Colonel

by Rick Shelley

  “Critically short, or just saving it for when the situation gets critical?” Lon asked, noting the change in Jensen’s tone. He sounded optimistic now, not worried that disaster was only moments away. He was growing into his command.

  “That’s the point, of course,” Jensen said. “No way to be certain. I’ve got two eager young officers—one who’s been a captain less than a year, and a lieutenant commanding half his company because the shuttle carrying the rest was blown apart before landing, with their captain and the other lieutenant—who think we can overrun the five hundred New Spartans they’re facing without too much trouble. I’ve told them to continue as they have been, keeping our exposure to a minimum.”

  “And they want to charge right in and finish it off?”

  “Isn’t that the way it always is?” Fal said, almost a hint of humor in his voice. “If I could be anywhere near certain that their estimate of the situation is right, it might work. Both men are good officers, but—”

  “Are you asking me to make the call?” Lon asked.

  “You’re the boss,” Jensen said. “I’ve told them, for now, to keep pressuring the enemy without doing anything, ah, foolish. No empty heroics. Personally, I think it’s a little soon to try to finish that batch. They haven’t taken all that many casualties since they crossed the river and we diverted the tanks to handle their rocket launchers. There could be five hundred New Spartans left there, and I’ve hardly got that many men around them. It is, as I said, your call, if you want to overrule me.”

  “Who’s your battalion commander on the scene?”

  “Captain Jim Binnes is acting CO. Marty Turin and his entire staff were lost coming in.”

  “Binnes the captain urging a full-scale assault?” Lon asked.

  “No. Binnes just passed the request to me without comment. Jim is adequate for the job for now, but ….” Jensen snorted. “If I had someone else I could move into the job ….” He didn’t need to finish that statement.

  “I think you’ve made the right call, Fal. We’ll play it your way, at least for the next couple of hours. Put as much pressure on them as we can without forcing a last-stand brawl. We go in before those New Spartans are ready to call it quits, and it could come down to bayonets. Keep a watch on the situation and let me know if you see enough to want to go ahead.”

  “Right. My estimate right now is that another two or three hours of constant pressure might be enough, but I’ll keep an eye on things there, as best I can.”

  Two or three hours. The phrase kept running through Lon’s head as he hiked east. If we could spring a couple of Shrikes loose, we could turn the situation over faster, he thought. But if we could spring Shrikes for close air support, everything would go a lot easier. We could finish the business on the ground in no time at all. But bringing Shrikes in would draw the New Spartan Javelins as well, or put the ships at hazard.

  If it comes down to it, we’ll have to take the risk, Lon decided. Soon enough to give us time to recuperate before the new fleet gets in range. Can we do it a little sooner, take out the smaller enemy force, then go right into the main force? He kept walking east as he turned the question over in his head. A captain temporarily thrust into command of a battalion in combat might be excused for indecision, after a time. A colonel commanding a regiment—two regiments—would not. I’m the contract officer. I’m the one who has to make the final call, Lon reminded himself. I’ve got to make a decision … and it had better be the right decision.

  Another fifty paces forward, with his security squad ranging in front and to either side, weapons at the ready. Lon continued to listen to the continuous updates from CIC, interrupted only when he received a report from someone on the ground. There were no surprises in any of the messages. The situation was moving—slowly, but in the right direction.

  Just not fast enough, Lon thought. This all gets down to timing. Hit at the right time, providing we can hold the New Spartans in place long enough. Timing. Lon kept walking. I’d like to have the situation on the ground resolved within twenty-four hours, soon enough to give us plenty of time to rest up for the new people coming in.

  Time to rest. We need to rest our people before the big fight, if we can. And we’d better find a way. Tired soldiers became casualties more easily. They made stupid mistakes. They quit caring enough to be careful. When things got bad enough, a bullet seemed a small enough price for the luxury of four hours of rest—even in a trauma tube. If we can lock the enemy’s main force in place, by sunset or so, then move everyone into place and take a few hours for sleep. Hit the New Spartans maybe an hour or an hour and a half before dawn. And bring in a few Shrikes to help, despite the risk.

