Return to Camerein

by Rick Shelley

  Then there was a series of grenade explosions right along the creek. The RPGs appeared to have come in from the west, over the dense jungle area on the far side of the stream. The explosions came along the entire line, but erratically because of the foliage and wood.

  Nace felt a burning sting across his back. From the corner of his eye he saw Curls Murphy jerk spasmodically. Nace turned his head for an instant. Murphy had rolled over onto his side and was reaching for a bloody wound on his left shoulder. Zol moved to help, working quickly to slap med-patches over both entry and exit wound.

  “He’ll be okay,” Zol reported. “What about you, Nace?”

  But Nace had already turned his attention back to the soldiers coming along the creek. They were moving faster now, up in a moderate crouch, hurrying. The series of grenade explosions had apparently been the signal they had been waiting for.

  “Mind your front, Zol,” Nace said. “Here they come.”

  Nace was watching a mark he had made, trying to judge when the first soldiers were approaching the nearer edge of the mine’s killing radius. Nace held his breath, then thumbed the remote trigger for the mine.

  Nace ducked instinctively at the sound of the explosion. Hanging from a vine the way it was, the mine might have thrown shrapnel almost to the team’s position. Nace had already forgotten about the pain across his back and the obvious fact that he had taken a piece of shrapnel from one of the Federation grenades—or a large sliver of wood hurled out by the blast.

  There was no way he could count the enemy soldiers hit by shrapnel from his mine. A half dozen might have gone down or, if his luck was running better than usual, maybe three times that many. He glanced at Murphy again.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’ll live,” Curls said through gritted teeth. “If they don’t dump another one of those down my blouse.”

  “Hang tough. The painkiller will work in a few seconds.”

  The strip across Nace’s back that had burned a moment before felt chilled now. He reached around to touch the one end of the cut that he could reach without difficulty. His battledress top and the field skin below it had both been sliced. Air was getting in against his own skin. His hand came away with blood across the fingers.

  Must not be too bad, he thought. That was all the time he could spare on his own well-being. The enemy was moving again.

  The Federation soldiers came on, moving again almost before the creek absorbed the last bits of debris from the mine blast. Those who found themselves near the front came on with rifles firing, automatic bursts that they spread along the Commonwealth line on the eastern bank of the stream. Moving three abreast, they came on as fast as they could through the water, an exaggerated but slow jog.

  Nace and his men met that advance with automatic fire. Even Curls was back in action, firing his needle gun single-handed. That weapon had little recoil and less travel than the assault rifles the others carried.

  The creek was a deadly alley for the Federation. Four automatic rifles could put an almost solid wall of munitions across it. But the enemy kept coming. Forty yards from Nace, enemy bodies came close to damming the stream. But other soldiers kept moving forward, and kept firing. Slowly, they narrowed the gap.

  “The next time you change magazines,” Nace told his men, “slip your bayonets on. And don’t take too much time about it.” He had no doubt that the fighting was going to get that close.

  • • •

  The Federation attack came in four main thrusts, from the corner where Nace Jeffries was around 135 degrees of the defensive arc. Occasional volleys of grenades came from the west, over the creek, but there was no follow-up assault from that direction. As the Federation skirmish lines moved closer to the Commonwealth perimeter, the grenade fire slowed, then stopped. It had not been overly effective, but had caused some casualties among the commandos.

  Near the southern limit of the attack, Will Cordamon had concentrated most of what remained of his platoon. Without the headquarters squad to augment his force, he had less than half the number of men the platoon had left Avon with. To the right, three men held down the remaining 45 degrees of the arc. If another enemy thrust came, or if the one in front of Will slid around, he would be hard-pressed to shift his men in time to meet them.

  “Make your shots count,” Will told his men. “Keep them off, but remember we don’t have any ammo in reserve.” They were already stripping their casualties of ammunition as quickly as the men fell.

