Into the Maelstrom

by David Drake

  Allenson was too agitated to answer. His biggest fear was that the Brasilians would simply screen and bypass Kismet with their main force. This would render his road block ineffectual. He thought they wouldn’t. The Brasilian Army had shown itself to be highly competent at a set piece attack, but cautious and reluctant to take risks.

  It was part of the cultural makeup of the Home Worlds, but especially when all the troops and logistics had to be hauled across the Bight. In theory Brasilia had infinite replacements to throw into the war, but military power declined as the square of the distance of the supply chain. It was a very long way to the nearest Brasilian base.

  But there was always the risk that the enemy would behave out of character, so the booby traps left behind in the abandoned trenches were a psychological prod. He wanted to make the Brasilians angry: angry enough to want to settle accounts.

  For whatever reason, the enemy took the bait. Mortars and heavy weapons mowed down the empty eastern buildings. Once it stopped, Cinnerans would move forward to set up fire positions in the wreckage to greet the advancing Brasilian infantry.

  The noise of battle recommenced. Allenson listened in on the Cinneran command channel. It was difficult to make sense of the terse reports and orders. They were using sound only on the assumption that the Brasilians would be monitoring their communications and video might give away too much.

  Black smoke rolled over the roofs, drifting to the west in the prevailing breeze. It didn’t take long before Allenson could smell the fumes from burning wood and plastics. Fortunately most of the acrid fumes went over his position.

  Laser weapons in a town of wooden buildings were bound to cause fires. The smoke thickened as the minutes ticked by. Allenson fancied he could hear the roar of flaming buildings. Something was wrong.

  He contacted Braks, who was up with the leading teams.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  There was no reply so he waited a few minutes before trying again. Braks was no doubt busy with his own problems. This time he got an indirect answer by monitoring the Cinneran channel.

  “This is viper nine.”

  Viper nine was Braks’s identifier.

  “They’re using flamethrowers. Stay out of the houses.”

  Allenson relayed the message to everyone.

  “Lead units filter back,” Braks said.

  “Looks like we’re next,” Hawthorn said to Allenson.

  Allenson and Special Projects were part of the second line.

  Hawthorn muttered something to his datapad and his troopers took up fire positions on the west side of a small open area probably used for markets or as a vehicle park. Lanes curled away to the southeast and northeast.

  The tension in the air tingled like the static before an electrical storm. The pressure didn’t ease as the minutes clicked by. A Cinneran slid out from a tight alley directly opposite and ran across the square. He was followed by a number of others who appeared like weevils out of the unlikeliest places.

  The NCO stopped to talk to Hawthorn.

  “They’re right behind us.”

  “Okay, off you go to the next position,” Hawthorn said.

  The NCO waited.

  “Yes?” Hawthorn asked.

  “Watch out for flamethrowers.”

  Hawthorn nodded, without taking his eyes from his rifle sight.

  It was a few minutes before Allenson spotted movement at a window in a house opposite.

  “In the yellow-framed house,” Allenson said softly.

  “Yeah, noticed him a few seconds ago. They’re infiltrating the buildings opposite.”

  Allenson shut up. This was Hawthorn’s show.

  A shadow detached itself from a fence on the right-hand side of the square and scuttled along the front of the houses to stop in a doorway. More followed, all moving forward in a chain. Allenson slowly turned his head to find the same was happening on the left.

  Still Hawthorn waited.

  Brasilian soldiers appeared in the doorways and windows of the houses opposite the Special Projects position. When there was no response the soldiers jumped out and doubled across the square.

  “Sloppy, very sloppy,” Hawthorn said. “Someone’s in a hurry.”

  He let the enemy get two thirds of the way across and then fired. A Brasilian folded from the waist and tumbled over his feet. The Special Project troopers opened up with carbines set to full auto. At urban distances, anything the carbines lost in accuracy or punch was more than made up for by rate of fire. Allenson fired with the rest, pumping short bursts into the open ground.

