by Rick Shelley
“Medics’ve been workin’ on ’em right along, sir. You know that.”
“I know.” Ingels turned through a complete circle, looking around. “I want to move away from here as soon as possible, Izzy. We’ve been here too long now.”
“Aye, sir. Looks like we’re about ready.”
“Form them up. The recon platoons will cover our withdrawal, then follow on as quickly as they can.”
* * *
Eustace Ponks helped Rosey Bianco work at repairing Basset two. The damage was surprisingly minor for the force of the explosion–for a crew of mechanics working in a fully equipped shop with the proper tools and parts–but it was quite a job for field conditions at night, with the possibility of enemy interference at any minute.
More than the fender had been crumpled. The drive wheel’s mounting had been bent, and there was also damage to some of the linkage for two of the sleepers–wheels that were merely there to keep the tread in place, not to drive it. The tread itself was damaged; three sections had to be replaced. Every Havoc carried a stock of extra tread links though. That was almost routine maintenance. Before they could repair the damaged drive wheel mounting, a short axle connected to the drive shaft for the starboard engine, that corner of the gun carriage had to be jacked off of the ground, and even with the power hoist built into the support van, it was hard work.
While Eustace, Rosey, and one of Rosey’s mechanics worked on the carriage, the rest of both crews were out in a thin defensive perimeter, watching for the approach of any enemy soldiers. No more had been found in a sweep of the area, but there were indications that there had been several more.
“You were born lucky, Gunny,” Rosey said after they got the damaged sprocket wheel dismounted. “The shaft isn’t completely wasted. Just a little heavier hit, and we’d have had to leave the Havoc and haul you boys back to be foot soldiers.”
“Talk later, work now,” Ponks growled. “I want to get rolling again as soon as possible.”
“I can talk and work at the same time,” Bianco shot back. “Not like some gun jockeys I could name. We’ve got an hour, maybe an hour and a half of work left here. If we’ve got to pull that axle to straighten it, we’re here the rest of the night, and then some.”
“Not on your life. Come daylight, we’ve got to be under better cover than we got here.”
“Maybe.”
LIEUTENANT KEYE walked away from Porter City with the first squad of his platoon. Joe stayed relatively close to the lieutenant–or rather, the lieutenant stayed close to Joe, using what breath he had to spare to brief Joe on what he expected from him as platoon sergeant. Joe had yet to turn his squad over to Ezra. Continuity was more important–or so Joe told himself.
He had no doubt that he could function as platoon sergeant while still concentrating on “his” squad.
It’s not really so much different, he thought. The lieutenant and Max had usually stayed fairly close to Joe’s squad. First squad was, after all, first squad. A platoon was not all that large to start with, only thirty men, including the platoon leader and platoon sergeant, when the unit was at full strength. And 2nd platoon was far from full strength now. After less than a week on Porter, the platoon was down to twenty-four men, and two of those had been evacuated for medical treatment, leaving only twenty-two present for duty. First squad was the only one of the four in the platoon that was not missing at least one man, killed or evacuated.
Joe tried not to think about that.
“How much time you think we’ve got till the Heggies hit us, Lieutenant?” Joe asked an hour after the strike force had withdrawn from the barracks compound. Echo and George companies were marching hard. The men needed little urging. There was no talk of taking a break. That would come only when the men had to sit down or fall down. Everyone knew how much force the enemy might bring to bear on them.
Keye looked around. The two men talked over a private frequency, but Keye still looked toward Joe before he answered.
“I wouldn’t count on another thirty seconds, Joe,” he said. “I’m surprised they haven’t hit us already. We’d have been sitting ducks in that compound, lit by the fires. We wouldn’t have been able to see a thing.”
Most of the men in both companies were carrying two rifles now, their own and a captured Schlinal rifle. The Schlinal weapon was a half kilogram heavier than the Armanoc, and the spools of wire were also each thirty grams heavier. The only men who were not carrying a spare weapon were the wounded, and the men carrying the litters with the most seriously hurt of their comrades. Others were carrying spare rifles for the stretcher-bearers.