  Will had lost track of how long the attack had been going on. It seemed hours, but couldn’t have been even as long as one hour. The enemy soldiers kept coming, one skirmish line after another, taking horrendous casualties in their frontal attack, but they inflicted enough losses on the defenders to matter, and they drew enough fire to seriously deplete the commandos’ ammunition stores. If the fight continued as one of attrition, the Commonwealth Marines had to lose. And it would not take all night.

  Although he had two magazines left for his rifle, Cordamon set that aside and drew his pistol, a compact needier. The enemy was close enough for that to be effective, and he might need the rifle’s greater range later, if there was a later. Will’s touch on the trigger was light, allowing him to use minimal bursts of needles. He used a two-handed grip and rested the pistol’s butt on the log that sheltered him, moving from target to target with cool deliberation, as ifthe targets were only silhouette cutouts on the practice range on Buckingham.

  When a bullet hit the side of his pistol and plunged into his thumb, Will felt burning pain and the snap of bone as the thumb was broken—shattered. His arm came up and back. The next bullet caught him in the right shoulder. Cordamon half turned as the shot brought him up. Two more bullets struck him, one in the right arm, the other burrowing into his side. He did not feel the last hit. He had already lost consciousness.

  Evan Fox was the man nearest to his platoon sergeant. He called for a medical orderly, then slid closer to Cordamon. Will was alive but bleeding badly. Fox used his last med-patches, and all that Cordamon had, to close the wounds.

  No medical orderly came. Evan looked around but could see no one coming. He used his radio again. The two medics left in the detachment were both busy with other serious casualties.

  “Bring him to the CP if you can,” Lieutenant Hopewell said. “I’m on my way out to take over there.”

  Fox stripped off Cordamon’s pack and web belt. The sergeant was smaller than Fox, but this was no time to be carrying extra baggage. Evan also dropped his own pack. He turned Cordamon over on his back. There was no question of picking the sergeant up and walking to the command post. Neither of them would have made it. All Evan could do was drag Cordamon along by the feet, an awkward, slow process.

  “Hang on, Sarge,” Evan said. “We’re not out of this yet.”

  Tony Hopewell ran almost doubled over, occasionally dropping to all fours where the cover was particularly thin. He had made one quick stop before heading out to 2nd Platoon’s end of the perimeter, to grab Prince George’s shotgun and cartridge vest. He had five rounds already loaded in the shotgun.

  “Might as well use what we’ve got,” he had told Mitch Naughton before leaving.

  “Close as those Feddies are, a shotgun’s as good as anything, even loaded with birdshot,” the lead sergeant had said. “Give them something to think about.”

  The closer they are, the more use it’ll be, Hopewell thought after he passed Fox and Cordamon. He stopped just long enough to make sure that Cordamon was still alive.

  When he got close to the line, Hopewell got down on his stomach and crawled into position where Will Cordamon had been, in the middle of what was left of 2nd Platoon. There were dead men on both sides of him. He did a quick check on the radio channel used by the platoon’s noncoms to find out how many men were left. With Evan Fox gone to take Cordamon to help, there were only seven men from the platoon left.

  “David, 2nd is down to less than a squad on the line,” Tony r
eported as he lined the shotgun up with his first target. “We need help, and we need it fast.”

  Everyone needs help, Spencer thought, and we’ve got no one to send. He glanced around. “I’ll try to get a couple of men up to you,” he said. He heard the distinctive sound of the shotgun going off. I’ll have to send—

  He never got a chance to finish the thought.

  “Why wasn’t I invited?” Prince George demanded, very loudly. “You know how I like to hunt.”

  He stood, as fluid and quick in movement as an athlete. It was so sudden and unexpected that for an instant none of the people around him reacted. Then, three men tackled the prince simultaneously. Vepper hit him low, behind the knees. Kaelich and Naughton hit him higher, near the waist.

  The four men landed in a heap. On top, Naughton felt a burning pain in his shoulder. The pain was familiar. He had felt it in other battles. He had been hit by a bullet. At the bottom of the pile, Prince George hardly noticed the pain of cartilage tearing around both knees. Holford’s arm andshoulder had been behind the joints when the other men dumped the prince on top of him.

