The Buchanan Campaign

by Rick Shelley

  David Spencer divided his attention between his own front and keeping track of the fight on the far side of the firebase. The men on the ridge had to be careful of fire from both sides.

  “Lieutenant, I think we can help if we turn one man from every fire team on the ridge around to get a better angle on the Feddies,” David said over the command channel. ‘ ‘They can always turn back around if we get action on this side.”

  “Do it,” Ewing said.

  Team by team, the best marksmen with slug throwers on the ridge turned their fire against the Federation assault on the far side. The range was impossible for needlers, and extreme for the beamers. The attack faltered. The Federation soldiers improved their positions and tried to meet the new fire as best they could. Behind them, their support troops also redirected much of their fire.

  A second assault was launched against the southern end of the ridge, obviously to take pressure off the exposed Federation troops on the northeast corner. This assault started with another flurry of grenades.

  Soldiers moved in behind the explosions. This attack was in greater strength than the first.

  “They’ve got to try to take the ridge,” Ewing told Ian and the prince. They were in the trench that had been dug across the downhill side of the command bunker. “As long as we hold the high ground, they’re just sausage meat going into the grinder.”

  “Is there anything we could do that we’re not doing now?” Ian asked.

  “Not unless the Spacehawks come back,” Ewing said.

  “Not before nightfall, and that’s an eternity and a half from now.”

  “Maybe we should have left Spencer’s lot out in the forest,” Prince William said. “I wish I’d thought of that when it might have done some good.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Ewing said. “And I’m the one who should have thought of it. Or Spencer himself. I can see me missing something like that. I’m surprised that he did. Or my own lead sergeant.”

  “No use wasting time on couldhaves,” Ian said.

  The attacks on the opposite corners slowed. The Federation forces quit trying to advance. But there was no sign of any retreat; that might prove too costly. The soldiers stayed where they were, improving their positions in the small ways that meant so much for survival, sliding a little to one side or another to put trees between them and their enemy, grubbing at the dirt to get closer to the ground, changing their angle. Survival could often be measured in small fractions of an inch.

  The respite was only relative, and another advance started within minutes, moving against the other end of the weak eastern side of the Commonwealth firebase.

  “They’ve got far more soldiers than we thought,” Ewing told Ian.

  “Somehow, they’ve managed to gather a lot of the men who were stranded here,” Prince William said. “I wonder if that means they have communications channels we can’t detect.”

  “That’s something to worry about later,” Ewing said. “If we have a later. Commander Shrikes, you’d best get on to Sheffield. See if there’s anything they can do for us.”

  “I’ve been trying,” Ian replied. “They must be in Qspace again. I haven’t been getting any response.”

  44

  “They’re coming in low and fast,” Alonzo Rinaldi reported. “They’re learning. There’s no room for us to get between them and atmosphere.”

  Truscott nodded and opened a link to Captain Hardesty. ‘ ‘Tell your fighters to scramble for cover.

  Sheffield and Repulse will jump in thirty seconds, coming out side by side. Our destination is five hundred yards in front of the lead dreadnought, slightly above and heading straight for it. We pass over the nose and zip out as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hardesty said.

  Truscott relayed the order to Repulse. The alarm for Qspace insertion was already sounding on Sheffield.

  “We really need to do something about those damn horns,” Truscott said. “We really don’t need the blasted things any more.” No one answered. The gray of Qspace closed off the view on the exterior monitors.

  We can’t keep at this much longer, Truscott thought. Unless we get help from Buckingham… But that was too depressing to continue with. It was time and past for Khyber to have returned, at the very least. Long John should have sent some word, the admiral told himself.

  The crews of Sheffield and Repulse handled the drill as if they’d been doing it for years. The ships came out of Qspace and immediately opened fire on the Federation ships. Missile launchers, particle beamers, and lasers flooded the lead dreadnought with more incoming traffic than it could handle. The command module exploded, showering both Commonwealth ships with debris.

