“In any event, we will be outnumbered no matter how many men they bring in, but rest assured, General, they’ll throw everything they’ve got at us to take this installation,” Cazombi said.
“I’m well aware of that,” Sorca answered, losing his patience now. “We have already decided to proceed with a frontline defensive posture.”
“Very well, sir,” Cazombi nodded, his expression never changing even though he knew this plan was a sure prescription for disaster. “I only ask you to do one thing for me. The Peninsula has a warren of underground storage facilities. It shouldn’t take too much effort to convert the complex into a very strong redoubt. Let me take my garrison force to the Peninsula. Loan me your engineer battalion as soon as it’s free, and give me one battalion of infantry and two batteries of artillery. I’ll build a redoubt out there that can be your fallback position if the enemy breaks through your line. Do that and I’ll get out of your hair.”
Sorca smirked. “That’s a fair price to pay, General. Go ahead, it’s your post, after all. Wreck the place if that makes you feel better. Just make sure your operation doesn’t get in the way of the deployment of my troops.” He addressed his G3, operations officer, “Can we do that without weakening our capabilities?”
“Yessir! No matter how many troops the Coalition might have brought in to use against us, they will not stand up to what we can throw at them,” he said with the bravado of the loyal staff officer. “I’ll see that General Cazombi’s request is honored immediately.”
General Cazombi bowed politely to the staff officers and left the room, followed closely by his own operations officer. “Sir,” that man asked as they stepped out of the building, “what are our chances?”
Cazombi twitched his lip—which passed for a grin with him. “You know something that Sorca doesn’t understand? These people who formed this so-called Coalition really are rubes, through and through, but they can fight. You know who’s leading them? Davis Lyons. I played poker with him on the way to fight in one of the Silvasian Wars—that was before your time. He’s no fool, and he acquitted himself well in combat. He won’t commit any errors when his troops attack us, you can bet on that.”
“Yessir. But what are our chances?”
“Well, Colonel, we have three alternatives. One, we hold out until reinforced by the Confederation, and that is what we are going to try our damnedest to do. Two, we go into POW camps. And three?”
“Yessir?”
The General stopped. They were standing in front of the post exchange, which was now shuttered and deserted. The families that had accompanied the garrison soldiers to Ravenette had long ago been evacuated. There was nothing in that post exchange a soldier needed to perform his duties. Cazombi’s garrison troopers wore battle dress now, ate in their messes, slept in barracks, and spent their off-duty hours in their units. The fog was lifting but the lights still glowed dimly along the deserted streets. Every surface was slick with moisture. As they stood there droplets of condensation dripped on them from the building’s eaves.
“You know, Colonel, whoever named the Peninsula out there Bataan was a goddamned genius. You know about Bataan, when a twentieth-century American army was forced to surrender to the Japanese forces in the Philippine Islands? They held out for two months on this peninsula that jutted out into Manila Bay, Bataan it was called. What happened to those men after they surrendered I hope doesn’t happen to us if Alternative Two is our fate.” He paused. “Just give me the time I need to fortify Bataan, and I think we can hold out.”
“Yessir. And Alternative Three?”
“Alternative Three, Colonel? Alternative Three is quite simple; we all die.”
If they are dug in well enough, troops can survive almost any kind of bombardment, and General Sorca’s infantry was very well dug in. But the devastation General Davis Lyons unleashed on Fort Seymour the morning the war began, the war that henceforth was to be known as the War of Secession, was terrible.
First, electronic countermeasures were employed to screen the movements of the secessionist forces. As soon as they were initiated, General Sorca’s troops knew an attack was imminent and countermeasures were attempted but the Confederation had seriously underestimated the sophistication of the Coalition’s technological capabilities, and Fort Seymour’s defenders found themselves essentially blind to what was coming.
Then Crickets, small, light, highly maneuverable flying gun platforms, dashed in under the antiaircraft umbrella hastily thrown up by the 3rd Division’s air defense battalion and blasted the fort’s perimeter with deadly air-ground missiles and on-board laser cannon. Because the air-defense artillery units’ target-acquisition suites were actively searching for threats, the Crickets’ missiles homed in on their command and control modules and destroyed them, leaving the firing batteries uncoordinated and ineffective so that the next phase of the attack, from high-speed fighter-bomber aircraft, proceeded almost without opposition. And after the fighters had done their terrible work, Lyons’s artillery laid down a terrific barrage under which his armor and infantry began their advance.
Stunned and reeling, what was left of General Sorca’s infantry began a fighting withdrawal from their positions at Fort Seymour’s Main Post. The only bright spot was the destruction of a small Coalition navy force that attempted to land troops in their rear on the Peninsula from Pohick Bay. General Cazombi had planned for this when he fortified the Peninsula, but his small victory was of little immediate help to the beleaguered infantry at Main Post.
CHAPTER NINE
* * *
Sergeant Herb Carman struggled to free himself from the remains of his bunker. The blast that had destroyed his position had blown off his helmet so he was unable to communicate with the other members of his squad, if indeed they were not all dead. All around him was fire and smoke punctuated by the concussions of the heavy shells detonating everywhere along Bravo Company’s line in their sector of the perimeter. The concussions of nearby explosions slammed back and forth and pelted him with debris, but as far as he could tell he was not seriously injured. At least he was able to move every part of his body as he scrambled from under the wreckage of his bunker.