  “I say!” George said. “What is the matter here?” As the others tried to free themselves, the prince neither helped nor hindered them. His body had gone limp, totally, even though his voice could not have shown more shock if the gang tackle had happened in the grand ballroom of St. James Palace.

  Spencer had started moving toward the group as soon as he saw the prince get to his feet. Swearing under his breath, David helped disentangle the group. He saw the blood on Naughton’s shoulder, but the lead sergeant was moving on his own.

  “What is the cause of this outrage?” the prince asked when everyone had finally been separated. Then, hardly pausing, he added, “Why do my knees hurt so dreadfully?” His voice went plaintive, almost childlike. “I don’t like to hurt.”

  Vepper bent over the prince and started fussing around the royal knees. “Nothing seems to be broken, sir,” he reported. “Something must have torn, muscle or cartilage.”

  “Will I be fine for the dance?”

  Vepper looked across the prince at Spencer. The two men shook their heads at each other.

  “You’ll be fine, sir,” Vepper said. “We’ll stick med-patches on and you’ll be right in no time at all. Just stay down for at least four hours. Give the patches time to work.”

  “Yes, Vepper, if I must. I mustn’t limp at the ball. Henry would be so disappointed.”

  “Nail him to the ground if you have to,” David said while he applied med-patches to Naughton’s shoulder. “I want someone sitting on him. If he moves, slap a sleep-patch on his neck.”

  “I’ll see to His Highness,” Vepper said. “I’ll stay right with him. In any case, he won’t be able to stand for a while.”

  “Good. Mitch, we need to pull a couple of men fromheadquarters squad and send them to 2nd Platoon. Tony says they’re down to seven men, and they need help right now.”

  “Captain?”

  Spencer turned. Shadda Lorenqui had crawled closer.

  “Give me a rifle and I’ll go. I might as well be of some use. Perhaps a few of the other men as well.”

  “You ever fire a military rifle?”

  “Perhaps not the model you lot have, but enough.” He thought of the pistol he had under his shirt, stuck into the waistband of his trousers. That might also do some good, but he hoped—most fervently—that the enemy would not get close enough for him to need that weapon.

  “I guess we don’t have much choice. Thank you. Will you check with the others, see how many will help?”

  After Shadda crawled off, David leaned closer to Naughton. “You stay here with the prince,” Spencer said, whispering over their private radio link. “I meant what I said about slapping a sleep-patch on his neck if he tries to get up again.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time we all get out to the lines, Cap?” Naughton asked. “We need every rifle we can get. Leave the prince to his flunky and the women.”

  “Not yet. The headquarters squad is the only reserve we’ve got. As long as there’s any hope, they stay here. With you. If things go completely bad, try to get out with the prince and as many of the others as you can. Remember our orders.”

  Spencer stayed where he was and looked around. A thought had come to him, and he needed to work through it before he said anything. It might already be time to try to get the civilians out, sneak across the creek and try to elude however many soldiers were covering that side. The rest of the detachment could provide cover for that, while there were still men and bullets.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. No, not yet. When he opened his eyes again, the second part of the decision came as well. But soon. We can’t wait much longer, or it will be too late.

  He tried the radio links for the fleet again. There was still no reply.

  I hope Alfie wasn’t right, David thought. I hope this isn’t the one we don’t come back from.

  26

  Mort Hardesty had spent the entire war assigned to HMS Sheffield, one of the Second Commonwealth’s largest battlecruisers. As captain of Sheffield, he had served under Admirals Stasys Truscott and Paul Greene. Now, Hardesty was in the flag quarters. Admiral Greene had moved ashore, and Mort had been promoted to Rear Admiral. He was in command of Sheffield’s battle group, which included the troop ship HMS Victoria, three frigates, and the supply ship HMS Thames. But Hardesty was not in overall command of the Camerein operation. Rear Admiral Regina Oswald, whose flag was aboard the battlecruiser HMS Kent, had three years’ time-in-grade over Mort. Even though the additional battle group, augmented by a third battlecruiser and four extra frigates, had been added to the operation literally at the last minute, command had to pass to the most senior officer.