“Probably not infantry, not at first,” Joe said, almost an aside to himself. “Tanks or fighters, most like.”
“Most like,” Keye agreed. “I’d guess fighters. The country we’re headed into is too rough for tanks to be much use.”
They walked in silence for several minutes. At least Keye did not talk to Joe. The lieutenant seemed to be engaged in another conversation, but Joe could not hear what or who he might be talking to. He guessed, correctly, that Keye was talking to Captain Ingels. Joe looked around to make sure that the platoon was where it was supposed to be, the men minding their intervals, and keeping their eyes on the terrain around them. Echo Company was in charge of security. George Company was tending the prisoners.
“Joe?” Keye said when he had finished his conversation with the captain.
“Sir?”
“There’s a low ridge about three klicks in front of the point now. An outlying ridge on the facing side of a horseshoe-shaped hill, higher ground just behind it.”
“I remember seeing it on the mapboard,” Joe admitted. The valley bounded by that hill had looked amazingly like an outdoor arena.
“Change of plans,” Keye said. “George is turning the prisoners loose now, sending them back toward the city, without boots–or much else, the way I understand it. We’re going to take up positions along that ridge. If the Heggies send infantry after us, we’ll be in the best possible Iocation to meet them. There’s no easy way for the Heggies to get behind us, and we’ll have clear kill zones in front. If they send tanks or aircraft, we’re also in relatively good condition. Give the recon teams a chance to catch up with us.”
“Just dig in and take whatever they throw at us?” Joe asked.
“That keeps us close enough to the city that they’ve got to worry about us, tie down at least part of the garrison in case we might make another raid. So we set up shop and wait. With luck, just until sunset tomorrow. Or soon after.”
“Recall?’’
“No word on that,” Keye said. “But the captain wants to get us in defensive positions as soon as possible so we can arrange pickup for the wounded. Try to, anyway. Apparently, there’s a flat spot on the high ground behind the ridge we’re aiming for, room enough for a shuttle to get in and out. After that, we can always move if we have to.”
If we’re not pinned down, Joe thought, but he kept quiet about that. He felt uncomfortable second-guessing the captain, but they would be little more than ten kilometers from the destroyed barracks compound on that ridge.
“Be good to get some rest,” he said instead.
“I heard that,” Keye said.
After a short pause, Joe said, “I’m going to miss Max, Lieutenant.”
“You and me both, Joe. You and me both.”
“He was a good friend,” Joe said more softly.
By the time the two companies reached the ridge above the horseshoe-shaped valley, they had been marching without a break for more than two and a half hours, pushing themselves hard over rough terrain.
There was a thin stream, just a trickle of water in some places, caught between the outlying ridge and the grade behind it The central part of the draw was U-shaped and flat, with some grass but more small rocks covering it. At the far end, there was only a n
arrow entrance. Any enemy approaching the ridge would have to come into the U, with guns on three sides of them. The ground on the reverse side of those outlying spurs was too rugged for any sort of coordinated, massed attack on foot. The climb would be slow, and the Heggies who would have to make it would be excellent targets for marksmen on the high ground above them.
Joe was impressed. It was an excellent defensive position–almost a textbook example. If they had searched an entire world for a place to stand off infantry attacks by a much larger force than their own, they could hardly hope to find a location better suited. Joe saw that as soon as the platoon was in position, near the light flank, close to the “bottom” of the U. There was solid rock in front of them and behind them. There were notches and irregularities in the rock along the ridge, excellent touches for an infantryman worried about cover. The hollow behind the ridge consisted of bare rock along the top of the outer ridge, with pockets of soil and a few thin patches of grass in the lower reaches, flanking the thin stream at the bottom of the notch. The only real danger in the position would be from mortar rounds dropped into the hollow, funneling shrapnel up on either side.
