by Rick Shelley
There were still eight minutes left on the thirty when Joe started moving 2nd platoon into their Heyers. He was the last man in, pulling the hatch shut after him. Lieutenant Keye was at the forward splat gun again.
“Everybody accounted for, sir,” Joe reported. “We’re ready to roll.”
They waited. It had gotten chilly during the night, so in the first minutes crowded in the Heyer, before it started moving, nobody complained about the crowding. The warmth was welcome. Accord battle dress was supposed to be designed to keep a man cool in the heat and warm in the cold. It did, but only within very narrow limits. Nature never seemed to hold to those limits.
Finally, the APC started moving forward, late. The earlier vehicles needed time to get started. The 13th would attempt to maintain strict intervals now, sacrificing a little speed to make sure that every unit was just where Colonel Stossen wanted it.
“Coulda slept another twenty minutes,” Wiz Mackey groused.
“Hurry up and wait. Same old bull.”
“Nobody’s keeping you awake,” Mort Jaiffer told him. “You’re still tired, sleep. And give us a rest.”
“Only way I’d sleep in this mixer was if you started givin’ one o’ your history lectures. That’d put us all out better’n sleep patches.”
Joe lowered his head and grinned. He had his visor down, so no one would have seen him smile anyway, but the movement was instinctive. The men were feeling better if they were up to bitching at one another. Let them enjoy it while it lasted. The ride would wear them out soon enough.
* * *
It was, according to the time line on Joe’s visor display, exactly thirty-eight minutes after the APC started rolling that it lurched to a sudden stop and the men inside heard the first explosions. The 13th had rolled into an ambush.
THE SURPRISE was complete. The five Wasps had taken off just as the 13th started to roll. They had moved high and away, scattering to do some reconnaissance work, looking for the current positions of the Schlinal units that were known to be heading for the 13th. From as far away as possible. The pilots’ eyes and instruments were focused away from the 13th. They weren’t concerned with a near ground search.
The two remaining recon platoons had rolled right past the ambush without challenge or warning. In their Heyers, the reccers hadn’t spotted possible trouble. Intelligence said that there were no Schlinal forces within two hundred kilometers except for the one unit that was chasing from dead behind. The 13th was racing east again. There was no time to stop and let reccers move through the terrain on foot ahead of the rest. Moving that slow, all of the Schlinal regiments the 13th knew about would have had more than enough time to catch them.
When the shooting started, the recon platoons were eight kilometers east of the fight.
George Company was the first unit of the 13th hit by the initial assault. It was the forward line company on the march this morning. A full salvo from a battalion of Novas hit among the fourteen Heyers that were carrying George. Three were hit. Two more were disabled by near misses that ripped treads. One was flipped on its side by another near miss.
In the initial confusion, the remaining Heyers of George Company scattered. Some simply stopped while their drivers shouted for orders. Others sped up, what little extra speed they could manage, while the rest veered to one side or the other, looking for cover.
Lieutenant Vic Vickers, George’s commander, was in one of the lead Heyers. His wasn’t damaged by the initial salvo. He had a flurry of calls from platoon leaders and noncoms, pleas for help and orders, reports of losses. After twenty seconds, he simply cut off the channels for his company while he tried to get information from Colonel Stossen.
Stossen was almost as busy as Vickers. The rest of the convoy was also coming under attack. The Novas switched their aim. They had stopped the point company. After that, their guns raked the convoy, each company of tanks targeting a different portion. Their fire was rapid but not overly accurate.
Closer in, there were rockets and RPGs hitting as well. The grenades could do little harm even to a Heyer, but the shoulder-operated rockets could bring down a Wasp or stop a Havoc. And the Heyers were less well armored than the howitzers.
* * *
The five Wasps were recalled at once. “Attack on the deck,” Zel told the others. He was flying again. There had been no choice. All that the medic had been able to do was give him a sedative–not even a sleep patch. There hadn’t been enough of the night left. If there had been a spare pilot along, Zel would have been grounded, but he either flew his plane or the plane would have to be abandoned. And Colonel Stossen had made the decision. “If he can fly at all, he flies. We need that Wasp in the air.”
Back in the cockpit, Zel no longer felt troubled. He was where he was most comfortable, doing what he had trained to do, busy enough to keep extraneous thoughts away.
The Wasps had been at ten thousand meters. Coming in, they spotted a number of flashes from the attacking Novas, loosely clustered in three different areas, all along the right flank of the 13th.
The Novas weren’t alone, though. As the Wasps dove in to attack them, surface-to-air rockets came up from the Novas’ infantry cover.
Launch and evade. Zel held his course steady for the extra seconds it took to get good target locks on two Novas. As soon as his missiles were on the way, he swerved hard right, then up, putting the throttles all of the way forward as he started his electronic countermeasures against the SAMs.
For an instant, he came close to blacking out as the gee-load hit him. His vision dimmed, and he felt himself sliding toward unconsciousness. Just before the load could become too much, he dragged back on the throttles, only enough to clear his vision.
