by Rick Shelley
“I’ll take care of this end of things, Lon,” Phip Steesen said on their private channel. Lon noted Phip’s position, by a blip on his head display, as thirty yards away, somewhat closer to the New Spartans. “You get out of the line of fire and worry about the other end.”
“Just don’t stick around too long. There are two companies back to handle this attack, so let them do it. Give me three minutes, then bring your people along. Let the rear guard do its job,” Lon repeated. I don’t want to lose you the way we lost Dean on Bancroft. There was no time for the pain of that memory to assert itself. There had been four of them originally, best friends as well as teammates, inseparable. Dean Ericks, Janno Belzer, and Phip Steesen had been the three musketeers of their platoon when Lon was assigned to their fire team. Lon had come under their collective wing, their D’Artagnan, a young officer cadet out to win his commission. Janno had quit the Corps and married. Lon and Phip saw him only infrequently these days, usually with his wife. Dean had died on contract.
Lon started moving again, his escort keeping pace even though they kept their attention more on what was behind than on where they were moving. Use the terrain for cover and concealment. Don’t follow a predictable pattern. Be as erratic as possible. Up and down. Side to side. The New Spartans were too occupied with the counterattack by the Dirigenter rear guard to pay much attention to a few dozen men at extreme range and moving farther away. Still, an occasional round did come close enough to hear—or to see it hit. Wood splintered from the trunk of a tree just before Lon passed it, a little above head high. Some of the splinters bounced off the faceplate and side of Lon’s helmet. He ducked instinctively, though it would have been too late had the wood been able to penetrate.
It was nearly ten minutes after the start of the attack on the rear before Lon was able to sink to the ground for more than a few seconds. The fight behind was dying away. He finally had time to turn his attention to the main battle again. There had been a few scattered reports before, but Lon needed to catch up … and quickly.
“At least we seem to have lost the enemy rocket artillery here, sir,” Sergeant Howell said. “Moved too much for them to keep track of us, I reckon.”
Lon took a moment to just listen. There was noise, including the explosions of heavy artillery, but none of it was nearby. “Maybe you’re right, Jerry, but keep your butt down, just the same. Humor me. Now give me a minute to find out what’s going on.”
At first Lon did no transmitting. He simply shifted from one command channel to the next, listening for reports from those closer to the fighting, more concerned with getting a “feel” for the action than with specifics. The New Spartan infantry south of the river was still moving across the Styx—more than two-thirds of the men were already on the north bank and moving toward the rest of the fight. The rocket artillery had not managed to stop the crossing or—from what Lon could gather—make it as costly for the enemy as he had hoped.
“Brief me,” Lon said on his link to CIC. While he moved, anxious to get away from the position he had—briefly—revealed through transmitting, he listened, gaining confirmation of what he had gathered from his eavesdropping. Ninety percent or more of the New Spartan infantry might make it across the river—more than five hundred men. The Dirigenter heavy-weapons battalions had had too few rockets left to seriously impact the crossing and the enemy artillery firing from south of the Styx. As a result, neither attempt had been particularly successful.
“Our best estimate right now, Colonel,” the duty officer in CIC reported, “is that you might not have much more than parity with the enemy on the ground, and that does not take into account casualties within the last quarter hour.” He went on to give numbers—estimates—for both sides, along with updated position reports. The picture was not overly optimistic, but neither was it as bad as Lon had feared it might be.
“I’m going to move the tanks in as close as we can,” Lon said. “Run them and the other heavy weapons until they don’t have any ammunition left, then pull the crews to fight on foot.” He closed out that conversation, then linked to Fal Jensen and the commanders of the heavy-weapons battalions and gave them the same orders. It’s a good thing we got the resupply finished, he thought. There had been no incidents, and only one supply rocket had been lost—due to a fault in its guidance system. Then it was time for Lon and the men around him to move again … before the New Spartans could target their new location.
This time, the move was not as frantic. Lon and the people with him were not under direct small-arms fire, nor under direct enemy observation. The rearguard action had ended, with the few surviving New Spartans retreating, pursued by a single company from 7th’s 1st Battalion. Not Junior’s company, Lon noted. He wasn’t certain whether he should feel relieved by that. No one was likely to escape danger for long this night.
It used to be so much easier, Lon thought, his eyes searching a wide arc of ground in front of him, back when I only had to worry about two platoons, or a single company. I knew everyone better, what they could do, what to expect. The price of that intimacy had been that he had been closer to the men under his command. Every loss was a personal one. This operation was too big, spread over too much ground, for one man to stay on top of everything that was happening every minute. By the time he could get a complete picture from his subordinate commanders, the situation had changed. And there were too many men for Lon to know them as well, to feel as close to them.
Lon stopped moving and went down to one knee. There had been a hint of movement ahead, and a squad was investigating. Before they had gone far, the movement came again. This time Lon saw that it was a large bird that looked something like an owl, getting away from the advancing humans. At least it’s not one of those big lizards, he thought. Then: How can anyone keep track of this many people and what’s happening to them?
