Until Relieved

by Rick Shelley

  "Cinnamon toast?" The words came out so softly that he could scarcely hear them himself. There was certainly no toast around. Even if there was fresh bread available, there were no cooking fires to brown it; and Joe had never come across cinnamon in the army. Joe rubbed a hand in the mossy ground cover near his face and the smell grew stronger... and gradually less familiar. But the first scent had triggered childhood memories of waking in the morning to that aroma, and hurrying out to the kitchen to get his toast while it was still hot. He almost never thought about his childhood anymore, not even in his dreams. When his memories did travel back that far, it was more like viewing someone else's past than his own. His years of military service, and most especially the combat he had seen, had drawn a wall between his notion of self and memories of how he had gotten to the present. Five years in uniform might as easily have been five decades. His life before the army seemed that far in the past. That was what made this so surprising.

  "Something's sure getting the hell pasted out of it," Kam whispered next to Joe. Baerclau turned to look at him.

  "Just as long as it's not us on the receiving line." Joe was uncertain how Goff would turn out. Joe had taken both new men into his fire team so that he would have an easier time keeping track of them. Al Bergon seemed absolutely steady. He took his secondary duties as squad medic seriously without neglecting his primary function as a rifleman. But Goff... Joe just could not make up his mind.

  "Yeah." Kam laughed nervously. "Yeah."

  "Just take it easy." Joe shifted around, trying to get comfortable. "We're here to draw attention."

  "Those guns will sure do that," Kam said.

  Joe took a moment to scan the field of grass in front of their positions again, looking for any indication—visual or electronic—that Hegemony soldiers might be moving in for an attack on this section of the perimeter. There was a gentle breeze moving from left to right, bending the tops of the grass in an easy rhythm. Anyone crawling through that grass ought to disturb that rhythm, Joe told himself. There were no electronic signatures out there, but he was far from convinced that the instruments in his helmet would definitely pick up anything. They were supposed to, but in Joe's experience, they worked only slightly more than half of the time, even in training exercises. The electronics the Schlinal soldiers used in their helmets were shielded almost as well as those that the Accord used.

  "Sarge, how bad will it get?"

  Joe lifted his visor this time. He wanted Goff to see his face. "There's no way to know that up front, kid. However bad it gets, we'll do our job. We have to keep the Heggies here, keep them from going off to reinforce any of the other worlds in this sector." Don't scramble your brains worrying about things you can't change, he thought.

  "Our people will come for us, won't they? They won't just abandon us here?"

  "They'll come," Joe assured him. "We don't have so many troops that they can afford to write off an entire assault team."

  "But if they don't come, then what?"

  "Then we'll do the best we can for as long as we can." Shut up and watch your fire lanes, kid. "Just take it easy. We've only been here an hour. It'll be four days, maybe more, before our pickup shows. It takes time. They're not going to forget about us."

  If they don't show up? Joe pulled his visor back into place and looked out at the grass again. If the main fleet failed to come, did not cover the evacuation, the 13th would be in deep trouble, and Joe knew it. The shuttles would be sitting ducks lifting off, easy targets for anyone with a shoulder-fire missile. And if there were enemy fighters in the air... They might be lucky if ten percent of the regiment made it back to the ships.

  But that would not happen. At least, it had never happened before.

  "Our orders are to hold until we're relieved or recalled," Joe said softly, talking only to himself now. He did not like to think about the price of failure.

  He spotted movement behind the line and off to the side, and turned to look. He recognized Lieutenant Keye by the way he moved. One soldier in combat kit looked pretty much like any other. There were no bold badges of rank for an enemy to target.

  Keye dropped to the ground at Joe's side and handed him a small pack.

  "Take your squad out a klick," Keye said without preamble. "Plant a line of bugs across the company front. You know the drill."

  Joe did know the drill. He gathered his men and split the pack of recon bugs among the squad. Once activated, the thumb-sized sensors would detect sound, electromagnetic emissions, and, at very close range, the body temperature of a large warm-blooded animal—or human. The bugs had transmitters with a three-kilometer range to send back their readings.

  Using hand signs and soft commands over the squad frequency, Joe got the men moving forward in a skirmish line, with plenty of space between men. They walked slowly, rifles at the ready, stopping after almost every step to listen, and to look into the grass ahead of them. Grass, no matter how tall, would not stop a burst of wire. And it could hide an enemy or his mines.

  Grass. The tallest patches reached five centimeters above Joe's web belt, but he was the shortest man in his squad. The tops of the stalks were brown and going to seed, but lower, the stems were still green, and moist. The night's dew had not been dried yet by the sun. Joe's boots were soon wet from wading through the grass.

  Eighty meters out from the line, the squad crossed a dirt track through the field. It was scarcely wide enough to have been made or used by humans, but Joe held his men up until they had a chance to scan for booby traps or any indication that humans had used the path. Satisfied finally that the trace was animal, Joe ordered his men across. They crossed it quickly, then went prone in the grass on the other side, just in case.

  "Okay, I guess we're clear," Joe whispered after a moment. There had been no clatter of gunfire, nor any other sounds from in front of them. "Let's get moving." He would not have routed his men along that trail even if it had been headed precisely in the right direction. The easy way could too easily be lethal.

  Joe was the first on his feet, scanning the grass tops quickly but thoroughly, looking for any hint of unnatural movement. He had his carbine up and stared across the sights, ready to fire if he even thought that he might have a target. He could feel his hands sweating on the stock of his zipper. His hands sweated ferociously when he was nervous, and he was always nervous in combat. Joe's thumb reached for the carbine's fire-selector switch, to make certain that the safety was off.