  A siren sounded on Sheffield.

  “A chuck of that Feddie pierced the hull, forward and low,” Gabby Bierce reported. “The crew inside that compartment were able to get out.”

  Truscott nodded, closing his eyes briefly. For small favors… he started, then stopped.

  ” Repulse reports damage to her forward particle beam battery,” Gabby reported. “No casualties, but the gun’s scrap.”

  “How are we on time?” Truscott asked.

  “Another forty seven seconds,” Rinaldi replied.

  “Make to both ships, ‘Sheer off,’ ” Truscott ordered. “Put our stems to them. We’ve scored another dreadnought. Let’s not get greedy just now.”

  “Aye, sir.” Rinaldi relayed the orders and Sheffield immediately started firing attitude rockets.

  “The Feddies jumped to Qspace,” Rinaldi said. Truscott was staring at the monitor. He had seen the ships disappear. All but the one. The dreadnought that had been hit was drifting without power.

  “Tell both captains to put everything they can into finishing that ship off. Delay the jump to Qspace. By a full minute if necessary.”

  It wasn’t. Two more main modules of the dreadnought were breached, destroyed, and the ship’s spine was broken.

  “It’s going atmospheric, sir,” Rinaldi reported within seconds of the last hit. “They’ll never be able to keep her up.”

  “Can you project an impact area?” Truscott asked.

  “Navigation says far side of Buchanan, almost certainly in deep ocean.”

  Truscott nodded and started to turn his chair away.

  “Admiral,” Gabby said. ” Repulse’s skipper.” A holographic image of Captain Murphy appeared in front of Truscott.

  “We’re not going to be able to jump on schedule, sir,” Murphy reported. “Our Nilssens have gone down, something in the control circuitry. Repair’s going to take at least an hour.”

  “We’ll cover you as long as possible,” Truscott promised. “But if thing’s get too hot, you’ll be on your own while we jump out and back.”

  “I understand, sir.” Murphy’s image blinked out.

  Truscott gave Sheffield’s captain new orders. This time, the admiral did manage to get his chair turned away from the main consoles.

  “Now we’re for it,” he whispered.

  The wooden barricades along the eastern side of the firebase were on fire. The Marines had been forced to retreat from the flames with heavy casualties. Once the men got out of their foxholes, most of them at least partially under the felled tree trunks, they made easy targets, even though the fires gave off thick smoke. Up on the ridge, half of the men were turned around to give them covering fire, but it wasn’t enough. Two platoons of Marines, sixty men, had manned the eastern side. No more than twenty reached cover during the retreat. They stumbled into foxholes along the low hills to north and south. A few made it to the trench by the command bunker. Most fell in the open center of the firebase.

  Federation troops advanced all along the eastern front, while enough remained on the other sides to keep at least some of the Marines occupied.

  Alfie reached for another clip of grenades, but there were none left. All he had left was his needle rifle.

  He had thousands of rounds for that.

  “
Save the needier for this side, Alfie,” Spencer told him.

  “They’re too far away over there. Don’t waste ammo.”

  Doug had finally found a comfortable position. He was facing east, leaning against the lower side of his foxhole. There were targets he could see… and every time he saw a target, he shot at it. He scored a fair percentage of hits, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. The Federation soldiers kept coming.

  When his magazine went empty, Doug slid back down into his hole, surprised at how far he had edged up. Lucky some sod didn’t slice me up, he thought as he reloaded. I guess I do need a minder. But when he started shooting again, he edged out a little farther with each threeshot burst, his exposure becoming almost too dangerous before he caught himself and slid back.

  Prince William Albert Windsor, Duke of Haven, Privy Councilor, picked his targets as carefully as if he were on a weekend’s bird shoot back on Buckingham. There was no hint of panic to his marksmanship.

