by Rick Shelley
“Looks like this valley’s been burned over in the past year or two,” Tebba said when he reported to Lon that his men were ready to move. “All new growth. A lot of fallen trees.”
“I noticed,” Lon replied. “Get a heading for the clearing where that pilot thinks the enemy shuttles are. We’ll take the most direct route that’s practical.”
“Already working. I’ve got a squad moving now. The rest of first platoon will follow as soon as the point squad is a hundred yards out. Main body after that, along with a squad on each flank. Fourth platoon will provide the flankers and rear guard.”
“Jerry and I will stay with the main body for now, Tebba,” Lon said. “Keep a few squads between us and you.”
Orders were passed by radio, but once the company was on the move, talk over the radio was kept to an absolute minimum, and limited to officers and noncoms, to cut down on the chances that the electronic emissions might be detected by the enemy. When possible, hand signals substituted. Every man in the company knew the routine signs.
The plan of attack, sketchy though it was, called for Alpha to be in position near the suspected enemy position before first light. That gave them a little more than three hours to cover seven miles…virtually none of it level. Lon did not expect time to be a problem. The terrain was not terribly severe, even with a hill to cross.
Lon fell into the routine of the march without conscious effort, keeping a watch on both flanks, keeping track of the man in front of him, listening for any hint of danger on either side of the column. He kept his rifle at the ready, safety off, selector switch set to automatic, but he kept his finger outside the trigger guard, so there would be no accidental discharge. Lon and Jeremy were in the center of the main body, between the company’s second and third platoons. Lon monitored the radio frequencies used by the officers and noncoms but did not interfere—did not violate sound discipline. When a call came in for him from headquarters, he kept his replies minimal, just a click of acknowledgment when possible. Charlie Company would be ready to move on short notice. Extra shuttles had been brought down from Long Snake to make it possible to bring the two companies at Long Glen in on little more notice. Colonel Crampton was ready to move six hundred men, almost as quickly as Charlie Company could be delivered to the scene.
After an hour, Tebba Girana called for a ten-minute break. The point squad took slightly less. While the company was stopped, the men mostly just sat or squatted where they were, taking a drink of water and a bite from an energy bar while they remained alert, watching either side.
When the point squad reached the ridge, there was another short stop, while the first dozen men up scanned the next valley with binoculars and infrared sensors, looking for any indication of an enemy presence. They concentrated on the area of the clearing but did not exclude the terrain around it, or the slope on the opposite side of the valley. That was nearly fifteen miles away, too far for the soldiers to expect to tell much.
There has to be something down there, Lon thought after hearing the negative report from the point squad’s sergeant. That pilot couldn’t have been completely wrong. Lon wasn’t certain if that was simply wishful thinking. He was uncertain whether enough time had passed for the thermal signature of well-shielded engines to cool off sufficiently to be invisible. He did not have the math in his head for the calculation, and since he didn’t know how much better the raiders’ stealth technology was than what the Corps possessed, he couldn’t have done the calculation anyway. But that could not stop him from puzzling over it from time to time.
As the main body neared the ridgeline, Tebba Girana stepped out of line and waited until Lon reached him. The two men lifted the faceplates of their helmets, switched off transmitters, and whispered.
“I think we ought to fan the point squad out, maybe add a second squad, give us a broader sweep moving in,” Tebba said. “That’ll give us a better chance to spot any snoops, boobytraps, or sentries, and maybe spot signs of people where there shouldn’t be any.”
“Go ahead,” Lon replied. “Maybe increase the separation between the point and the rest just a little?” He made it a question, willing to defer to Tebba’s technical judgment.
“A little, I think, not much. If they run into trouble, I want us to be close enough to reinforce them in a hurry.” Lon nodded.
“How close to the coordinates do we go?” Tebba asked. “We’ve still got a little time in hand. Should we go in to try to confirm the presence of those shuttles, or wait until reinforcements are in the air, ready to come in?”
“We stick with the plan I laid out before,” Lon replied. “I’m not going to bring everyone in until we know the enemy is here. We get confirmation first. When we get on the slope going down into the next valley, have your men keep their eyes open for any hint of caves as well. If those prisoners had it right, the enemy’s base could be under this ridge, not too damned far away.”
“Yeah,” Tebba said, and he hesitated a beat before he added, “I thought about that.”
“We’ll find a decent spot maybe halfway down the western slope and send one platoon ahead to scout out the coordinates that pilot provided,” Lon said. “Wait until we get word from them, one way or the other.”
“That’s going to put us three miles back, Lon. That platoon gets in trouble, we might not be able to get to them fast enough to make a difference.”
“Unless the raiders have a major ambush sitting in place waiting for us, we’ll have time. Just tell the platoon leader you send to back off at the first hint of trouble.”
“I’ll send Harley, with fourth platoon,” Tebba said after another hesitation. “Fourth used to be Wil Nace’s platoon. Right now, it might be the best one I’ve got for this job.”