But, Joe thought, it would be difficult for Schlinal forces to get close enough for that. He looked over the edge of the rock at the long valley, and nodded to himself.
“It is a good spot, Lieutenant,” he told Keye. “Long as they really can’t get in behind us, above us.”
“That would be hairy,” Keye agreed, “But there aren’t any handy access routes, except for this one, and we’re sitting across that. From the map shots I looked at, there’s no way they can get tanks within two kilometers of us except straight up the valley. They’d have to land shuttles to get men behind us easily, or quickly, and the captain is sending two thirds of the Vrerchs we have left up to the top of the hill to make that difficult.”
“There’s something else we need to talk about, Lieutenant,” Joe said after looking around him. “Goff.” Kam was twenty meters away, and they were talking over their private radio channel. Still, Joe led the lieutenant farther away.
“A problem?” Keye asked.
“A serious one, I’m afraid. Goff tries, none harder, and he’s got all the skills, but . . .” Joe shook his head. “He sees a little blood and he spends the next half hour puking, past when he’s got nothing left to come up. He’s just not cutting it, Lieutenant, and he knows it. Combat is eating the hell out of him.”
“We can’t do much about that now,” Keye pointed out.
“I know that, sir, but as soon as possible, we need to get him away from combat, ’fore he eats his carbine, or does something else really stupid. He can’t take much more. Like I said, he tries, but the way he gets, I’m surprised he’s lasted this long. He wants to do the job, but I’ve had to keep him damn near in my armpit just to make sure he didn’t fall apart.”
“You think the skull jockeys can straighten him out for us?”
Joe hesitated, then shook his head again. “No, sir, I don’t think he’ll ever make it in a combat unit. Maybe they can fix his head so it doesn’t eat at him that he failed. But for this, he could be the best I’ve got.”
“But the way he is, he’s a danger to himself and the men around him–that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“Yes, sir. That’s what I’m saying. I’ve done everything I know how to, but it doesn’t get any better. In fact, he seems to be getting worse every time. I don’t think he can handle much more.” Joe repeated that final thought consciously, knowing that the lieutenant would realize just how desperate he thought Goff’s condition was.
“Keep somebody with him at all times. As far as possible. I’ll talk to the captain when I get a chance. I don’t know about evacuating him with the wounded though. That might make it even harder for him.”
“Yes, sir, it might.” Or he might fall apart on us completely the next time there’s a little gunfire, Joe thought. He kept that notion to himself. He would watch over Goff personally, as he had been.
“What’s the watch schedule, sir?” Joe asked then. “Alternate fire teams?”
Keye nodded. “Until something happens. You’d better bed down with the first shift. You’re looking a little ragged.”
Joe didn’t bother to argue.
* * *
Eight Schlinal Boem fighters came out of the north, an hour before dawn. Moving at low speed and medium altitude, they were not spotted until their target acquisition systems locked on to the first Wasps and Havocs.
A depleted Blue flight was flying air cap over the Accord foothold on the plateau when the attack came. Only four Wasps were left of the six that Blue flight had brought down into Porter’s atmosphere. Two planes and one pilot had been lost in a week of fighting. After being in the air an average of sixteen hours out of every twenty-four, all of the remaining Wasps of the 13th’s squadron needed extended periods of maintenance. There had been no catastrophic failures yet, but nearly every pilot had reported that warning lights were coming on during some maneuvers. But until the campaign ended, the ground crews could do nothing but make patchwork repairs, just enough to keep the Wasps flying for another day . . . or another hour.
Zel Paitcher and Slee Reston were flying a loose figure-eight pattern along the northern half of the Accord’s hold on Porter when the attack came. Moving in opposite directions, the two Wasps were able to keep watch over more area at one time. Zel and Slee, like all of the remaining pilots in the air wing, were also in need of extended periods of time on the ground to catch up on sleep and get their minds fresh again, but like their Wasps, the flyers would have to wait until the campaign ended for that.