This was no time for philosophical pursuits. Inwardly, Lon shook his head. He blinked several times. He did not want to use his radio and give the enemy a chance to pinpoint his location. He listened, scanning the frequencies his officers would use. Those who were already in direct contact with the enemy had little reason to maintain electronic silence. And CIC was maintaining a constant update on a channel that the regimental and battalion commanders and staff could audit.
Before long, 15th Regiment would have to divide its attention between the main enemy force and the group coming north from the Styx. Fal Jensen was aware of that. He had started to space his troops accordingly. One of his short battalions was moving to establish a line, and to space land mines and electronic snoops farther out to give warning of the enemy’s approach. The tanks of 15th’s heavy-weapons battalion also were moving in that direction, hoping to get close enough to strike at the New Spartan rocket artillery south of the river. Seventh Regiment’s tanks also were moving that way, farther back. They would be able to take the enemy infantry under fire before they could touch the artillery. It probably won’t do much good, Lon thought. Those rocket launchers can pull back until they’re out of range of the tanks and still be able to hit us up here. But he did not countermand the order. The effort had to be made.
At present, the main New Spartan force was being faced on three sides. If they wanted to, they could still retreat east, over the crest of the line of hills they were on now. If they’re going to try moving, they’re going to have to do it within the next half hour or so, Lon thought, taking a moment to glance at the display on his mapboard. They wait much longer than that and we’ll have them effectively surrounded, able to cover the remaining gap with small-arms fire from either side.
Lon shook his head. If they were going to retreat any farther, they’d have started before now, not waited until we were close enough to make it too costly. They’ve got to be counting on that extra-short battalion and the rocket artillery south of the river. And any other surprises they might have left, he added. There was still that possibility, that the New Spartans had not yet shown all their cards. Still more than two
full days before those new ships can get close enough to contribute anything. How do they expect to hold out on the ground that long? Do they even have enough rifle ammunition to hold us off if we keep pressing the attack?
“That might be the key,” Lon whispered. Unless they cached ammunition and chose that spot for their stand because of its location, they’ll run short on ammo before the new force can land. He tried to focus on that, looking for flaws in his reasoning. What were the chances they had cached ammunition along that ridge? After a moment, Lon conceded they were pretty good. The New Spartans had not been driven to the site. They had picked it. In addition to the tactical advantages of the location, knowing they were sitting on a stock of extra ammunition might be a major bonus.
Just means we’ll have to press that much harder, Lon thought. We started action tonight with all the ammunition we could carry for our rifles and grenade launchers, and if we have to, we can get another resupply drop in before the new enemy fleet gets close enough to interfere. He was glad that there had been no indication that the New Spartans had the capacity to resupply men on the ground by rocket. We might find out soon enough if the intelligence on that is right, he decided.
“Lon, this is Fal Jensen. I’ve got an idea you’re going to think is totally insane, but hear me out.”
“Go ahead, Fal,” Lon said, getting up and signaling his detachment to get ready to move.
“The enemy rocket artillery isn’t going to let our tanks sit north of the Styx and shell them. They can pull south, out of our reach, and keep on clobbering us. Why not send our tanks—from both regiments—across the river? The info I have is that the ford is shallow enough and has a firm enough bed to let them cross safely. Even if we can’t destroy the rocket launchers, we can drive them out of range of our people up here.”
“What about the time it takes them to cross the river?” Lon asked. “They’ll be sitting ducks if the New Spartans are watching, and they probably will be.”
“Three minutes, maybe four for the crossing,” Jensen said. “They blow across at best speed and get out of the open before the New Spartans have time to target them and get rockets to the river.”
Lon hesitated, for perhaps as long as thirty seconds. He closed his eyes. It would be a terrible gamble, but … “Set it up, Fal. We’ll give it a try. Maybe it’s just crazy enough to work. But keep me informed. If it goes bad, we may have to pull them back in a hurry.” If there’s time, he thought.
21
It was 0100 hours. The battle for what Lon had started to think of as “Spartan Ridge” had been going on for three hours. The New Spartans had been in position long enough to dig in. The Dirigenters had to scoop out what defensive positions they could under fire. At least the ground was wet enough to make that relatively easy, but not so muddy as to make the resulting trenches swampy. The earlier showers had, mostly, stopped. A few minutes of drizzle, now and then, were all that was left from the cold front that had crossed the area.
The shooting had progressed by fits and starts as the Dirigenters probed for weak spots in the enemy line. The battle had never been general, all along the New Spartan perimeter simultaneously. There were also occasional skirmishes away from that perimeter, patrol meeting patrol. And the New Spartans coming up from the river were met, ambushed, and stopped short of rendezvous with their main force on the ridge. Part of 15th Regiment was involved with that, and the EDF troops had been diverted to help. The radio reports Lon heard suggested that the Elysians were doing their best to exact revenge for the New Spartan invasion.
