First To Fight

by David Sherman

  "Now we know what kind of warriors these Confederation Marines are," he began, as though nothing had just happened. "They shoot well—rapidly and accurately. We cannot attack them on foot, running is too slow. Even if we attack in large enough numbers to reach them and kill them with our blades, they will kill too many of us before we reach them and the Badawi will no longer be the strongest clan among the Siad." He paused to listen to an attendant who ran to the pavilion from where his warriors were closing on the Marines, whispered an order, and sent the attendant back from whence he came.

  "I have just received a report," he said to his audience. "Moving from rock to rock to close on the Confederation Marines will also cost us too many brave warriors. We must close on the Marines rapidly." If we are to defeat them and gain that glory for ourselves instead of waiting for Shabeli and his fire-weapons, he added to himself. "The only way we can close on them rapidly is on horseback. But a horse charge is on too broad a line, the Confederation Marines are on too narrow a front; it would cost us many men and horses to gain their small position."

  "Great Wad Mohammad," a tall, darkly bearded man interrupted.

  "Yes, Wad Kadj?" Wad Mohammad said patiently.

  "As you say, Great Wad Mohammad," Wad Kadj said, "if we charge on line the Confederation Marines will kill many warriors and horses, and still we might not be able to reach them because we will be spread out too far. But if we get into a column, perhaps ten men and horses wide, and charge that way, the Confederation Marines might kill many warriors and horses in the front of the column, but there will be too many and we will reach them in sufficient numbers to kill them with our blades."

  Wad Mohammad considered this tactic for a moment. It had been used to great effect by a great warrior king of the Francois some six centuries earlier. Yes, the Confederation Marines would kill many warriors and horses at the head of the column, but he thought Wad Kadj was right about the great mass of horsemen being too much for the defenders, just as the Francois king's tactic had proved too much for the Britishers and Rooskies.

  "You are right, Wad Kadj," he said. "Your plan will work. I grant you the honor of being the lead in this charge. By the grace of God who is above all Gods, we will do this. We will defeat these Confederation Marines, and when Shabeli the Magnificent reaches us, we will present him with the heads of his enemies.

  Nothing more happened for half an hour after Claypoole wounded the Siad attempting to creep up on them.

  "What's that?" Dean suddenly shouted. "Does anybody feel it?"

  Bass concentrated for a moment, and then he felt it too. There was a faint rumbling in the rock, as though something heavy was moving. The rumbling increased until he imagined he could hear the rapid thudding that made it. His eyes popped wide as he realized what it was.

  "Everybody, face east," he shouted, and scrambled across the basin. "They're making a cavalry charge! Get ready!"

  A growing thunder in the near distance resolved into the thudding of horses' hooves—far too many horses' hooves—and a mass of horsemen in a column ten horses wide suddenly swarmed over the rise 150 meters to the east.

  Bass could hardly believe his eyes—a cavalry charge against modern weapons. The Siad were in a column! What kind of idiot would send horses charging into modern weapons in a column? The kind of idiot who didn't have any idea what modern weapons could do, that's what kind, he realized.

  "On my command," Bass roared, "fire on line, slag the rock in front of the horses." He looked quickly to the sides to see that his men were ready. "FIRE!" he commanded, and the Marines opened up.

  Their bolts struck the rock in front of the column, Neru's gun swishing its greater fire back and forth in the same place. The rock heated, softened, turned liquid in the path of the charging horses. Gouts of lava spattered up and into the mass of them, the injured steeds screaming in agony and fear. The lead rows of horses tried to rear and spin away from the flying magma, but the mass of horses barreling behind them wouldn't let them turn and flee—the momentum of the charge pushed the leaders forward, tumbled them into the molten rock. The next rows of horses and riders slammed into the fallen, burning, scrambling horses and men, and tripped over them, spilling themselves into the growing lava flow.

  The charge was stopped, and riders tried manically to control their panicked horses. All they managed was to create an ever-tightening mass that couldn't spread out, couldn't retreat—couldn't fight in any way.

