“They’re pinned down on the mesa,” Halcyon observed. “Anakin hasn’t been able to take those hills.”
“The last word we had from him, sir,” an operations officer responded, “was that he was taking over the transport battalion. I don’t even know if the infantry has been deployed to take the hill.”
“Casualties?”
“We’ve several hundred so far, sir,” the division surgeon replied. “More coming in every minute. May I have your permission to go to the aid station and help out?”
Halcyon nodded and the surgeon hurried out. Halcyon came over and sat down beside Slayke. “Our attacks have failed,” he admitted. He smashed a fist into one hand to express his anxiety. “Somehow they stymied Anakin. His taking those hills was the key to our whole plan. I’m going to withdraw the troops.”
“Anakin may have succeeded in taking his objective,” Slayke reasoned.
“No, he hasn’t. He’s alive and still fighting, but not on the hills. We need to reassess the situation and try something else. I’m not going to exhaust my army attacking those heights in frontal assaults. There’s nothing but dust, fire, smoke, and confusion over on Anakin’s side, and he hasn’t been in touch with us since twenty minutes ago when he announced he was taking over the transport battalion. I knew before we started if we couldn’t crack that line within twenty minutes we’d never break it the way we’d planned.”
“Now you know what it’s like to command an army like this,” Slayke said. “My troopers are ready. Give me the word and we’ll support you wherever you need us. But I agree. I think we need to revise our battle plan.”
“As soon as our troops begin their retrograde movement, move yours to the old riverbed. Establish a defensive line. It’ll be tricky, our attackers passing back through your brigade, but you can handle that. Entrench there and prepare for a counterattack. Signals, issue an order for all units to break contact and withdraw to our lines as quickly as possible. Where are you going?” he asked Slayke, who had gotten up.
“To lead my troops.”
Halcyon shook his head. “I suppose there’s no sense me trying to talk you into staying here with me. You and Anakin—you’re fighters. Try not to get yourself killed.” Halcyon knew Anakin was still alive and fighting, but that was all he knew. Anakin, he thought, where are you? What are you doing?
* * *
Chapter 24
What are you doing here?“ a harried staff officer demanded when he saw two strangers standing in the command center.
“We just came from the aid station, sir,” Lieutenant Erk H’Arman answered.
“Well, get back over there, then, we don’t need any hangers-on.”
“He’s wounded, sir,” said recon trooper Odie Subu, “and I’ve been assigned to look after him.” She displayed the medpac the surgeon had given her. “We thought we could help out here.”
“Help us out? You look like you two should be on the Respite yourselves! Well, go see a doctor, then, but get out of here. We’re busy.”
At that point Zozridor Slayke happened to walk by. “Well, well,” he said, “if it isn’t my prodigal twins. What are you two up to?” He remembered Odie in particular, because she had volunteered to accompany the pilot to Izable. He’d also heard what had happened to them and how they’d gotten out of the collapsed bunker. “These are two good soldiers,” he remarked to the staff officer. Realizing his commander knew the pair, the officer excused himself to go about his duties. Briefly, Odie outlined the situation at the aid station.
“Look, it’s going to get real busy here in a minute and I’ve got to go fire up my commanders,” Slayke told them. “Why don’t you two go down to the Fire Direction Center? See Colonel Gris Manks, my artillery commander—he’s big, you can’t miss him. Tell him I sent you. See if he can use a hand.” Slayke knew very well that the pair would be of no help to Colonel Manks, but after all they had been through, he felt they deserved a rest and a chance to avoid the crisis that was about to come. At least they’d be safe down in the FDC. With that, he was on his way.
The Fire Direction Center was literally “down,” accessed by a sloping tunnel that labor droids had constructed under the supervision of Halcyon’s engineers. The FDC itself was large and crammed with equipment that enabled the dozens of experts who staffed the place to communicate directly with the two divisional artillery headquarters and through them to coordinate and give missions to every single piece of artillery in the army. When the pair entered the FDC, Gris Manks was shouting loudly at a clone sergeant. He saw the newly arrived pair in his peripheral vision and whirled on them. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Captain Slayke sent us to help out,” Erk answered.
“Help out? You two? Lieutenant, you look all shot up—and you, trooper, you look all shot down. How can you help me?”
“Sir, I’m the one who was shot down,” Erk answered, “and burned up, too. The trooper is my wing-mate.” He explained briefly how they’d gotten to the FDC.
Colonel Manks stared at the two in disbelief. “All right,” he said at last, “the captain sent you? All right, then, you two go over there and sit by that droid. Don’t pay any attention to what it might try to tell you. Keep out of the way and keep your eyes and ears open and you might learn something.” He whirled, stomped over to a console, and began shouting loudly at a clone lieutenant.
The pair recognized the droid at once as a standard military protocol unit, the kind often found performing administrative duties in personnel offices and orderly rooms, and thought it strange to find one here in the FDC.