He took a deep breath, hurried, while he tracked the SAMs on his heads-up display. One had already veered off, heading harmlessly to the south. The other had lost its lock but was close enough to regain it. Zel continued climbing, trying to maintain his margin on the missile. He dropped a decoy, then flipped left, twisting the Wasp around 90 degrees.
When he dove again, the SAM kept climbing, closing in on the decoy.
Zel turned his attention to the tanks again. Two of the Wasps from Red Flight were already into their second attack. Another flurry of rockets came up from the ground, toward those two planes.
Two more tanks lined up in Zel’s TA system. He locked them in, showed them to his next two rockets, and launched. One of the Red Flight Wasps, trying to escape a Schlinal rocket, twisted into the path of one of Zel’s missiles. Zel hit the projectile’s destruct button, but too late. It struck the Wasp, outboard, taking off the last drive nacelle.
The pilot managed to eject. The cockpit/escape module shot upward thirty meters before the parachute deployed.
* * *
As soon as the APCs stopped and men started to pour out of them, the 13th came under fire from rifles and splat guns as well. But the infantry could respond quickly. They didn’t need directives or fancy target acquisition systems.
“Hit it!” Joe shouted, slapping open the latch on the hatch. He jumped out, ran three steps, and dove to the ground. With more than 150 ground vehicles scattered around, there was little chance of being hit by rifle fire. Echo had been in the center column, just in front of the colonel’s headquarters detachment and the bulk of the support vehicles.
Most of the Heyers turned outward, so that both of the splat guns each carried could be brought to bear on the flanks. Lieutenant Keye was still at the forward gun in the Heyer that Joe had just jumped out of. The driver took over the turret gun, sending Olly Wytten out, the last of first squad to emerge from a vehicle.
“Get out a defensive perimeter” had been all the order necessary to put the eight line companies of the 13th into action. From that, company grade officers and their noncoms could figure out what to do.
Only the recon platoons and the rear guard had avoide
d coming under attack so far. The tail received a few tank shells, but there was apparently no Schlinal infantry that far west. The companies on either side of the formation consolidated the perimeter at that end and sent out heavy patrols to try to identify just where the Heggies were.
“Joe, you seen any fire coming in from the north?” First Sergeant Walker asked over his direct channel to Baerclau.
“Nothing. Are the Heggies all on the south?”
“That’s what we need to find out. Take your platoon north, toward the river, then east. Cover as much ground as you can. First platoon will be heading west.”
“You gonna keep the rest of the 13th from shooting at us?”
“Working on that now. Things are still a little balled up, but we’re trying to get to all of the other companies on the northern side.”
“We’ll be moving in thirty seconds,” Joe promised.
“Don’t go any farther north than two klicks,” Walker said. “We want you close enough to spot any Heggie mudders on that side.”
“Roger.”
Joe crawled closer to the Heyer while he called the platoon’s noncoms and gave them the orders. Then he leaned inside the APC and tugged at the driver’s leg. The driver pulled his head down out of the turret.
“We’ve got a patrol going out. Don’t shoot us,” Joe said.
“Just got the word,” the driver replied. “Don’t sweat it.”
That’s easy for you to say, Joe thought as he withdrew. Lieutenant Keye had turned to give Joe a thumbs-up gesture. He obviously knew about the patrol.
The platoon gathered by squad, sheltered behind two of the three APCs that had carried them. Even though there seemed to be no wire coming anywhere near them, all of the men stood hunched over, presenting the smallest targets possible. Joe took a few seconds to tell his squad leaders what he wanted, then sent first squad out on point.
Joe followed immediately behind with second squad. Third and fourth moved to the sides and started out almost even with second. The columns were eight meters apart. Within each column, the spacing between men was three meters.
Mort was out on point. He sought that duty more often than not, and both Ezra and Joe were happy to have him there. Mort was a good point man, cautious but not too slow. He did his job without bogging down a march. He concentrated totally on his surroundings, knowing what to look and listen for, any slight indication of booby trap or ambush.
Mort cranked the gain on his earphones to the maximum. With a little luck, and complete silence, he would be able to hear a man breathing softly ten meters away.
In the field, there was never any hint of the university man left in Mort. He stepped carefully, as softly as a cat on the prowl. In training, Mort had used the image of a cat to help him hone his skills. At the university, he had kept a pair of cats. They had been incredibly tame for felines, almost as easy to control as dogs. He could take them for walks, without leashes, and if they didn’t always stay right with him, they never wandered far and always came back quickly–even, on occasion, at a whistle. Those cats had liked the park, a mostly wild preserve that bounded the university grounds on three sides. Mort would sit with his back against a tree, sometimes meditating, other times simply daydreaming, or watching the cats. For the cats, a trip to the park meant a chance to hunt. At some point, a century before Mort’s birth, a pair of lab mice–of a strain brought from Earth by medical researchers–had escaped from the biochem labs. A hundred years later, the park was still infested with the descendants of that one pair of rodents. Numerous attempts to eradicate them had never been successful. The mice weren’t native, so they weren’t protected. They were fair game, and Mort’s cats had delighted in that game.