A tremendous explosion slammed Carman to the ground, crushing the air from his lungs. Ears ringing, he crawled forward. He was so disoriented he couldn’t tell if he was crawling toward the line or away from it; all he knew was that he had to crawl. He was dimly aware of moisture staining the lower part of his body but he couldn’t tell if his bowels had involuntarily let loose or if he’d been wounded by a shell fragment. He felt no pain. He was beyond fear, driven only by the instinct for survival.
The shelling stopped suddenly. Carman lay amid the rubble, gasping heavily. He had no weapon, his gear was lost and his clothing shredded; he had no idea if he was the only survivor of the attack. As his lungs labored for oxygen in the deafening silence that followed the roar of the bombardment, a tiny spark of his former noncommissioned self began to glow again deep inside him. He had no idea what had become of his platoon leader or his platoon sergeant or the men of his squad, but he knew his only chance of survival lay in reaching the battalion’s second line of defense, held by the men of Charlie Company, some buildings about a hundred meters to the rear of the main gate. He peered over the pile of rubble in front of him. At least he was headed in the right direction! He could see the buildings through the haze and smoke. The ground beneath him began to shake. He staggered to his feet and ran. He knew he didn’t have much time to cover the distance because that roaring noise behind him now meant only one thing: Tanks! Other men began emerging from the debris and suddenly Carman was himself again. He called out the names of his men.
Private Alee Solden slowly recovered consciousness. Something was pinning his legs. It was the body of Mort Stuman, or what was left of it. He’d been cut in half at the waist by the rocket that had destroyed their fighting position. The blast had ripped Solden’s helmet off and left a deep gash along the top of his head
but the bleeding had stopped; from the pain along his left side he realized some ribs had probably been fractured. But he was able to move.
“Sorry, Mortie,” he whispered, shoving Stuman’s body aside. The torso flopped obscenely; he couldn’t see what had become of the rest of Stuman’s body. At least the man had died quickly.
The ground began to shake and he heard the unmistakable rumble and squeak of heavy armored vehicles, the very targets he and Stuman had been trained to engage with the Straight Arrows. But where in hell was the goddamned thing? Desperately Solden shifted debris searching for the Straight Arrow. The plan had been that each squad would employ a Straight Arrow and then withdraw to the second line of defense. The enemy must’ve been wise to the plan, Solden reflected as he looked through the rubble. With a cry of joy at last he pulled the Straight Arrow out from under some junk. The rumbling was heavier by then and the sounds of the advancing behemoths much closer.
He shook the dust off the weapon and examined it. “Jesus’s nuts!” he swore. The optics had been ruined, there was no way to use the range finder or magnification to acquire a target or the lock-on device to ensure a hit. But the missile itself was intact and ready to fire. “M72,” Solden whispered, “I love you!” But with no optics, he’d have to fire it with only the naked eye and he could only hope for a hit if he waited until the monsters were almost on top of him. “Mort,” he shouted, “I’m gonna get us one of them fuckers!” He rested the launcher on some rubble and peered down the street. It was hazy with dust and smoke. Fires burned everywhere, causing Solden to cough and sneeze, but way down at the end of the road he could see a vast gray shape emerging from the haze. His heart skipped a beat. How many times had he gone through this in virtual training chambers and on the range?
On the range the missiles were only used to engage targets at a considerable distance. At 500 meters the M72 was designed to rise up to 250 meters and then home in on its target at supersonic speed. But in these circumstances the missile wouldn’t have to travel that distance, he’d be firing at point-blank range. If he missed his one shot, he’d be dead. But Private Alee Solden was not going to miss the shot of a lifetime. He did not know that he was the only man left on Bravo Company’s line. Even if he’d known, that would not have made any difference to him.
Sergeant Carman stumbled into the building and staggered over the debris littering the floor. The place had been heavily damaged in the bombardments but its walls and most of the roof were still intact. It was crowded with heavily armed infantry. A stocky captain was giving orders to his men, the few who were left of his company, as they emerged from the basement with their weapons. Carman was relieved to see that they were heavily armed with Straight Arrows and infantry assault weapons. He noticed now that the building was the old post exchange and much of the inventory was still on its shelves and racks.
From nearby someone was cursing volubly. He recognized the voice at once. It was his battalion sergeant major! “Top!” he crawled over to where the grizzled old NCO sat in a pool of blood. His left leg had been shot off just below the knee.
He looked up from applying a tourniquet. “Herb?” The sergeant major prided himself on knowing the name of every NCO in his battalion. “Come here and give me a hand.”
The part of the post exchange building they were in had once been the women’s wear department. The sergeant major had torn a dress into strips and was using them to stanch the flow of blood from his severed leg. “Didn’t bring a first-aid kit and I think all our medics are down,” he said, leaning back and relaxing as Carman tightened the tourniquet. The sergeant major’s face was white from loss of blood and his lips were turning blue. “You got a cigarette on you?” he asked.