• • •
I hope we’re not losing sleep for nothing, Lon thought as he waited for fourth platoon to complete its scouting mission. The rest of the company was in position just below the ridgeline, with half a company on the reverse slope, securing the rear. Lon had changed his mind after looking over the valley from the ridge, deciding that altitude would give more advantage than a few dozen extra yards to the west. No foxholes or trenches had been dug, but most of the men had improved their positions as best they could without a lot of effort and noise, moving rocks, scooping out shallow depressions in the rocky soil—whatever was possible and quick.
Fourth platoon had been out less than twenty minutes. There was no radio traffic from them, or within the platoon. Lon did not expect any, unless they ran into problems, and then he knew he might hear the trouble before Harley or Wil could report it.
It shouldn’t take more than another half hour, Lon decided, noting the time on his helmet’s head-up display. That’ll give them time to get right in the middle of the enemy, if they’re there. Earlier, it had been easy to think that the Shrike pilot couldn’t be mistaken, that there had to be something out of place in or near that clearing, but Lon was no longer so confident. Ghosts in the night. He shook his head. Some things never change. But some did. Cold, hard ground felt colder and harder, more uncomfortable than it had twenty years before, when he was young, when it was all new.
He wasn’t certain what brought Lon, Junior, to mind just then, but Lon could almost see him lying on the hillside in camouflage battledress, looking over the barrel of a rifle, waiting for some enemy to attack, fidgeting impatiently, anxious for the fight to start. Another image flashed quickly through his brain, sending a shiver of momentary terror down his spine. He was looking at his son in uniform head on, and could see a bullet hole through the center of Junior’s forehead.
Lon lifted his faceplate halfway and reached in and rubbed at his eyes, hard enough to bring spots of color to his vision, trying to banish the waking nightmare. The image was already gone, but it left a knotted lump in Lon’s stomach. Come on, Harley, find the enemy. Anything to end the thinking time.
Thirty minutes. Forty-five. Lon found it difficult to avoid staring at the timeline at the top of
his faceplate. He had an itch to call Harley to ask for a report, but he did not scratch. Harley would report when—if—there was anything to report. Calling would be an unnecessary distraction for Harley, a poor example, and a sure way to telegraph his own nervousness—never the best course for a commander.
Charlie Company boarded its shuttles in Lincoln. The men had their rocket packs. If needed, they could reach the site in less than ten minutes and jump in wherever Lon thought they might do the most good. If Alpha’s fourth platoon found the enemy shuttles or flushed an enemy force.
Lon scanned the valley floor with his binoculars. He checked his head-up display for the green blips that indicated the positions of Harley Stossberg and fourth platoon’s noncoms. They were very nearly to the location the Shrike pilot had given—where he thought the two enemy shuttles had gone to ground.
Any second now, Lon thought.
When the gunfire began, it still startled him.
21
Gunfire, then the first report from Harley: “We missed a sentry, dug in and camouflaged.” His voice showed the excitement of the moment, the adrenaline rush of sudden action, but he did not seem unduly flustered or emotional. “At least two or three more sentries. Enemy electronics going active—close, very close. It was like we just walked into range. I’ve got one man down, vital signs weak but still present.”
“What about the shuttles?” Tebba asked as soon as Harley paused in his report.
“No…Yes. There’s one. Two. I see them, Tebba. Under thermal camouflage rigging. Sandbags on the sides, about three feet high. And something beyond the shuttles. I can’t tell what that is yet, something fairly large.”
“Take the shuttles out before they turn their guns on you,” Lon said, breaking into the conversation he had simply been monitoring before. “Blow those suckers.”
Harley did not have time to acknowledge the order, let alone give orders before Lon saw first one and then a second rocket trail, bright streamers through gaps in the forest. There were two quick explosions.
“Good work, Harley,” Lon said. I like prompt results, he thought with a grin.
Then there was a third explosion, larger than the first two. A fireball erupted through the forest canopy and cast arcs of burning material up and out, scattering fiery blobs over more than an acre of ground. Lon heard a few exclamations of surprise, even a couple of curses, before Harley came back on to report.
“That third object. It was a fuel tank. We’ve got a damned inferno in here. The enemy has stopped shooting, for the moment, anyway. I still can’t tell how many we’re facing, but they’ve got to have more people close, and they’ll be all over us now.”
“Pull back, Harley,” Lon said. “You’ve done your job. Get that platoon out of the way as fast as you can. We’re set to provide covering fire if the raiders get their act together too soon.”
“On our way,” Harley said.
Ten seconds later, gunfire erupted again. Even at a distance, Lon could tell the difference between the raiders’ weapons and those the DMC used. The sounds were distinct, difficult to confuse.
“Tebba, that sounds like more than a few sentries,” Lon said, switching channels to talk just to Girana.
“It does,” Tebba said. “At least a platoon, maybe more. Should we move to reinforce fourth platoon?”
“Not yet,” Lon said after a short hesitation. “Let’s see what Harley needs. Just have your men ready to put covering fire in over their heads.”
“That blaze could make things difficult,” Tebba said. “Plays hell with the night-vision gear anywhere close to it. And that smoke is getting thick.”
At least a score of smaller blazes had started around the major fires, bright points topped by billowing smoke as trees and the new foliage of spring started to burn. Burning wood crackled. Some of those sounds were almost like gunshots.