“Good day,” the droid said as the pair sat down beside it, “I am very proud to announce that I am a modified military protocol droid. I have been modified to operate effectively at battalion-, regimental-, and division-level artillery fire direction centers—which, I am proud to say, I can run with expert efficiency. I know the nomenclature, ranges, maintenance requirements, and firing data of more than three dozen artillery pieces; I can prepare firing tables for all these pieces and plot ranges obtained from orbital satellites, forward observers, or maps; I can integrate and control their fires for destructive, neutralizing, and demoralizing missions in either concentration fire, barrages, standing barrages, box barrages, or rolling barrages. I am also qualified to arrange scheduled fires and fires on targets of opportunity, whether observed or unobserved. And I might add, I am an expert on the employment of tactical fires whether in a supporting role, preparatory role, counterpreparatory role, or counterbattery role, or as interdiction or harassing fire. I am, in short, the top of the line of cannon operators.”
The droid’s voice had been programmed to sound like that of a young human female, and to hear the melodic tones spouting off artillery jargon was so unexpected that Odie began to laugh.
“I believe you are amused and I am pleased if I have in any way caused you to transition to that mode,” the droid said. “But I have not yet finished my list of capabilities, for I was created and programmed to be a military protocol droid, which means I can function perfectly from the level of company clerk to battalion adjutant. I am an expert at running duty rosters for staff duty officer/duty noncommissioned officer; sergeant of the guard; corporal of the guard; guard mount; company charge of quarters and company runner, kitchen police, escort detail for fallen comrades, and refresher orderly; I am an expert at preparing morning reports and all types of personnel actions; I can maintain company punishment books or prepare charge sheets for summary, special, and general courts-martial and I can also act as recorder for those proceedings; I know the uniform regulations of every army in the galaxy as well as their awards and decorations manuals, and can prepare awards recommendations from letters of appreciation to the highest awards for heroism a world can bestow; I can prepare supply requisitions for every piece of clothing and equipment, ordnance, and weaponry authorized by tables of organization and equipment or tables of allowances; I can manage company funds; I can do everything, in short, r
equired of a company clerk, company first sergeant, battalion sergeant major, or battalion adjutant. I can do all that in addition to arranging to demolish everything within fifty kilometers of where we are now sitting.”
“Well, if you’re so good, why aren’t you over there arranging something?” Erk asked with a nod toward the bustling FDC staff.
The droid didn’t reply immediately. “My commander, the incomparable Colonel Gris Manks,” it confessed at last, “has declared me… negatively uncooperative, is how he put it.”
They waited patiently for the droid to explain, but it just sat there staring at them. “Well, what does he mean by that?” Odie asked.
Again the droid didn’t answer immediately. Then it bent close to the two and lowered its voice. It actually swiveled its clamshell head to see if anyone was close enough to hear. “It’s not working,” it whispered.
“What’s not working?” Erk asked in a normal voice.
The droid made hushing motions with its hands. “Shhh. I don’t want to go back to doing duty rosters,” it whispered. “We do not have the proper mix of artillery pieces to conduct this campaign effectively. We do not have a sufficient quantity of indirect-fire weapons. We are attacking uphill, as it were. That requires the ability to conduct parabolic fires, not line-of-sight fires. Laser and ion cannons are wonderful weapons, but they fire line-of-sight. We can’t use the batteries on board the ships in orbit because there would be too great a risk of destroying the Intergalactic Communi-cations Center and all the noncombatants; we can’t send in fighters to attack from the air because the enemy’s air defense array is too powerful. Did you hear the barrage we mounted last night? All the really potent fires had to be directed against the forward edge of the mesa occupied by the enemy. It was the mortars that did whatever real damage was done.”
“You mean like grenade mortars?” Odie asked.
“Yes!” the droid answered enthusiastically.
“But those are light-infantry, direct-support weapons with short ranges, aren’t they?”
“Yes, the standard versions, but Captain Slayke had two full batteries of self-propelled heavy mortars constructed that have a maximum range of fifty kilometers. They can drop shells with warheads weighing up to one thousand kilos on targets on the reverse slopes of hills. You see,” the droid said, leaning forward and tapping Odie on her knee, “proper employment of artillery requires the proper integration of all available fires. That’s what an FDC does. To obtain maximum effectiveness from artillery, the fires must be coordinated to bring the most accurate and potent destruction on any given target in the Tactical Area of Responsibility, and that means the proper kind of artillery must be used. Of course, the mounted mobile mortars that accompany front-line infantry are not necessarily included in the FDC’s menus because they are designed to operate independently, to give close support to targets of opportunity opposing the ground troops. But everything else an army relies on to bombard troop concentrations and fixed installations must be coordinated, and that is what I do.” It leaned back and tapped its chest proudly.
“So why are you, ah, in trouble?” Erk asked.
“Because I told Colonel Manks he should have told Captain Slayke to invest in more large mortars.”
“That doesn’t sound like such a bad thing to tell your commander,” Odie said.
“Yes,” the droid answered, “but I thought it my duty to tell him that more than once. I told him fifty-two times, to be exact.”
“Ah. I understand that could be trying. Why didn’t he follow your advice?”
“Because, he said, one mixes weapons to cover all expected contingencies, and going too far with one weapons system at the expense of another would ‘unbalance’ our arms inventory.”