  "Lift your fire," Bass bellowed. "Shoot into them!" The Marines raised their fire and burned holes in the milling mass of horses and men. Neru's gun burned a swath from the front all the way to the farthest he could see. Around the sides and rear of the Siad cavalry, individual horsemen began to break away from the mass. Some fled to the north or to the south; most raced for what safety they could find behind the ridge over which they had so confidently charged. A few, a very few, skirted the area of devastated rock and continued their mad charge toward the Marines.

  "Schultz, Dornhofer," Bass commanded, "shift your fire, get the ones coming at us." He shifted his own aim to one of the oncoming horsemen and blew the man's shoulder off. Dornhofer and Schultz also made clean kills with their first shots. The others kept firing into the mass, slaughtering horses and men indiscriminately. The mass thinned, partly from more Siad breaking away to flee, more because of the Marines' murderous fire. Still, a few of the Siad who succeeded in getting away managed to round the molten rock and continue their charge. Bass wanted to shift more of his men's fire to the Siad who were still coming toward them, but the main force had to keep dying or they'd reorganize and resume their charge. But he could also see that too many were coming for him, Dornhofer, and Schultz to get all of them before any reached them.

  Suddenly, one of the Siad was there and leaped over him, into the hollow. Bass twisted around and blasted the rider as the warrior tried to spin his horse around. Then more of them reached the Marine position.

  "Everybody but guns, use knives!" Bass shouted, and drew his own fighting knife. The eleven-inch blade glinted fiercely in the sunlight.

  The Siad screamed in defiance and the Marines' knives clashed loudly on the steel of thrusting bayonets as the Siad warriors stood in their stirrups, jabbing wildly at the Marines feinting and slashing and dancing between their horses' flailing hooves.

  Doyle's anal sphincter nearly let go out of sheer terror. Use a knife to fight men on horseback? Men with rifles and fixed bayonets? Was Bass out of his mind? Then he only had time to act and his reflexes took over, rolling him out of the way of a horse bringing its front hooves down to trample him. The horse tried to stomp on him! It so infuriated Doyle, he leaped to his feet and struck the horse in the eye with his knife. The horse screamed and reared back. Its rider fell backward and landed hard on his back. Abruptly, Doyle remembered he was supposed to be fighting the men, not the horses. He bounded onto the Siad, landing on him as the warrior was struggling to refill his lungs, which had the air knocked out of them when he landed. The Siad's eyes widened and his mouth gaped with the effort to suck in a breath. Doyle jammed his blade upward into the open mouth and its point broke through his palette into the Siad's brain case, killing him instantly.

  Claypoole surged to his feet and thrust up with his knife; its blade sank deep into the gut of a horse leaping over him and ripped its belly open. The horse screamed wildly and bucked in midair as its entrails tumbled out. It hit the ground on its side, its legs kicking frantically. The rider struggled to get his pinned leg out from under his mount, but Claypoole was on him before he could free himself. With one quick swipe, he nearly decapitated him.

  Bass reached high over his head and pulled a frantic rider from his saddle, slammed him on the ground and gutted him in one swift movement, and then, rising swiftly, raked his bloody knife along the flank of another rider's horse, slashing the man's leg to the bone.

  Dean hamstrung a horse and it came crashing to the ground, breaking its rider's neck.

  Schultz stood to
squarely face a charging Siad. The horseman leaned over the neck of his horse and extended his bayoneted rifle to skewer the Marine. Just as the bayonet was about to jab into his chest, Schultz spun aside. He grabbed the foreguard of the rifle with one hand and thrust his knife into the side of the Siad with the other. The horse sped on without its rider, who hadn't let go of his weapon. The Marine continued his spin, swinging the mortally wounded Siad at the end of his arm, and smashed him into the chest of another horse. The horse crumpled with a broken shoulder, throwing his rider hard onto the rocks at the far end of the basin, cracking his skull open.