All eight enemy fighters came directly at Slee and Zel, at full acceleration, and the first enemy missiles were launched almost instantly once the Boem target acquisition systems locked on. Only two Boems fired at the pair of Wasps. The Schlinal pilots might be aggressive this time out, but they were not wasteful of rockets. Both Blue three and four were targeted, Zel from ahead, Slee from behind. At the angle of approach, Zel was able to get his own lock on the missile headed for Slee, blowing it apart with his cannons. That blast radiated enough heat to draw the other missile off course. While Slee turned toward the oncoming Boem fighters, Zel went through the full menu of countermeasures to keep the other weapon from regaining its lock.
Then he too moved toward the enemy flight.
The remaining two Wasps of Blue flight were forty kilometers away–more than a minute and a half at their best speed. In air combat, ninety seconds is an eternity.
“Get in the middle of the Boems,” Slee told Zel. “That way, they can’t get too fancy without endangering their own planes.”
“Right behind you,” Zel said. He had already switched his weapons selector to rockets, ready to loose a spread at the first targets his system locked on to. Then he would switch back to cannons. Designed primarily for ground cover missions, the 25mm guns were not particularly well suited for air-to-air combat, but in these close circumstances, there was Iittle choice. The guns did have the virtue of putting concentrated amounts of firepower into a very limited area. Even reinforced plane armor could be damaged by that sort of assault, especially at extremely close range.
The eight Schlinal fighters broke into separate pairs, giving way before the counterattack of the two Wasps. Antigrav aircraft–and, like the Wasp, the Boem was an antigravity drive fighter–were the ultimate in mobility. A skilled pilot could move his fighter around in three dimensions with an ease that would astound anyone who had not done it for himself. By reversing the directional push of the antigravdrive, the Wasp pilot could also reverse his direction quickly, or change altitude with equal acceleration, even flip the fighter end for end or turn it upside down much faster than any plane that depended on traditional notions of aerodynamics for lift. The limiting factor was the gee-load that the pilot could stand. Slamming a Wasp into a full reversal of it
s gravity field could press a pilot against his restraining straps with enough force to dislocate bones. Or worse.
The challenge was to learn to outwit the opposing pilot, to guess which way he would go before he knew himself.
As this uneven battle was joined, Zel lost sight of Slee for seconds at a time. The heads-up display on his canopy provided a constant reference, but there was too much going on for Zel to always have actual eyeball contact with Slee’s Wasp. In the middle of the flight of Boems, each of them worked to reduce the odds. Zel and Slee did have one very slight advantage to partially offset the numbers. They had more targets, and only one friendly craft to avoid. But their ammunition was Iimited.
“Going to have to break this off soon,” Slee managed to say about forty-five seconds after the fight had been fully joined. “I just shot off my Iast rockets, and I don’t have more than another twenty seconds on my guns.”
“Ditto that,” Zel said just as he fired his last pair of rockets. Between them, they had managed to bring down three of the eight enemy fighters, but it was getting more difficult to maneuver. The Schlinal pilots were learning to cope with their tactics.
“Let’s lead them toward the others,” Slee said, turning his Wasp even before he finished speaking
Lead them without getting far enough ahead to rnake a missile shot tempting, Zel thought. That would be a monumental task, edging south, drawing the Boems along without giving them a clear shot.
“Our best bet, I guess,” Zel conceded. His target acquisition system locked on to another Boem. The Schlinal pilot jerked sideways, flipping his Boem upside down and dropping five hundred meters to evade a rocket that Zel no longer had to fire. And he was far beyond the effective range of the cannons in his Wasp.
Neither Zel nor Slee was expecting help before the other two Wasps of Blue flight could arrive. They were nearly as startled as the Schlinal pilots when three planes of Red flight appeared on the scene, still climbing, attacking the Boems from below. With the numbers momentarily even (even though Zel and Slee were virtually out of ammunition), the Schlinal attack grew more disjointed. Two of the Heggie pilots decided to grab as much altitude as they could, retreating straight up, then turning back toward the north.