  He found his targets and diced them, his finger light on the needier’s trigger, husbanding his ammunition professionally. Even as he worked methodically at his shooting, he had time to wonder at his complete lack of fear. He did not doubt that death might be near… but that simply made no difference at the moment. Guess I’ve gone right round the bend, he thought.

  Ian was at the prince’s right, and Asa Ewing was at his left, their needlers proving as effective as the prince’s. They worked together well, like old hands in the same fire team. The trench at the command bunker was crowded with the addition of a few men from the east wall. The bunker itself housed only Gaffer Chou. He was delirious, probably unaware that there was fighting going on.

  “We can’t expect any help from Sheffield unless those fighters come back,” Ian told Prince William and Ewing.

  Speaking over a private channel, they talked without interrupting their fighting.

  “Have you managed to contact the fighters directly?” William asked.

  “Yes, but they were told to bug out when the Feddies came back above. It’s going to take a bit for them to get back to us.”

  “They don’t hurry, those Feddies will be in our laps,” the prince said.

  “I don’t belong here.” Jacky White repeated the phrase under his breath for perhaps the fiftieth time. “I’m a civilian. I don’t belong here.”

  The litany didn’t make any difference. Neither did the odd tear that welled up at the corner of an eye.

  There was no fairy godmother to whisk him back to Buckingham, or even just over the horizon, away from this battle. The only way home was through these Federation troops. He simply had to keep going, to stay alive until enough of the enemy were dead for them to call it quits.

  Thick smoke from all the burning trees and underbrush drifted across the center of the Marine firebase.

  The flames made the infrared pickup of the helmets almost useless. Everything was blanked by the greater heat of the fires. Under those conditions, it would hardly have mattered when a shot caught Jacky’s visor at an angle and starred it so thoroughly that he couldn’t see through it at all—except that the next two shots in the burst caught him in the neck and in the upper left quadrant of his chest. The blood that bubbled out of his throat might have hidden his final curse.

  Roger Zimmerman was down to the next to last battery pack for his beamer, so he was careful about picking targets. The last group of Federation troops finally started to climb the western slope of the ridge that was the strongpoint of the Marine defenses. The enemy came slowly and died quickly, but the Commonwealth fire was nowhere near as intense as it had been earlier.

  Roger had his last power pack lying on the ground by his hand while he used its predecessor. He went methodically about his quiet brand of mayhem. The laser gun suited his style. He was always a quiet man.

  He died as silently as he had lived. A burst of needle fire underscored his helmet, and took his head completely off.

  “Here they come, Admiral,” Alonzo Rinaldi said. Repulse was still at least thirty minutes from having its Nilssen generators repaired. She was maintaining jump speed, but that would do her no good. All of the remaining Federation vessels had just popped back into normalspace on an attack heading, with enough speed to catch Repulse and Sheffield in three minutes. They were already within range of Federation weapons.

  Truscott linked to Captain Hardesty. “We’ll engage the last dreadnought. Full speed. Put out all the firepower we have left. Start us on the Qspace countdown and hold at the one second mark for manual insertion on my command. Keep this channel open for that.”

  “Aye, sir.” There was no more emotion in Hardesty’s voice than in his admiral’s. Neither man had emotion left to give.

  Truscott watched his monitor as the exchange of weaponry started to meet in the narrowing gap between Sheffield and the Federation ships. He had little doubt that this would be Sheffield’s last run.

  Even if she escaped to Qspace, Repulse would certainly be lost. And Sheffield would be a doubtful candidate for another return.

  We’ll have to rendezvous with Victoria and head for home, Truscott decided. Bring back more ships if I have to personally hijack them.

  He thought about the Marines who would be stranded on Buchanan, and the pilots who would have to eject from their Spacehawks or trust their necks to risky landings on the world’s only landing strip long enough to take them. There to be hunted down, killed or captured. As the moment of decision approached, Truscott wouldn’t turn his thoughts away from even the most painful aspects of command.

  But neither would he hesitate to do what had to be done.