“I don’t smoke, Sergeant Major. Sorry. Look, you stay here, I’m gonna find a medic.”
The old NCO put a hand on Carman’s arm, “Don’t mind, lad, I’ve lost too much blood. These boys took a direct hit from a heavy shell, wiped out half the company. You go over there and see the captain. He can use your help more than I can.” He closed his eyes.
“Captain! Captain!” Carman yelled.
“Who the hell are you?” the stocky officer demanded.
“Sergeant Carman, Bravo Company, Sir! Sir, the sergeant major needs a medic,” he gestured to where the old soldier lay.
The captain only shook his head. “Old fool,” he muttered but it was said in the way young men talk about older men they admire, “he should’ve stayed up at battalion headquarters, but you know him, always out with the troops.” He shook his head. “I don’t know where the hell my medics are—most of my NCOs and officers for that matter! We got plastered in here, goddamnit! Who’d you say you were again?”
“Sergeant Car—”
“See those men over there setting up the Arrows? That’s what’s left of my third platoon. Their platoon sergeant and officer are down. You get your ass over there and take charge. Mohammed’s toenails, I’ve got goddamn PFCs acting as squad leaders! You are now Platoon Sergeant—what’s your name again, son?”
“Carman, sir.”
“—Platoon Sergeant Carman. Bravo Company doesn’t exist anymore, Sergeant. You’re my man now.”
“But the sergeant major, sir!”
“He’s dead. Get to work,” the captain spun on his heel and gave orders to some other men.
“They’re coming!” someone shouted. It got very quiet among the men of Charlie Company in the women’s wear department of the Fort Seymour post exchange.
Private Solden struggled to control his breathing. He found that cursing to himself helped. “Come on, come on, you bastard, come on!” he whispered. “I’m going to get you, you bastard, I’m going to get you!” As the lead tank in the column loomed bigger and bigger Solden knew that if he remained calm he could not miss. If he could stop that one tank the others in the column would be blocked and that would give the men in the fallback positions time to bring up more antitank weapons and to reinforce the line against the infantry assault that was sure to follow.
He thought he was familiar with the machine approaching him. It had thick sloped armor plating on the front. To stop it he’d have to get his missile to detonate at the point where the armor plate met the turret, otherwise the missile could bounce harmlessly off the glacis plating. The Straight Arrows could penetrate the thickest armor, but only if they hit straight on, so the shaped charge inside the warhead could burn its way through to explode inside the machine. That would be a very difficult shot under these conditions. He knew the best way he could make it count for sure was to let the monster get almost on top of him before he fired. But he could not let it get out into the small plaza before the main gate, otherwise there’d be room for the rest of the column to drive around it, so he’d have to take his one and only shot at a range of about one hundred meters! Or: run out into the plaza, get close enough to be sure he couldn’t miss, and fire the M72—in full view of the tank gunners.
Private Alee Solden picked up his weapon and ran.
The people who lived on the world known as Cabala were very religious. They frequently had epiphanies during which the Spirit of the Lord would be revealed to them in all its stunning glory. Such experiences could come upon the people of Cabala at almost any time. They relished them and honored those who had them and rejoiced in their revelations. Thus the gunner on board the lead tank approaching what was left of Fort Seymour did not see Private Alee Solden running toward him; he saw an Angel of the Lord and unbounded joy seized him, consumed him so thoroughly he never heard his tank commander screaming, “Kill him! Kill him!” in his headset. And then a sunburst enveloped him and lifted him to heaven on fiery wings.
The column was stopped, just as Private Solden hoped it would be and the 3rd Division’s artillery slaughtered the infantry behind it. But then the fighter-bombers returned and other columns easily broke through different parts of the unmanned perimeter and began a relentless pounding of the remaining defenders, forcing them inexorably back int
o Bataan.
Private Alee Solden was never heard of again.
General Alistair Cazombi’s face was drawn and pale in the dim light of his command bunker. For three days and nights the enemy had been pounding them relentlessly but infantry and armor had not been able to cross the plain that separated the Main Post from Bataan. Brigadier Sorca had integrated the remains of his division into Cazombi’s defenses and he had agreed without argument that as the ranking surviving officer, Cazombi was to command the remaining Confederation forces on Ravenette, and he would serve under his orders. In fact, Major General Cazombi was the senior representative of the Confederation in that whole sector of Human Space because the Confederation consulate had been silent since the attack began. Either the diplomats were prisoners or they had been sent packing; the naval base on Chilianwala likewise had not been heard from so it was assumed that it had also been taken.
On the fourth day, there was a lull in the fighting and an officer bearing a white flag drove toward them in a command car. He was now sitting opposite General Cazombi, his blindfold removed.
“General, General Lyons sends his greetings and wishes you to review the terms he is proposing for your surrender.”
“Coffee, Colonel?” Cazombi asked. The emissary shook his head. The terms were written on a sheet of paper, not recorded on a crystal, and that made Cazombi smile. So typical of a throwback like Davis Lyons, he thought. “Return to General Lyons with my compliments, sir, and tell him we shall review these terms and respond within an hour.”
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