The three sat silently for a while. All around them the FDC hummed with activity. “Things are not going well for us,” the droid said at last. “We are calling off the attack.”
“Calling it off?” Erk asked in disbelief.
“Yes, the attack on the enemy’s flank has failed and he is holding fast.”
“Now what?”
“We should put more artillery on him, enough so that he will go away,” the droid answered. “I know. I am a modified military protocol droid. I have been modified to operate effectively at battalion-, regimental-, and division-level artillery…”
Erk turned to Odie as the droid droned on. “There’s got to be a better way. All those casualties…” He shook his head sadly.
Odie rested her head on a hand and leaned close to Erk. Her voice quavered as she spoke. “It’s one disaster after another. Will this never end? Does anybody know what they’re doing? We’re the only survivors of General Khamar’s army, do you realize that, Erk? All those lives lost! Why did we, of all of them, survive? Why that Rodian I killed, the friend of that Jedi commander, Skywalker? Why did that have to happen?”
“Commander Skywalker,” he corrected her. “I don’t know—that’s just the way it’s turned out. But we made it; we made it this far and we’re going to make it all the way.” He put his good arm around her shoulders. “Commander Skywalker led the attack on those hills, Odie. I wonder what’s happened to him?”
“I’m not sure I want to know.”
* * *
Chapter 25
The smoke and fires and the dust were so thick that the transport’s infras couldn’t penetrate it; the onboard radar was no longer effective at picking out targets, because the debris and fragments from exploding vehicles filled the air in a raging cauldron of destruction. It had become almost impossible to know if one was firing on friend or foe.
“Get us out of here,” Anakin ordered his driver. “I’ve got to see what’s going on and get those transports moving. My troopers are up there without infantry support. Move. Move!”
Suddenly Anakin’s vehicle was rammed in the rear by another vehicle; everyone pitched forward in their harnesses, and the transport came to a stop. In that instant a bolt from a laser cannon struck the machine on the flank and drilled through into the crew compartment, which immediately burst into flames.
Without even thinking about it, Anakin reached down with one arm and grabbed the driver by the bottom of his back plate. With the other he sent a Force push that flung the cupola hatch open. The driver released his harness and kicked with his feet as Anakin hauled him out of his seat, up into the cupola, and over the side. They landed in a heap beside the transport, which began to billow greasy black smoke followed by a brilliant and intensely hot white flame that shot at least ten meters into the air. No one else made it out.
Dragging the driver, Anakin stumbled toward cover. He hadn’t made it more than a few meters when another vehicle roared by, missing them by millimeters, almost knocking them down in its passing and nearly suffocating them in the thick cloud of dust that billowed behind it. Anakin flung himself and the driver into a shallow depression. All around them vehicles roared and churned, their guns flashing. The noise was deafening. Something came pounding at them out of the dust—a transport, headed straight for them. They burrowed as deeply into the depression as they could get and the machine roared right over them, half burying the pair in the caved-in dirt of the depression, which was now nothing more than a rut in the ground.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Anakin said, digging himself out of the dirt.
“Which way is out?” the driver replied.
He was right: Anakin realized he didn’t know which direction was the front. He looked around and in only a moment located the transports.
“This way,” he ordered. The driver followed him. They came to a transport that had stopped and was firing repeatedly at targets they couldn’t see. Anakin recognized the faint markings stenciled on the front armor plate—it was one of his! He switched to his command net. “Aurek Trill Six Niner Slant Cresh, this is Unit Six. Open up, I’m taking you as my command vehicle.” There was no response.
He reached for the small hatch that held a receiver-transmitter
hooked into the vehicle’s onboard communications system when suddenly it lurched forward, entangling the hem of his cloak in the track mechanism, jerking him off his feet and dragging him along. He was just millimeters from being pulled under the vehicle’s treads when his driver leapt forward and severed his cloak with a vibroblade.
“Thanks, that was close,” Anakin gasped as the driver helped him to his feet. He unfastened the cloak and let the fragment fall to the ground. Then he tapped the communications mechanism in his helmet and tried to raise the transport commander. He heard nothing but static.
“Come on, we’ll have to get back to the transports on foot. They aren’t far. Follow me.”
They ran. Anakin had to hold himself back: the driver was well trained and in good shape, but even so, he couldn’t match a Jedi at top speed. Anakin’s blood pounded in his veins as he willed himself to keep his speed down a fraction when everything in him roared a single message: Run! But in a few seconds that felt like an eternity, he found himself in the rut the transport had made. The transports were there. He ran to the first one in line. Its hatch was open, and its commander stood in it with his armored head and torso half out of the vehicle. With an easy Force leap, Anakin bounded onto the vehicle’s dorsal surface, surprising the clone commander, who drew his weapon, thinking he must be an enemy soldier.
Anakin seized the clone’s arm. “I’m Commander Skywalker!” he said urgently. “Get down inside—I’m taking this as my command vehicle.” The clone commander obeyed. Reaching down to pull his driver up behind him, Anakin climbed in.
Jedi Trial Page 21