Even moving through trees and tall grass, Mort needed only fifteen minutes to cover the two kilometers. There was no sign of Heggies. The sounds of battle had receded. There was clearly no firing on this side of the 13th.
At the two-kilometer mark, Mort knelt next to a tree and waited. Joe and Ezra both came up to confer face-to-face with him.
“We turn east now,” Joe said, whispering. The three men had their visors up.
“How far?” Mort asked.
“Unless I hear different from the lieutenant or Izzy, until we make contact. We know there are Heggies out in front of the column.”
“You heard anything new?” Ezra asked. “Like how many of them there are?”
“Not much. The Wasps spotted several groups of tanks, all with infantry support. No way to count mudders from the air. Must be quite a few, though, enough to keep most of the far side of the Team under fire.”
“Where’d they come from?” Mort asked. “I thought we knew where they had pulled troops to chase us.”
“I guess everybody thought that,” Joe said. “That’s the way it goes. Let’s get moving again.”
* * *
Dr. Corey and her people were in the center of the 13th. With all of the trucks and APCs around them, they too were in little danger from enemy wire. But there were still occasional explosions to worry about, RPGs and rockets as well as the cannon fire of enemy Novas. The civilians, with help from the SI team and part of the headquarters security detachment, were busy digging in.
Gene Abru stayed close to Philippa Corey, as he had from the beginning. She was digging with great vigor, if little skill.
Quite a head on her shoulders, for a civilian, Gene thought. She hadn’t questioned his orders to get out and start digging. Most civilians seemed to think that any armored vehicle, even a Heyer, represented the ultimate in protection, instead of being merely a flimsy shell that drew heavy enemy munitions. Once, during the ride, she had even taken time to reinforce the orders that Colonel Stossen had given Abru.
“No matter what it takes, you can’t let us fall into enemy hands, and you can’t let them get the data cubes we’re carrying.” Holding his eyes with her own, she had repeated, “No matter what it takes.”
“Those are my orders, Doctor,” he had assured her, “and I always obey orders.” The latter was, to say the least, an exaggeration. In the field, an SI team leader had extraordinary discretion about formalities like orders. But this order he would obey without hesitation. If it came to that point, it would almost certainly be the last order he would ever have to obey.
* * *
“How many are there?” Stossen asked. This conference was over the radio. With the 13th under fire, the colonel wouldn’t cluster his staff together where a single shell or rocket could take them all out.
“Absolute minimum, call it two battalions of tanks, probably three, and at least one battalion of infantry, more likely an entire regiment,” Bal said. “Not any of the groups we knew about. Either the Heggies managed to sneak more troops away from the lines than the general knew about or these were reserves, close enough to get here without being noticed.”
“As far as we can tell, they’re all east and south of us,” Dezo said. “The patrols on the north have seen nothing, and the enemy infantry is just not getting in range of the rear guard, from the south.”
“Trying to encircle us?” Stossen asked.
“Doesn’t look as if they’re up to anything that coordinated yet,” Kenneck said. “Just trying to get us tied down until they get reinforcements. We stay in one place, we could be tied down permanently in another four hours.”
“So if we want to keep some distance, we have to deal with this batch, however many they are, in two hours or less,” Stossen said.
“Once we get a better idea what we’re facing, we’ll know what we can do,” Ingels said.
“We’d better be able to do whatever it takes to bust loose, and soon,” Stossen said.
“Takes more than that,” Parks said. “It won’t matter if we’re on the move again if we’ve got all those Novas chopping us up.”
“Our artillery is on them now,” Ingels said after
a hurried conference with the battery commanders. “The Wasps are finally getting them good targeting data. We’ve got patrols out, trying to circle around to give us good numbers on the infantry.”
“We can’t wait forever,” Stossen said. “As soon as the tanks are fully engaged by our Havocs, we’ll wade into them, infantry and Heyers. We’ll get some use out of the splat guns on the mixers, use the rest to give the men what protection they can.”
“East and south?” Parks asked.
“Right. The patrols that are out on foot now, tell them to keep at what they’re doing. We’ll pick them up as we can.”
* * *
Moving east, Echo’s 2nd platoon adjusted its formation, putting two point men out. Mort continued to hold the post for first squad. Twenty meters south, third squad had another man out front. He and Mort communicated directly. Behind them, the rest of their respective fire teams followed, and behind them, the rest of the platoon in a skirmish line.
Joe moved with Ezra’s fire team, in communication with both point men. They weren’t always visible. The platoon was in dense forest, a narrow band that paralleled the river but didn’t extend right to the bank. In the floodplain immediately adjacent to the river, there was only tall, reedy grass mixed with a few stunted trees. The band of larger trees, a mixture of evergreen and deciduous varieties, was between three and eight kilometers wide, giving way to more open prairie broken only by occasional stands of trees. The 13th had been rolling through that more open ground. In the trees, the vehicles would have been reduced to a crawl and it would have been impossible to keep any sort of coherent formation.