up the field hospital.
“You’ve got four men coming in from Delta of the 1st, two in tubes,” Lon told him. “Maybe one or two New Spartans in tubes as well, if they survive until we get tubes to them.”
“I know about them,” Norman said, nodding. “You have any idea when we’ll be able to evacuate casualties?”
“Not a clue. The situation up top is … uncertain just now. The two fleets are dancing around trying to stay out of each other’s way. That keeps the New Spartans out of our way, but it limits what we can do. My hope right now is that we won’t have anyone hurt badly enough to need evacuation in a hurry, until … well, until things are a little clearer.”
“From the reports I’ve had from the medtechs on the scene, Delta’s wounded are all going to be able to return to duty after they do a few hours in the tubes. If the two New Spartans make it, they might both need additional treatment. If we get that far, stable and out of danger, perhaps we can arrange to transfer them back to their own people.” Norman hesitated just a beat before he added, “Since we’re dealing with professionals.”
“One step at a time,” Lon said. “The situation might not arise, from what I heard. The medtech on the scene doesn’t think they’ll last until we get trauma tubes to them.”
Norman shrugged. “If the fighting picks up, there might be others. I’d rather stabilize enemy casualties and get them off my hands than tie down resources we need for our own people.”
“Transfer any who are hurt too badly to be able to pick up a rifle and rejoin the fight after four hours in a trauma tube,” Lon said. “We don’t want to have to put the same people down twice.” He turned and walked away before the SMO could reply to that.
Sunset. It had been nearly fifteen hours since the initial landings. Lon had stopped the two battalions with him an hour before, after making contact with two companies of the Elysian defense force on the outskirts of University City. The nearest residential district started half a mile from the point of contact, past a thickly wooded strip of ground that sloped gently toward the Styx. The men had dug in, defending an oval area a mile long and about a third of a mile wide at the broadest section. On the south and southeast, there was a creek in front of the Dirigenter line. Electronic snoops and mines had been planted out beyond the perimeter, around the entire oval. Patrols, generally single-squad in strength, would start scouting around farther out once dusk gave way to dark.
Inside the perimeter, everyone had eaten. Once the defensive positions were prepared, Lon gave the word for each unit to go on half-and-half watches—50 percent on watch, the other 50 percent sleeping, or trying to. Lon was sitting in a trench that was covered by a camouflage tarp that also served as a thermal insulator—another layer of camouflage in the dark to defeat enemy infrared night-vision systems. He had loosened the closures on his boots but had not taken them off. He had eaten, mechanically, more because of training to eat whenever possible in the field than because he had been hungry.
The afternoon had ended up relatively calm. Neither side had been able to bring in fighters for effective missions against the enemy, because when one side launched fighters, so did the other, and they either fought plane-to-plane or had to take up defensive positions around their ships.
On the ground, most of the New Spartan forces continued trying to put distance between themselves and the Dirigenters. The rocket artillery that had been north of the landings, now estimated at half a battalion in strength, was moving farther north. They were very nearly out of range of any Dirigenters except the ones who were pursuing them on the ground. The other New Spartan rocket artillery, what remained of the batteries that had first taken 15th Regiment under fire—perhaps only a single battery of four or five launchers—had moved east with the New Spartan main force, which was now nearly fifteen miles away from Lon’s headquarters, still pursued by 15th Regiment.
The New Spartan infantry units that had been on the southeastern section of their initial encirclement of University City had moved almost to the River Styx before turning east, also withdrawing as rapidly as they could. The only enemy force that had not been able to pull away from the Elysian capital was now trapped in and around the aerospaceport. That was where Lon expected the only heavy fighting in the next few hours. Parker Watson’s battalion and two companies of Elysians, supported by 7th Regiment’s tanks and artillery, were going to attack at 2200 hours—ten o’clock that night—little more than an hour away.
Lon took his helmet off for the first time since b
efore boarding his shuttle on Golden Eagle more than sixteen hours earlier. His scalp itched; he scratched it, vigorously, with both hands. He rubbed at his face and eyes. I’ve got to find a little time for sleep myself he thought. He was tired, physically and mentally, which seemed to aggravate the minor aches that being on the move all day had brought. Sleep before my mind gets too fogged up to function. Stim patches would help, but there was a limit, and sometimes there were side effects.