  Lon felt as if he had shed half the gear he was carrying. Tentatively, at least, he had made his decision, even if he was not ready to start issuing the orders. Now, if we can just force the New Spartans to halt so we can implement it, we’ll be all set, he thought.

  24

  Morning. Daylight. Unlike the day before, this one looked to be only partly cloudy. The weather front had pushed through, leaving only scattered high clouds behind. There was a moderate breeze coming out of the northwest, holding the temperature down somewhat. The local forecast out of University City was for a high in the mid-eighties, Fahrenheit. The temperature that night might dip into the fifties, away from the city.

  At dawn, the New Spartan fleet bearing in on Elysium was still fifty-three hours out from a standard attack orbit. A sword of Damocles, Lon thought after receiving the latest update from CIC, except we know when this sword is going to fall.

  By the middle of the morning, Lon was beginning to feel confident that his men would be able to force the New Spartans already on Elysium into battle before dawn the next morning. If we can do that on our terms, I think the odds will favor us, at least a little, and we can force the issue before their reinforcements get in, he told himself. Even if we only have parity in manpower, we should have the edge in ammunition. After that, we trust that our men are better trained and that our officers are better leaders. Including me. He felt a tiny shiver of doubt. In the end, it might come down to which side had the better commander.

  Lon started slowing the pace of 1st and 3rd Battalions just a little, allowing ten minutes for the men to rest after each hour on the move, instead of five. “Half an hour for lunch about noon,” he informed the battalion commanders at eleven o’clock. “We don’t need to push so hard here. It’s the units on the flanks that need to hurry to surround the enemy.”

  Fifteen minutes before noon, the smaller band of New Spartans tried to break through the ring of Dirigenters, aiming to cut the siege on a direct line to their main force. The units of 15th Regiment that had boxed the enemy had been watching for the maneuver—some of the men had been hoping for it—and they met the enemy spearhead with a volley of rocket-propelled grenades and automatic rifle fire. The New Spartans kept coming, and the fighting in the northeastern quadrant of the sector quickly became hand-to-hand. The engagement lasted more than an hour, and casualties were high on both sides.

  Lon extended the lunch break for the two battalions with him, listening to reports from the battle to his south, wondering whether he might have to send a company from 3rd Battalion to reinforce Lieutenant Colonel Jensen’s men. Then that fight ended, suddenly, not ten minutes after Lon had given the order for 1st and 3rd to resume their movement east.

  “They surrendered,” Fal Jensen reported, sounding almost ecstatic. “I don’t have a firm count yet, but it looks as if we’ve got nearly three hundred prisoners. It’s going to take a time to get things sorted out, but we can put everything to taking on the main enemy force when we catch them up.”

  “Good job, Fal, and pass that on to the officers and men involved,” Lon said. “Get the wounded cared for, ours and the New Spartans’.” He did not have to specify that Dirigenters came first, and had first call on trauma tubes. “Strip the New Spartans of weapons, ammunition, helmets, and any other electronics. Des
troy the helmets and other electronics and do the best you can to make the weapons inoperable. Dig a pit and burn the ammunition. Just in case we have to face the reinforcements they’ve got coming in and lose our prisoners, I don’t want to leave anything for them to use against us.”

  The electronics were incompatible with DMC systems. In other circumstances, Lon might have ordered the weapons and ammunition held as a reserve for his own men—he had done that before—but here, he decided that the greater danger was that the enemy might recapture the munitions, not that his people might run short of ammunition. Having workable resupply rockets erased any worry Lon might have had about running short.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Fal said. “It’s going to take most of the men I’ve got down there to treat the wounded, get rid of the enemy’s gear, and guard the prisoners, unless we can turn the prisoners over to the Elysians. You want I should do that?”