The New Spartan rocket artillery was no longer firing so heavily at the Dirigenters. They had used so many missiles in the early stages of the fight that they had to be running short of ammunition again. Just before 0100 hours, the Dirigenter tanks had crossed the Styx. Two of those tanks, near the end of the lines, had been hit by rockets. The wreckage stood in the river, still smoking. No one from the crews had made it out—six men dead. But the rest of the tanks were now on the south shore of the Styx, racing toward the New Spartan rocket artillery … which was moving farther away from the engagement, just what Lon and Fal Jensen had hoped. Soon, if everything went well, the New Spartan rocket launchers would be too far away to continue striking Dirigenter infantry at all. Lon tried not to think of the cost to the tank companies.
Half of Lon’s 2nd Battalion had moved across the ridgeline and were sliding into position behind the New Spartans, forcing them to worry about their entire perimeter and not just the western and southwestern sections of it. Fal Jensen was attempting to edge a company and a half of his 3rd Battalion around the southern flank.
“If we can box them in, we’ve about got the issue settled,” Jensen said when he and Lon conferred—just before the tanks crossed the Styx. “Pop ’em from all sides until their lines start leaking, then close in and finish ’em off.”
“I hope it’s that simple,” Lon said. But I still can’t make myself believe it will be.
It was now 0125 hours. The fighting heated up on the reverse slope of the ridge, east, as the New Spartans moved to keep from being surrounded. A full battalion of them came out and turned north, to face the stronger of the two Dirigenter elements trying to close the noose around them. Ten minutes later, a second battalion wheeled toward the south, engaging six platoons from 15th Regiment on that end. The rest of the New Spartans started moving uphill, to the ridge, to secondary positions that apparently also had been prepared in advance.
“Are they just taking new positions, or ready to try a breakout?” Lon asked. “I need information, fast.” He was on a channel that connected him to CIC, Fal Jensen, and each of the battalion commanders. He left that channel open for replies, but switched to another channel to connect to Phip Steesen.
“We’re moving in closer,” Lon said. “Saddle ’em up and let’s go.” As soon as Phip acknowledged, Lon went back to the other channel. “I’m moving my CP closer to the ridge, between 7th’s 1st and 3rd Battalions. If the New Spartans are trying to get away, I’ve got to be near enough to react.” This time he did not wait for acknowledgments. His security detachment was up and ready to move, spread around their commander. Lon used hand signals to indicate the direction.
There was already a noticeable slope to the ground, climbing toward the east. The land rose at a gentle angle, no more than ten degrees. The tree cover started to get sparser, and within a few minutes Lon started to see the damage that the fighting had caused—trees felled or shattered by artillery; trunks scarred by bullets; a few small, smoldering fires and the ashes of others. The trees and grass were too wet to burn easily.
He also saw bodies on the ground, Dirigenters who had fought their last fight. Lon counted eight, within not too great a space. All were lying on their backs, with indications that each had been checked by one of the medtechs. Lon gritted his teeth and tried not to think how many more dead there already were, how many more might fall before the fight came to an end.
Ten minutes on the move: Lon and his security detachment stopped, taking what cover they could. The sounds of fighting were noticeably closer in the east, but the battle still was a thousand yards away. Lon asked for news, any indication that the New Spartans had tipped their hand: Were they taking new positions or trying to escape? There still was no answer.
What’s it going to take to get them to quit? Lon asked himself as he got up and started moving east again. How can we convince them they can’t hold out until their reinforcements land? The New Spartans were mercenaries, professionals. Surely they wouldn’t make a futile “last stand.” That was bad for business, worse than accepting an inevitable defeat and rebuilding, living to fight another day, on some other world.
We would never push it that far, Lon thought, though units of the Corps had in the past—at least on one regrettable contract. An entire regiment had been wiped out on a world known as Wellman, and the second regiment sent in also had been defeated. He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant as he knelt next to a tr
ee. If we can’t finish this batch off, at least seriously degrade their strength before the new fleet reaches attack orbit, we may have to concede defeat ourselves. That thought hurt, but Lon would not let his command be totally wiped out if there was no chance of success—or hope of holding out until another regiment and more ships could arrive from Diligent. And that would take another four weeks, absolute minimum.
Lon took a deep breath. Come up with something brilliant so you don’t have to worry about that, he told himself. Find a way to end this in the next forty hours. That would give him half a day to get ready for the incoming fleet. Convince the New Spartans to surrender. Lon snorted softly and shook his head. Brilliant ideas seem to be in short supply. And the New Spartans aren’t making any major mistakes.
A call from Vel Osterman took him out of his thoughts. “I’m on the north flank,” Osterman said. “Near the ridge, with a clear view down into the area the New Spartans were originally defending. I think they’re pulling out completely, probably aiming to withdraw to the next ridgeline, five miles farther east. They’re showing good discipline, an orderly move, covering their asses. Once they get clear of this ridge—in maybe ten minutes—the entire western slope will be wide open.”
“Except for whatever mines and booby traps they’re leaving behind,” Lon said. “And maybe the occasional patrol or sniper.”
“That’s why I called, Lon,” Osterman said. “I haven’t seen any preparations of that sort, and I’m in good position to. It might be nothing more than creeping paranoia on my part, but I think they want us to chase them straight over the hill, that maybe they’ve got more than the usual presents waiting for us, something they set up before we got here.”
“You mean some kind of trap,” Lon said.