  Brasilians fell as if a giant knife swung across the square at knee height. The survivors turned and ran back but were easy targets. The Brasilians at the edge of the square tried to give covering fire, but they were in a poor position for a firefight and took losses. They rapidly faded back into cover themselves.

  Hawthorn touched his datapad and bombs hidden in the houses to the north and south of the square exploded. Wood, clay, and body parts cascaded into the air.

  The handful of assault troops who had made it back into cover shot angrily into the colonial positions. The Special Project troopers kept down until the ineffectual fusillade died away.

  They had ten minutes or so before the next assault. That gave time to treat the wounded and get them back. The Brasilians received reinforcements and this time they did it by the book. The attack was announced by a stream of rifle fire into the Streamer positions accompanied by the cough of grenade launchers.

  Wooden buildings and fences shattered under the explosions. A ten centimeter long splinter punched through Hawthorn’s jacket.

  “Bastards,” he said conversationally.

  He pulled the splinter out, staining his shoulder with blood before he could apply a spray. Then he sighted down his rifle and fired. Allenson had no idea where the shot fell, but from Hawthorn’s expression he exacted some measure of revenge.

  The Brasilian suppression fire abruptly stopped.

  “Here they come, people,” Hawthorn yelled, rising to one knee.

  Brasilian assault troops charged in as dispersed a formation as the limited space permitted. They screamed as they ran, discharging automatic weapons in the general direction of the defenders. Brasilians died in clumps but more came on showing awe inspiring discipline. They released so much fire that some of it hit home. Hawthorn’s people started to die.

  “Shit!” Hawthorn said.

  He fired and a Brasilian fell forward, skidding along the ground on his face. He had a tube gripped under arm and a bulky pack on his back. Hawthorn took careful aim and fired again. The downed trooper exploded. Plumes of fire curled and twisted into the air. Men burned when touched by the orange and yellow ribbons. They died twisting and screaming in pain.

  Over on the left a loud whoosh sounded. A line as bright as a solar flare sprayed out from the lead assault troops to splatter into the Special Projects position. Whatever the Brasilians were using as an accelerant clung to wood and flesh. It ignited both with fierce intensity. A Streamer trooper rolled along the ground trying to put out flames that wouldn’t extinguish.

  “Fall back,” Hawthorn screamed, the order repeated by the NCOs.

  He and Allenson scrambled through the house behind. They made it through milliseconds before the flames.

  The flamethrowers were the clincher. No position, however strong could be held for long before the defenders were burned out. The only upside was that it turned Kismet into a sea of flame. Burning houses thickened the air with smoke black and turgid from the residues of partly consumed organics. Each breath tasted of solvents and bitter minerals. It lay heavy in the lungs causing hacking coughs that brought up stained phlegm. But the thick smoke rolling across the town also concealed the fleeing Cinnerans and masked the vehicle park.

  When Allenson climbed into his barge, he noted that cocked and loaded spring guns were stacked on the floor. He ordered the frames to stay together, but inevitably vehicles lifted
prematurely in small flotillas. They phased straight into the Continuum as soon as they were clear of the ground.

  Allenson held his barge aloft part phased until the last vehicle lifted. His barge orbited so his gunners could take turns pouring laser pulses into the burning town to stoke up the flames.

  They fully phased into a Continuum dark with the shadow of the world’s gravity well. Yellow trails indicated the tracks of the other frames. The gunners switched off and depowered the lasercannon, which were worse than useless within a Continuum field. A laser pulse couldn’t escape the field. It would simply bounce around burning everything in its path until completely converted into heat that also couldn’t get out. The crew took up spring guns, which shot ceramic bolts that could pass through the field.

  The other frames had the sense to wait in the shadow of the world until they could form a convoy for self-protection. Allenson placed his barge at the front and surveyed his fleet, if it could be dignified by such a term. Barely any two transports were the same model and few boasted hull mounted spring guns. With little hope he gave the signal to move out.