  “Not yet,” Lon said after a very brief hesitation. “Maybe we don’t have to worry about the Elysians mistreating prisoners, but they want to be in on the final fight, and all the soldiers they have available are moving around in front of the New Spartan main force.” He had never quite forgotten about the companies from the Elysian Defense Force moving in on the southern flank, but they had not been at the front of his mind until Jensen mentioned them.

  “I’d feel less nervous with us pushing the final attack and the Elysians away from the action,” Jensen said. “We don’t know how good they are, and we can’t be sure what they’ll do.”

  “I know the arguments, Fal, but this is their world, and they’re our paymasters on this contract. They are good. We’ll just have to keep an eye open. For now, just keep me informed on the progress your people make.” Lon got to his feet and started following the two line battalions again, and his security squad moved as if they were physically linked to him.

  “Hey, what’s the big hurry?”

  Lon stopped and turned at the sound of Phip Steesen’s voice. Phip was hurrying toward him. Lon’s eyes were immediately drawn to the sling Phip’s left arm was in, the arm strapped tightly to his body. Phip also seemed to be limping a little, favoring his left leg. He carried his rifle in his right hand.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Lon asked when Phip finally reached him. “I know damned well Doc Norman didn’t release you for duty with that arm strapped up like that. Why aren’t you back at the field hospital, where you belong?”

  “They got enough work without me hanging around. Never mind my arm. I can do my job, much as anyone ever lets me do it anymore. Nothing wrong with my mouth, or my brain,” Phip said. “I’m not about to sit on my ass and let you do everything. And if it comes to it, I can shoot better one-handed than half these kids can with both. Any way you slice it, I can do you more good here than there. Besides, I’ve had my rest, more than I need.”

  Lon stared at Phip, clenching his teeth against the impulse to order his friend back to the field hospital. “Just what did the medtechs tell you?” he asked finally. “How much recovery time do that shoulder and arm need? Straight out.”

  “Only minor nerve damage—pinched, not severed. I’ve got a little tingling in the fingers. The bone is pretty well repaired—eighty percent, anyway. Another eight to ten hours and I’ll be fully functional. And the big fight won’t come before then, will it? I’ve been listening in on as much as I could the last hour or so, since they pulled me out of the tube.”

  “The big fight won’t come before then if things go the way I hope they will,” Lon said. He did not question how Phip had managed to replace his damaged helmet electronics. There had undoubtedly been casualties whose helmets had survived. “There’s a chance the New Spartans will force the issue before then, though. They might be better off if they do.”

  “That smaller force waited until it was too late to try to break out,” Phip said. “Any reason to think that the main force will play it any smarter?”

  “They can see what happened playing it that way,” Lon replied. “That might be enough to make their commander decide to try something different. I would if the tables were turned.”

  Phip snorted. “If the tables had been turned, you’d have attacked soon as it got dark last night, anything to keep the enemy from playing it his way. Maybe charged in right after blowing that stupid hill down on top of them.”

  Lon shook his head. “I don’t know what I’d have done if I had the other hand in this. I don’t even want to guess. Whatever seemed to offer the best chance of holding out until help arrived, I expect. Right now, running looks to offer more hope for the New Spartans than sitting still, or turning and attacking us.”

  “How seriously you figure they take their name?” Phip asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I got to thinking about that fight the old Spartans had, back on Earth, that one we talked about.”

  “Thermopylae?”

  “Yeah, three hundred men standing off an army of umpteen thousands, fighting to the last man.”

  “I don’t think we have to worry about that,” Lon said. “The New Spartans are mercenaries, not maniacs. No professional is going to accept a contract that requires a last stand.” Lon shook his head. “There’s no future in it.” Phip’s groan at the pun made Lon feel better—about both of them.