  “Admiral!” The call—scream—came from Rinaldi. Truscott blinked rapidly and looked up. “Behind the Feddies, coming in high and fast.” Rinaldi pointed at his monitor. Truscott looked at his own.

  “Good God, sir!” Gabby Bierce said, his voice penetrating his boss’s sudden excitement. “Looks like the whole bleedin’ Navy come to help.”

  Truscottcounted ships as Rinaldi read data off the complink. “It’s Dover, York, Calcutta, and four more battlecruisers, at least a dozen frigates, and two troop carriers. Long John himself is commanding.”

  “Hardesty!” Truscott yelled at his complink. “Take us out and bring us right back in, behind our fleet, now. Launch all fighters as soon as we’re back. We’ve got Marines to bail out.”

  The gray of Qspace was already closing in on Sheffield by the time he finished talking.

  Only two Spacehawks of the original six made it back to support the Marines. They made runs down the east and west sides of the firebase, directed from the ground by Ian Shrikes. Then they went out, curled around, and made passes along the north and south sides. It gave the Marines the least bit of time to breathe deeply and sort themselves out. But the Spacehawks didn’t have enough munitions left to finish the job. One more pass was what the pilots told Ian. They had missiles for one more pass, and perhaps ten seconds’ of ammunition left for their cannons.

  And where did the Commander want those missiles and bullets?

  ‘As close to the line of burning logs on our east as you can get. That’s where most of the Feddies seem to be,” Ian told them.

  The two Spacehawks were just beginning their final run when Ian got the call from Sheffield. He listened intently, asked two questions, and then shouted in relief.

  ‘What?’ Prince William asked. Ian shook his head and switched his helmet to an allhands frequency.

  “Hang on,” Ian said, too loudly. “Help’s on its way. More ships than you ever hoped to see. The rest of Sheffield’s fighters will be launched in less than five minutes, coming straight to us. Fifteen minutes from now, we’ll have a whole fighter wing to help out.”

  There were no cheers. There wasn’t a man on the channel who was confident enough of holding on for another fifteen minutes.

  As soon as the two Spacehawks pulled up from their last run, the Federation troops started advancing again. This assault was slower, almost
run in a series of stopframes. Men on both sides were exhausted, overloaded by the horror of the devastation around them. They continued to fight only because there was nothing else they could do. The shooting became more and more ragged.

  On the crest of the ridge, David was down to his pistol. His rifle wasn’t completely devoid of ammunition, but he was saving that. The targets that mattered were close enough for sidearms now. His left arm was throbbing. A grazing shot had ripped his fatigues, field skin, and his own skin, drawing blood until the field skin and his nanoscrubbers stopped the flow. The wrist and hand were still numb.

  He could flex the hand, grasp with it, but the feel of everything was peculiar.

  Fifteen minutes? David didn’t have the slightest idea how long it had been since he heard that. It seemed hours, but couldn’t have been. We’d all have been long since dead.

  Then or now, David told himself. More than a third of his platoon was gone, dead or helmets out of commission. More were wounded, some badly. David avoided bringing up the schematic that would show him who and how many. If those extra fighters didn’t show up in one hell of a hurry, there would be a blank slate.

  The sonic boom startled everyone. Enough to wake the dead, Alfie thought, and he regretted it immediately. He didn’t know how many of his mates had died, but he knew that no noise in the universe could wake them.

  Alfie didn’t let up from his work. He had two magazines left for his needier, and he was making his ammunition count. The Feddies were right out in the open, ripe for the picking. He switched his aim from point to point, squeezing off short bursts, satisfied with stopping Feddies, not intent on shredding them any longer.

  He needed a moment to realize when he suddenly started seeing backs instead of fronts. The Feddies were breaking off the fight. Those who could run were, trying to get away from the fire of incoming Spacehawks. The fighters were making one hell of a racket shooting off rockets, braking, trying to get their airspeed low enough to use cannons. Supersonic, they would run into their own bullets.