I’ll wait until I know that we’ve got Berlino and the others back to their people, Lon decided, nodding to himself. As soon as the attack on the aerospaceport started, two companies from 1st Battalion would escort the Elysians who had traveled to Dirigent into the capital to hand them over to their own military for escort home. By that time we might even have a decision at the port. He did not doubt that the New Spartans there would be defeated, forced to surrender. The main question in his mind was how expensive it would be. How many of his own people would be killed? Combat economics was how the Corps referred to the subject, and it came complete with budgets and balance sheets—a macabre species of bookkeeping that disturbed many field commanders when they could put names and faces to the numbers on the spreadsheets.
Lon yawned, almost out of control. His eyes started to water. Maybe I’d better not wait, he told himself. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I need sleep.
“Teff,” Lon said, putting on his helmet to talk to his second-in-command. He waited for Ives to acknowledge, then said, “I’m going to try to get a nap in before you hit the port. I’ll have everything fed through to you until then. Give me a call when Parker is ready to move.”
A nap. Sleep. Get it while you can. That was one of the first tricks most soldiers learned about combat contracts. Lon lay back in his slit trench, using the webbing of his helmet as a pillow. Fifty minutes, even forty, and I can get through the night, he thought as he shifted around to get as comfortable as possible. The temperature was acceptable, and it wasn’t raining. There wasn’t much more an infantryman could ask for in the field. Lon closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing—long, slow breaths—while he tried to shut out everything else.
This time it even worked. He drifted into sleep—light and easily disturbed—within two minutes and didn’t come all the way out of it until forty minutes later when Tefford Ives called to tell him that 4th Battalion was staged to begin its assault on the aerospaceport and the New Spartans around it. “Two minutes,” Ives concluded.
Lon had come completely awake at the mention of his name on the radio. “Keep me posted, Teff. As soon as you get things going there, I’ll start our Elysians home. We’ll get them in before the New Spartans can even think about getting in the way.”
Next, Lon called Jaz Taiters, who was leading the two-company element of 1st Battalion that would escort the New Spartans on the last part of their journey home.
“We’re ready to move whenever you give the word, Colonel,” Taiters said. “We got everyone up forty-five minutes ago. Our guests seem anxious to get this over with.”
“Just make sure your point men keep their eyes open for mines or other booby traps, and snipers,” Lon said. “Other than that, you should have fairly clear sailing. Get our VIPs home safe, then check in with me. I don’t know yet if I’m going to bring you back here or not. We may want to use you to help seal the enemy in near the port.”
The first distant sounds of cannon fire rumbled in then. The tanks and howitzers had opened up on the New Spartan positions. In less than a minute the infantry would start moving forward as well, if the schedule held.
“Five minutes, Jaz,” Lon said. “I’ll get back to you.”
Lon spent those minutes listening to reports from Ives, Parker Watson, and CIC. Watchers on Peregrine had the best view of the barrage launched against the New Spartan positions. A number of buildings were either destroyed or severely damaged, including the port’s main terminal. It was suspected that the New Spartans had been using those buildings. Better to waste buildings than our people, Lon thought, shaking his head. Even if they are our hosts’ buildings.
“We’re on the move,” Parker Watson reported, right on schedule. “Only light enemy small-arms fire so far, except in one location on my left. The tanks are going to help there.” There was a pause, during which Lon heard what sounded like several rounds of tank fire hitting almost as one. “There, that should do it,” Watson said. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Lon watched the timeline on his helmet display, then called Captain Taiters. “Get moving, Jaz. The fight is joined at the port. Good luck.”
16
The sun can be your enemy. It lets unfriendly eyes see you, target you. Night is your friend. Embrace it as a vampire might. Revel in the darkness; use it. No matter how good the night-vision system your opponent uses, it won’t give him as good vision as daylight. That gives you an edge, a slight extra margin of safety in almost any operation on almost any world. The memory came from Lon’s days in recruit training just after he had arrived on Dirigent, before he had qualified as an officer cadet and been assigned to A-2-7. One of the drill instructors had shouted that message at his troops, virtually every day. Even now, Lon could almost hear the man’s voice, even though that DI had died twenty years before and a hundred light years away.