“We’re pulling back in good order,” Harley reported nearly two minutes after his previous transmission. “I’ve got a couple of men with minor burns, still fit enough to move on their own and fight. I make the opposition at least equal to our own strength. We’re making headway, though. They’re wasting time moving around, trying to avoid being backlighted by the flames.”
“Get men out ahead of you on this side, Harley,” Tebba said. “If they’ve got men in caves somewhere under this ridge, they could be between us.”
“I hope there’s more eyes than we have watching for that, Tebba,” Harley said. “We’re a little busy just now.”
“Doing what we can, Harley.” Tebba switched channels again. “Lon, you going to bring in Charlie now? Even if no extra raiders show their heads, we’re going to have to give this area a close search and see what else is around.”
“They’ll be in the air in fifteen seconds, Tebba,” Lon said. He had just finished giving the order. “I’d like to have a better idea where to set them down before they get here. I’m not going to give drop coordinates until the last minute.”
More waiting. Lon played with the idea of sending another of Alpha’s platoons out, to try to flank the raiders who were chasing the platoon Harley was with, but he decided to wait. The three platoons on the ridge might not be compromised yet. The raiders might not have any idea that there were more soldiers that close. Keep the aces facedown as long as possible, Lon told himself. If they don’t know how many we are, we still don’t know how many they are either.
Lon spent several minutes talking with Vel Osterman in Lincoln. The engagement near Long Glen had joined again, with Bravo and Delta Companies moving back toward the mining village and the new raider force that had landed there. There had been several skirmishes, with the raiders hitting and moving, drawing the pursuit toward and then around the village. The Bancrofter militiamen were positioning themselves to keep the first raider force from doubling back. That entire operation was so fluid that it was difficult to be certain of much. The raiders were operating in small teams now, splitting apart, but still apparently working in concert, harassing, sniping.
As far as he could, Lon tried to put Long Glen out of his immediate thoughts. He had his own situation to concentrate on. Two shuttles carrying Charlie Company were in the air. Colonel Crampton reported that he had four companies of militia in shuttles ready to lift off as soon as Lon called for them.
The sky was beginning to show the approach of morning. Lon and the three platoons on the slope below the ridgeline were still in shadow, but that line behind them was more clearly etched now. Stars were fading from view. Sunrise was no more than twenty minutes away.
“Tebba, I’m going to bring Charlie down well on the other side of the fight,” Lon said, glancing into the eastern sky. “They’re going to be visible jumping in, so we’ve got to give them some space. We need to let them get down and organized before they get sucked into a firefight.”
“Where’s that Shrike that was stooging around?” Tebba asked.
“Just waiting for my go-ahead,” Lon said. “I want to make sure we’ve got clear separation between fourth platoon and the enemy before I have him come in—unless things get too hot for Harley.”
“He’s got more than a hundred yards’ separation between his people and the enemy now, Lon. Maybe one-twenty. It’s not going to get much wider than that.”
Lon switched channels. “Harley, link to the Shrike pilot. Lead him in for a strike on the raiders coming your way. Be careful. Give him the right coordinates.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not about to screw up and order my own ass shot off, Colonel,” Harley said. “Switching channels now.”
“Tebba, Charlie will drop right after the Shrike makes its second pass,” Lon said after he also switched channels. “I’m going to bring them in one mile due west of the explosions. And I’m going to have Colonel Crampton send two companies in the same place we landed.”
“If you bring them in right away, we won’t have time to get a detachment back there to secure the LZ,” Tebba said.
“No help fo
r that. I don’t want to weaken our position here. Any luck at all, there shouldn’t be any raiders behind us. I’ll tell Crampton we don’t have anyone there, to treat it as if the enemy might be waiting.”
The second raider force revealed itself as the Shrike made its attack on the first force. Two surface-to-air missiles streaked toward the Shrike, launched below and left—south—of the line Lon and the three platoons were holding high on the hillside. The first missile veered farther left, missing the Shrike by a wide margin, but the second caught it near the tail, blowing the tail control surfaces away. The Shrike spiraled into the ground, exploding on contact, no more than fifty yards from where the craft on the ground had been destroyed. The pilot never had a chance to eject.
Lon called Captain Kai. “Sefer, switch your drop zone. Half a mile west of the main fires instead of a full mile. We’ve got more bogeys on the ground, no count on them yet. I need your men sooner rather than later.”
“Half the distance,” Kai said. “I’ll pass that to the pilots now, Colonel.”
Charlie Company jumped from its shuttles less than two minutes later. The jumpers were not invisible. Thin tails of pale blue marked the exhausts on their rocket packs, and sunrise was close. There was some light. To cover the jump, Lon ordered the rest of Alpha Company to take the raiders near the base of the hill under fire, even though they did not have a good read on the exact position or number of the enemy there—only the spots from which the two missiles had been fired. Rifles and rocket-propelled grenades. The grenades offered more hope of hits than the rifles, though the range was extreme.
The enemy reacted quickly, turning to respond to the gunfire from near the ridge. After thirty seconds, Lon estimated that there might be a full company of raiders below—three hundred feet lower and twice that distance to the south-southeast, at the base of the line of hills.