  Two Siad converged on Dornhofer. He rolled out of the way of the first and just missed being impaled on the Siad's reaching bayonet. Then, to avoid the bayonet thrust of the second Siad, he rolled under the skittering hooves of the first horse. Defenseless on the ground, he had to get to his feet. He grabbed the tail of the first horse to yank himself up, and when the horse reared and tried to spin around to bite its tormentor, it rammed into the second horse and the two were momentarily hung up together, with the second bucking to throw off the first. Dornhofer reached up with one hand and grabbed the belt of the first horse's rider, jerking him down onto his thrusting knife. He turned and twisted his arm to let the falling Siad slip off his blade, then dropped a knee onto him and stabbed him in the heart. The riderless horse tried to continue its turn, knocking the other Siad off his still-bucking horse. Dornhofer turned to him, but the man hadn't fallen hard and was on his feet before the Marine reached him. The Siad swung his rifle butt at Dornhofer, but the Marine was already inside the arc of his swing. Dornhofer swung his knife upward from his hip, slicing into the man's belly and thrusting his blade deep into his chest, mangling his heart.

  In thirty seconds it was all over, dying horses in the Marines' position kicking and screaming while riderless mounts fled back toward the Siad lines, empty stirrups flapping wildly from blood-streaked saddles. Blood and lather from the animals' flanks splattered the panting Marines.

  Schultz finished gutting the Siad he was kneeling on and looked around for another to kill. None were there. There were seven bloody bodies within two paces of him. Without someone else to knife, he picked up his blaster and began firing at the milling horsemen.

  Throughout the close combat, Clarke had assisted Neru with the gun as it burned wide swaths through the mass of Siad horsemen still trying to unscramble themselves. Now the other Marines returned to firing at their enemy,

  "Cease fire!" Bass bellowed as the last of the Siad disappeared over the rise.

  Chapter Thirty

  "Get those bodies out of here," Bass ordered before the last of the retreating Siad disappeared over the rise. "Make barricades. Don't bother with the horses, they're too heavy. Stack the bodies on the east side. And put a few around the rest of the perimeter."

  The Marines immediately set to stacking the Siad corpses on the eastern rim of the shallow basin, where another cavalry charge would come from—if there was to be another cavalry charge. Bass didn't think there would be, this one had been too costly. He counted five horses and more than a dozen Siad who had fallen inside the basin—and an equal number of Siad an arm's length or not much farther outside of it.

  Bass stood and surveyed the landscape over which the Siad had charged. More than two hundred badly burned Siad had gone to their warrior's heaven. Here and there to the east, wounded Siad inched their way toward safety. He didn't try to count the horses, though more than fifty had to have been killed in the second charge. Some of the horses, not yet dead, whinnied or weakly screamed out their pain as they vainly tried to struggle to their feet. For men to go into battle and fight and die was one thing. Nobody had put a gun to Charlie Bass's head and told him to enlist in the Marines and to fight battles. Any one of the Siad warriors who'd died today could have chosen another path. But the horses had no choice but to ride unknowing into the maelstrom of Marine fire.

  He shook his head to rid it of such thoughts. He had more important things to do. The Siad had charged twice and lost badly each time. They would try again. How would they do it next? He looked away.

  The carrion-eaters, made almost mad by the sheer size of the feast laid out for them, descended on the horde of dead and dying.

  Wad Mohammad surveyed the battlefield from his vantage point in the shade of a rock outcrop several hundred meters to the south. He had lost too many warriors in these futile attacks. No more. No matter the pride of the Badawi warriors or their desire for vengeance. Too many wives would wail tonight, too many children must now seek succor from men who weren't their fathers. His only consolation was that Wad Kadj, whose idea this mad formation had been, was among the dead. He snapped his fingers and his attendants immediately attended him.

  "Go to the subchiefs. Tell them one warrior out of twenty-five is to fire his rifle at the Confederation Marines. That man is to make one magazine last one hour. No warrior is to expose himself to the Confederation Marines. We will keep the off-worlders in place until Shabeli the Magnificent arrives. I will let him lose his men in the next assault. No more Badawi warriors will lose their lives until we can attack and win." He snapped his fingers again and the attendants sped off on their errand.