I never seem to think about the ones who retired or resigned, just the ones who died in battle, Lon thought. He tilted his helmet’s visor up to look around, sticking his head out beyond the cover of the camouflage tarp. The darkness was not quite complete. It was never total … aboveground. Here, heavy tree cover and a low cloud deck had combined to minimize unaided visibility, but the clouds were just moving in. To the east, just above the horizon, the sky was partially clear. A few stars and Elysium’s moon—which was almost as large as Earth’s—gave texture to the darkness, a backdrop against which trees moved in the breeze. Silhouettes danced against the blackness.
It’s going to rain before long, Lon told himself. He fancied he could feel the approach of precipitation on the breeze, confirming the forecast he had received from CIC earlier. A front was moving in from the northwest, with rain showers and occasional thunderstorms. CIC thought that the heaviest storms would most likely stay farther north, away from the main zone of operations. Only 2nd Battalion might experience any of those and, according to CIC, even that was not especially likely.
Lon pulled his visor back into place. Vision improved to about 80 percent what it would have been in broad daylight, the faintly greenish tint of objects too familiar to even be noticed; his brain trained to integrate the view from infrared sensors and available-light multipliers in the duplexed night-vision system. The fighting around University City’s main port had been going on for a bit more than an hour. The New Spartans were being forced into a smaller perimeter, compressed and pressed. They’re running out of places to hide, Lon thought, trying to reassure himself. They’ll have to surrender before much longer. None of their other forces are close enough to come to their aid … not in time.
Chancellor Berlino and his compatriots were only minutes from being reunited with their people. Then the two companies from 1st Battalion would be available. I’ll have to decide if I’m going to use them to reinforce 4th Battalion pretty soon. Turn them west to force the issue there or … Lon had several options. He could send those two companies east to help block the fragment of the enemy force that had gone south to the river before turning, try to keep them from rejoining the main New Spartan force. He could bring them back to rejoin their battalion. Or he could send them northeast, set up another line between the main New Spartan force and the Elysian capital.
The fewer pieces we split into, the better off we are, Lon reminded himself. Make sure we have tactical numerical superiority over any enemy force we engage. There’s no need to fragment ourselves. So I bring those companies to one or another of the segments we’ve got out now. Back under the cover of his tarp, Lon pulled out his mapboard and ope
ned it.
I need to start moving 7th east, east-northeast, he thought, adjusting the view until it included all known enemy positions as well as those of the Dirigenter troops. As soon as we know we’ve got this one batch of the enemy taken care of. Work at enveloping their main force with 15th on the right and us on the left, keep them from turning off in either direction. Maybe reinforce 2nd Battalion to put down the enemy rocket artillery running around north of here. There were two segments of 15th Regiment operating apart from each other. One shorthanded battalion was keeping pressure on the New Spartans moving east along the Styx. The rest of the regiment was following the main enemy force east, drifting gradually more to the north.
He looked up from the mapboard, trying to picture the movements in his head. If we can get rid of those rocket launchers, the rest should be just a matter of running the enemy down and forcing them to fight or surrender. He squeezed his eyes shut. The planning always seemed so simple—crisp, clean, uncomplicated. But no enemy could be counted on to fall in with those plans, no matter how elegant they seemed.
How far can they run? How far will they run? Lon shook his head, then opened his eyes to stare at the mapboard. He still had no hard count on the number of New Spartans on Elysium, but CIC’s best estimate was that Lon had them slightly outnumbered, maybe six-to-five, overall. Which will improve if we neutralize the one batch around the port, he reminded himself.
He didn’t think that the firefight around the port would continue very much longer. Soon, very soon, the New Spartans would have to realize that they were hemmed in, outnumbered too heavily—locally—to win that engagement. Then …
“Twenty enemy rockets vectoring toward our troops near the port!” There were no preliminaries to the report from CIC. The speaker followed by saying that the warning also had been broadcast directly to the Dirigenter units around the port and that coordinates for counterbattery fire had been fed to the rocket launchers and howitzers of 7th and 15th Regiments.