  Lon kept Phip close through the afternoon, and made certain that Jeremy Howell and the members of his security detachment knew to look after the lead sergeant, no matter how much he tried to discourage the attention. As much as he could without being obvious about it, Lon kept a close eye on Phip as well, noting that the limp disappeared within a half hour even though they were hiking across rough ground. Not long after that, Lon noticed Phip flexing the fingers of his left hand, repeatedly making a fist, testing the arm as far as the sling and straps would allow. Phip kept the faceplate of his helmet down, so Lon could not see if he was in any discomfort.

  It was after 1430 hours when Lon finally got a count on the number of New Spartans who had been captured by 15th Regiment. Three hundred twenty had been taken, seventy-three of them wounded. Jensen’s men also had counted eighty-three enemy bodies at the site of their last firefight and the attempted breakout. Twenty-four Dirigenters had died in the fight, and there were forty wounded men, about a third needing time in trauma tubes.

  A few minutes later the two companies from the EDF opened fire on the main New Spartan force, tying them down for twenty minutes before withdrawing to better positions—now right in front of the enemy, due east of their lead companies. The New Spartans made a few attempts to find a way out to the northeast, but 2nd of the 7th was in the way there.

  “I think we’ve finally got them cornered,” Lon told Phip when a report from Vel Osterman said that the New Spartans were setting up a defensive perimeter and digging in. “They don’t have anywhere to go but through us now.”

  “If they realize that, they’re liable to try it before we get everyone in place,” Phip replied. “Right after sunset at the latest, I’d guess.”

  “If they wait until sunset, it’ll be too late,” Lon said, glancing at the sky. “Four hours from now we’ll have all our people in place, a tight ring around them.”

  “But that gives them four hours to rest, while we’re still humping around,” Phip said, “I’m okay. I had all that rest in the tube, but most of our men haven’t had the luxury. They’ve started to drag their butts along the ground.”

  I know, Lon thought. “We’ll keep the New Spartans’ minds occupied, enough to keep them from getting much rest, at least. I’m going to try to give our people most of the night to try for some sleep, plan on going in about ninety minutes before sunrise if the New Spartans don’t do something sooner.” Go in with everything we can muster. Maybe it’s not smart to put everything on one roll of the dice, but we don’t have many choices if we want to hope to avoid facing them and all the reinforcements coming toward us.

  The New Spartans had no real advantage in the terrain
they had been forced to defend. They were on a gradual slope, the ground rising to the east, not to another ridge but just into rolling prairie with waist-high grass and scattered stands of trees and brush, and the Dirigenters and Elysians were above them as well as below—but never by much. There was more soil and less stone away from the hills, though, which meant that the New Spartans were able to dig in easily.

  “It’s going to be a bloody mess on both sides,” Phip said as he and Lon surveyed the enemy positions before sunset, passing powered binoculars back and forth between them. Lon had set up his command post a little more than two miles from the nearest point on the enemy line, on the slope leading down from the last line of hills, near the edge of a thick copse of trees that draped like weeping willows on Earth. The CP was a little higher than the New Spartans, dug in and camouflaged as well as the men of the regimental headquarters staff could manage. A few trees had been felled. Slit trenches and foxholes had been dug, with the dirt piled in front of them. Nearly all of the Dirigenter and Elysian troops were in position, surrounding the enemy, and Lon had already put his people on half-and-half watches, to allow everyone to get some sleep before the battle. Hopefully.

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Lon said, sighing softly. “Dark will make it a little easier, but not enough to suit me.” He glanced at the sky. “Too bad we don’t have the low cloud cover and rain any longer. That would have gotten rid of the starlight and moonlight.”

  “I hope we can do most of the job before we have to get close enough for those needle guns of theirs to be effective,” Phip said. “Someone brought a captured needle gun and its ammo by the hospital before I left. Those slivers of metal are heavier than you’d believe possible. Must be depleted uranium.” He shook his head. “It’d be better yet if we could hang way back and just use our beamers to thin ’em out. We’ve got more energy weapons than they do, I think. Or more power packs for the beamer rifles we do have. I’ve been checking around. We haven’t lost anyone to a beamer in almost twenty-four hours.”