  Again Wad Mohammad scanned the battlefield. The rocky land to the east, over which his brave horsemen had charged, was almost aglow with heat shimmer. Somehow, carrion-eaters hopped about on that hellish landscape without being cindered by its heat. He shuddered almost imperceptibly. Never had he seen such carnage and destruction. The Marines' blasters had melted the rock over which his horsemen had attempted to charge. The rock was too hot to charge over even now. The Confederation Marines truly used weapons of hell.

  A sniper's bullet spanged off the rock and thudded into the body of a horse just in front of where Charlie Bass lay, spraying him with flecks of half-congealed blood and bits of horsehair. He should be getting used to it, he thought, but each bullet that zipped overhead, thudded into the barricades, or ricocheted off the rock frayed his nerves more. Mentally, he again took stock. They had plenty of water left from the refill at Tulak Yar the day before. But the men were drinking it too fast for it to last beyond the day.

  "Remember your water discipline," he said again, and thought of how hard it was to not drink under the beating sun. But they would have to drink more; there was no shade and they were active, not sleeping.

  Their rations were good for another couple of days. They had used half their batteries. At best, they could withstand two more assaults. He was sure there were more than enough Siad still around for two more assaults. After that it would be hand-to-hand. If the Siad reinforcements didn't arrive until after dark, then he and his men might be able to slip away. They still had the GPL. He patted the GPL holder on his belt. He froze.

  The pouch was shredded. He twisted and looked toward his side where the pouch was. He yanked out the GPL. Its casing was cracked, its screen was dark, blank. The GPL was dead.

  Well, Staff Sergeant Charlie Bass had been in tighter spots. At least that's what he told himself. Maybe not tighter, but just as desperate. They knew the general direction of New Obbia from where they were. They could make it there using dead reckoning if they got away—when they got away, he corrected himself.

  He thought back to the incident on Fiesta de Santiago, when they had been pinned down by bandits and he'd joked with Lieutenant Procescu about fixing bayonets. Now that possibility was no longer a joke, except that the blasters didn't have bayonets, which was why they used their knives when the horsemen broke through. Next time they had lunch, he'd discuss that with the commandant, he thought wryly. He gazed for a moment at the ground-cloth bundle at the bottom of the basin which was McNeal's corpse. He would never let these men come to an end like that, he vowed. If it came to that, he would kill each one himself. He drew the ancient K-Bar from its special pocket and examined it in the late-morning light.

  The K-Bar was lucky, and with it there riding on his thigh, Bass imagined he ca
rried a living link with the spirits of the long-dead Marines of the ancient Corps; that when he fought, they fought again beside him. He smiled. The fantasy had always made him feel better when things got tough. He slid the K-Bar back into its pocket and patted it affectionately. "We'll get through this, Jarhead," he whispered.

  Time for business. Charlie Bass looked into the sky. It was another clear, hot day in the Martac Waste. The Siad wouldn't come again from the direction of the rising sun, not the way the rock was slagged and still almost smoldering. They'd find another way to come. And then another way after that. Two more assaults and the Marines would be overrun. Loss of power in their batteries would see to that.

  Briefly, Bass surveyed the men around him. Some of them were sleeping, sprawled in the awkward poses of men suddenly overcome by sheer physical exhaustion. Doyle lay with his mouth wide open, snoring. That young corporal acquitted himself well when the horsemen overrode them, he thought. Surprisingly well. He might have made a good Marine one day. Claypoole, now a hardened combat veteran—would he still be a goof-off if he survived this action?—lay on his back, breathing quietly. A joker and a wise-ass in garrison, Claypoole had proved himself a good man when the chips were down. Clarke had gone to sleep, head folded over his knees, and now a long line of saliva dribbled down his chin onto his utilities. Dean reposed with his face against the rock. Now, there was a young lad with something in him. Bass regretted nobody might ever see how far he could go.

  Shabeli the Magnificent alighted from his horse in one fluid motion and embraced Wad Mohammad. Several hundred of the surviving Badawi warriors were behind the rise, about three hundred meters from the Marines' position, quieting their horses. They stood ready for whatever commands they were given.

  "Wad Mohammad, may God smile upon you always," Shabeli uttered in perfunctory greeting.