  Fast, light, enemy attack frames appeared all round them as soon as they left the shadow zone and moved into the open Continuum.

  CHAPTER 27

  Outrageous Fortune

  A frame field permitted only limited electromagnetic radiation in the visible spectrum to pass through. Anything else was too dangerous. The raw energy of the Continuum would rip apart an unprotected vessel, dropping the wreckage into the harsh vacuum of realspace. Communication between frames was limited to that spectrum. Often this meant hand gestures and colored lights.

  Allenson flashed the signal to tighten their formation. There were dangers in approaching another frame too close. If the fields touched, horrible things could happen, but they had to take the risk.

  They couldn’t run, so they had to fight. Their only hope was to fend off the light Brasilian fighters until their crews were exhausted. The heavier colonial transports had larger crews and more staying power. Brasilian frames moved in, attacking in waves to discharge harpoons from multibarreled swivel guns before retreating to reload.

  Each wave got in a little closer. Allenson’s troops died. So far they hadn’t lost a frame but sooner or later a harpoon would hit something critical. Then he might have to decide whether to slow the whole convoy down to support a lame duck or to leave them to their fate.

  More frames appeared in the distance, flickering in and out of sight through the multicolored streamers in the Continuum created by the high density of maneuvering vehicles. Allenson’s heart sank. They would have been pressed to escape their current opponents, but Brasilian reinforcements eroded even that slim chance.

  He seriously considered giving up. Surrender had always been a potential outcome and the chances of it being accepted by the Brasilians were much higher while the colonial formation still had enough cohesion to pose a threat to attackers.

  Allenson reached for his pad as the next wave of Brasilian gunboats swept in, to signal his surrender, when they abruptly checked and swung about. The new frames weren’t Brasilian reinforcements but Kaspary’s men. They hit the enemy frames like the wrath of God and the surprised Brasilians scattered like minnows before pikes.

  Within seconds not a single Brasilian frame was visible. The First Brigade gunboats gave up the pursuit almost immediately and reformed behind Allenson’s convoy. Kaspary had obviously been most forceful on the need for combat discipline. It was all too easy for victorious troops to hare off into the Continuum after a fleeing enemy until he turned and massacred the dispersed chasers.

  The combined convoy laid course for Brunswick. Allenson sat down to rest his eyes and fell asleep at once. Brunswick was but a short hop from Trent and the barge had already landed on the Brunswick base when he woke.

  The long sleep should have done him good but somehow he was more tired than ever. He dragged himself out of the barge and contacted Ling to set up a debriefing. He leaned back against the barge hull, watching the Brunswick light which showed a red shift tinting the clouds pastel pink. He wondered whether the effect was caused by the sun or something in the air. He could look up the answer on his pad but he just couldn’t find the energy.

  An incoming message from Ling indicated the place and time for a meeting. He hadn’t got long enough for a shower or change of clothes so he merely injected Nightlife to clear his head. Hawthorn noticed and pursed his lips but refrained from comment, which was just as well because Allenson was all out of diplomatic niceties.

  He had the strangest illusion when he walked into the meeting room that Fendlaigh was manning one of the hastily set up podiums, but Fendlaigh was dead. He closed his eyes and when he opened them the terminal was unoccupied. What he saw as a woman was nothing but a shadow created by a packing capsule leaning up against the wall.

  Ling, Todd and the other brigade commanders were already seated. They rose when he entered but he irritably waved them back into their seats before taking his own place.

  Allenson got each of the brigade commanders to give a report, including Kaspary.

  “I seem to recall I ordered you to proceed to Brunswick with all haste and leave the Forlorn Hope to make our own way,” Allenson said, looking at Kaspary.

  “Ah, yes, well, I was just watching the rear to shepherd in any stragglers from the third evacuation wave when I noticed combat in the distance.”

  “Indeed,” Allenson replied. “That was fortunate.”

  Kaspary was lying, of course, but it sufficed as an explanation.