  Between the 2nd Regiment of Royal Marines and the crews of the ships in the flotilla, the CSF was committing more total manpower to the campaign than the prewar population of the world they were attempting to liberate. Every officer in the fleet knew why so much was being put into the operation. It was only partly the possible presence of the king’s brother. More important was the fact that theloss of Camerein had marked the start of the war, and with a chance that hostilities might soon end, His Majesty’s Government wanted to redress that initial defeat first. No one in the fleet knew—or could have known—that a cease-fire had already been signed. The fleet was in Q-space, ready to complete its final jump to Camerein.

  For the Marines of 2nd Regiment, there was a more important, and more personal, reason for going to Camerein. Some of their mates were already on the ground there. No matter what else came of the mission, the 2nd Marine Commando Detachment needed them.

  There had been one last-minute change to the operational plan, made during a conference just before the task force entered Q-space for the final transit to Camerein.

  “If the commandos are still there, they might need a lot of help very fast,” Osgood had observed. “They were shorthanded after the initial troubles, and we must assume that the Feddies would be looking for them. Instead of deploying strictly against the population centers on the other continent, I want to hold one battalion ready to go in to rescue the commandos and the people they were sent to save, if we can make contact with them. We would have kept one battalion as a reserve anyway. This might give them something to do while they’re waiting.”

  Mort and Regina had already discussed the change privately. This conference, via holographic linkup, included Colonel Zacharia, the commander of 2nd Regiment, as well as the skippers of the various ships in the task force.

  “Mort, as soon as we enter Camerein’s near space, launch the rest of 2nd Regiment, except for the one battalion, then jump back to Q-space with Victoria and Sheffield to come out over the other hemisphere, ready to put in the last battalion and Spacehawks to cover them. We’ll use the fighters from the other battlecruisers to cover the main landing.” Osgood paused. “This assumes that we make contact with the commandos. We should know one way or the other
by the time we make our first landings, but even if wehaven’t made contact yet, we’ll hold the one battalion. If we don’t contact them, we’ll still have to land people to try to carry out their original mission.”

  The resulting discussion lasted only a couple of minutes as the skippers of Victoria and Sheffield sought to clear up the few details that needed clarification.

  “One other thing,” Osgood said. “Timetable. If we make the jump now, we can get into position two hours ahead of schedule. I do not intend to waste those two hours stooging around here when we might be doing some good there.”

  27

  There were more than enough rifles to equip the civilians who were willing and able to bear them. Shadda Lorenqui, Jeige McDonough, Henri Caffre, and two others collected rifles from the dead. They were each given a single magazine of cartridges. “Use them carefully,” they were told. “We’re all running short.” The civilian volunteers moved toward the sound of the shotgun. That was a better guide than the vague arm wave they had been started off with. “Find Lieutenant Hopewell. Off that way.”

  Following Shadda’s lead, the civilians ran in a low crouch. Shadda was bent over so far that he could almost touch the ground with his hands. He hadn’t gone far before he decided that even that was too much exposure, so he went down on hands and knees and crawled the rest of the distance. The others continued to follow his lead.

  Hopewell had been warned that they were coming. “Just find places and do what you can,” he told them. I hope you can hit something, he thought, but he was not optimistic. He would be satisfied if the extra firepower just made the enemy hesitate about rushing the position.

  Shadda was dismayed, but not surprised, to note that his hands trembled as he settled into a prone firing position. It had been years since he had fired a gun. A few times, backin the early years of isolation, he had accompanied the prince on a day’s hunt. That normally meant that he might get one or two shots. Prince George had always done most of the firing. It had been nearly two decades since Shadda had done any extensive shooting, though, especially at men—years and light-years away, a lifetime past.