  “Colonel Buller not coming?” Allenson asked.

  “He sends his apologies but regrets he is tied up improving the fortifications,” Ling replied smoothly.

  “Indeed,” Allenson replied again, thinking he was beginning to sound like an automated receptionist. Ling was also lying but Allenson really did not feel like taking any more shit from Buller so he let it go and changed the subject.

  “I take it that our defenses are inadequate.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Ling replied.

  Allenson said, “Well, I shan’t require them to withstand a major attack. All they have to do is stop us being rolled over by a coup de main. If and when the Brasilians turn up in force we shall immediately evacuate to Trinity.”

  “Then why are we here at all?” asked the commander of the 5th.

  What was the damned man’s name? It was on the tip of Allenson’s tongue but he couldn’t seem to dredge it out of his memory. Terril? No Ferril, that was it.

  “Because we needed somewhere a short hop away from Trent to reorganize and await reinforcements. I want the Canaries to go back to Trent and spread the word among the backlands that we need fighters. Our support is much stronger amongst the rural communities than the city. As soon as we have replaced our losses we relocate to Trinity.”

  “Won’t the enemy just follow us?” Ling asked.

  “They may well come as far as Brunswick, but not as far as Trinity. World hopping is not in their military manual.”

  Allenson reflected for a moment.

  “Actually, I doubt they could follow us that far even if they wanted to. The Brasilian military machine is frighteningly strong but very ponderous.”

  “I agree,” Hawthorn said, surprising Allenson.

  Hawthorn rarely contributed to strategy discussions but he had another comment to make.

  “And you should go to Paxton in the meantime, Allenson, to report to the Assembly. The politicians will be getting jumpy.”

  Allenson opened his mouth to refuse.

  “Good idea,” Ling cut in. “You will have to go back sometime to hold our masters’ hands and now would seem propitious—while things are quiet.”

  “Certainly no one else would suffice,” Todd added. “The politicos will only be reassured by you personally.”

  Allenson had the distinct feeling of being ambushed. He glanced around suspiciously at his comrades but was met by lev
el stares and open expressions utterly lacking in guile. That settled it, the bastards were plotting against him but he couldn’t quite see any flaw in their argument. He should report to the Assembly and now was as good a time as any.

  “Very well, gentlemen,” Allenson said, with bad grace.

  “Who will command in your absence, Colonel Ling?” Ferril asked.

  Allenson shook his head.

  “This is not time to start shuffling people around and I won’t be gone long. Colonel Ling is too valuable as chief of staff and Colonel Buller has enough on his plate. The senior brigadier will assume command in my absence. Who would that be?”

  “Colonel Kaspary, sir,” Ferril replied.

  Both Ferril and Ling looked relieved.

  “Then Kaspary it is,” Allenson said.

  Allenson was playing games. He knew damn well Kaspary was senior, which was why he commanded the 1st. The reasons for his choice made sense and were politic but he would have found some way to appoint Kaspary whatever the situation. He couldn’t trust Buller not to get all his people killed in some foolhardy venture. Ling had proved to be a valuable chief of staff but he was an unknown quantity as a combat commander. Kaspary was a proven fighter and he had enough confidence in his decisions to modify orders in the light of circumstances.

  “Before I leave, Colonel,” Allenson said to Kaspary, “I would like to make a short inspection of the base fortifications. Accompany me, if you please.”

  “Very good, sir, I will notify the base commandant.”

  The tour of the defenses turned into a depressing task. Allenson examined a rampart that might have held up a Brasilian commando for all of ten seconds, provided said commando was somewhat elderly, heavily wounded and agoraphobic. The bunker behind it had walls so thin that an energetic five-year-old could have poked a hole with his pen.

  A single fence of razor wire ran across the front of the rampart with a sign attached to one of the poles. Curious, Allenson walked around to look at the message which read, “Keep Out, Private Property.” Someone had peppered it with shotgun pellets.