  He suddenly realized that he was hearing no firing at all, not rifles, not artillery or Wasp munitions, not even in the distance. Somebody call the battle off and forget to tell us? He didn't bother to laugh at his own joke.

  In any case, the silence was short-lived. Joe had taken no more than three steps when he heard rifle fire, well off to the right. Still, he paused for a moment, and held the squad back until he could assure himself that the fire was getting no closer. Just as he started the squad forward again, a shadow passed overhead. Joe looked up and saw the familiar silhouette of a Wasp fighter going toward the source of the gunfire. The Wasp opened up with its cannons, two very short bursts. The rifle fire stopped.

  Joe looked up again to see the Wasp bank left, climbing through a tight circle.

  Then he saw a rocket trail climbing toward the Wasp.

  "Down!" he barked over the squad channel. Joe dove forward, landing on forearms and legs in a fluid motion that brought his rifle to his shoulder even though he had nothing to shoot at. A wire carbine could never bring down a missile, even if a rifleman could hit something moving that fast.

  The Wasp pilot hit his throttles and started maneuvering violently in an attempt to avoid the rocket. Joe leaned sideways to watch. His view was partially obstructed by the grass, but he did see light reflecting off of the silvery particles of chaff that the Wasp pilot dropped in an attempt to confuse the missile's guidance system.

  For an instant, Joe thought that the Wasp was going to escape. The missile seemed to lose its lock. Th
e Wasp pulled almost straight up, then spiraled back on itself, two-hundred meters above the missile and going in the opposite direction. Silently, Joe urged the pilot on with all the fervor he could muster.

  Then the missile righted itself and streaked toward the Wasp again. The pilot continued trying to evade until the last second, but the rocket caught it dead center from below. On the ground, Joe could not tell if the pilot had ejected at the last instant before the missile hit, or if the explosion had blown the cockpit module clear of the rest of the fighter. The parasail opened, but that was automatic.

  "Baerclau?"

  "Yes, Lieutenant," Joe replied over the command channel. "I see it."

  "How far are you from where that pod will land?"

  "Hard to say yet, sir. The way the wind's blowing, it could be a couple of klicks, over toward Delta Company, maybe past them."

  The rest of the Wasp fell, scattering over an area more than a kilometer in diameter. There was little in the way of flames after the primary explosion. The warheads on the Wasp's rockets had exploded when the missile hit. Some of the shells for its cannons had also cooked off, but most of the fire was out before the wreckage hit the ground. A few chunks of superheated metal started grass smoldering for a moment, but there was little danger of a wildfire. The grass was too damp.

  "Go for it," Keye said. "We don't want to leave him for the Heggies. Forget the bugs until you can tell if that pilot's alive. I'll clear with Delta so you don't get shot by our people."

  "Roger." I sure as hell hope you clear us, Joe thought. The idea of being hit by friendly fire could send a chill down any man's spine.

  There was no time to waste for long reflection. If there were Schlinal forces around, they would undoubtedly be hurrying toward the escape pod as well. It might be a close race.

  "Ezra, we're going after the flyguy. Move your team out first. I want you on point for this. Anyone else, it might take too long."

  "On my way," Ezra replied. He sounded calm.

  The Wasp's escape pod did not stay in the sky for long, but every second that it was in the air, it traveled farther away from Joe and his men. It came down in the open grass, far from any of the isolated trees. For a couple of minutes after the module landed, the parasail continued to flap. Although Joe could not be certain, it appeared that the chute might be dragging the escape module. If the pilot was alive, he couldn't be in any condition to trip the release that would sever the lines.

  Joe's squad moved in a loose wedge now. Ezra Frain was out in front. The two other men from his fire team trailed ten meters back and ten meters apart. The rest of the squad came in a third line. The spacing between the last two lines was the same as that between the first two, but Joe kept the lateral distance between his men closer to five meters. Although he knew that there might be enemy soldiers in the grass, or concealed by one of the isolated trees in the field, he did not expect to run across mines or other booby traps. The Schlinal garrison on Porter could not possibly have anticipated the landing—or that it might take place on the plateau—and there had been no time since the landing for enemy troops to devise traps or bring mines from barracks or armory.

  But the 13th would not be able to count on that for long.

  After five minutes of hurrying through the tall grass, Joe began to think that his initial estimate of the distance to the escape pod might have been grossly short. The parasail had finally quit flapping in the breeze. Now it lay like an immense target across the top of the grass.

  "Keep your eyes open for Heggies," Joe reminded the squad. "If there are any around, they'd probably like nothing better than to nab a flyguy."

  "I know," Ezra said. He was beginning to sound short of breath. Trying to maintain a rapid walk through thick grass carrying more than thirty kilograms of gear could do that to anyone. The men in the Accord's SATs had to be in good condition to start with, and their training regimen ensured that no one became flabby, but there were still limits.

  A few minutes later, Ezra reported, "I have the pod in sight."

  "Any sign of the pilot?" Joe asked.

  "Negative. I'm looking at the bottom of the pod from about two-hundred meters. But at least there's no sign of hostiles."

  "Set up your team on the far side of the pod. We'll take the near side. Al, you check on the pilot." Joe had little hope that there would be anything for Bergon to do. He assumed that the pilot must be dead. But they had to know for certain, one way or the other.

  —|—

  The shooting started just as Ezra and his men moved around the capsule, still some thirty meters away from it. The metallic whizzing sound came from farther away from the Accord perimeter, but it was well aimed. The sound of wire fragments hitting helmets and visors carried clearly, like hail striking aluminum siding. At any distance, there was little to hear when those tiny projectiles hit resilient body armor... or puncturable flesh.

  Joe didn't bother to dive for cover this time. He started firing short bursts of wire over the side of the escape pod, toward where he thought the enemy shooters were. The rest of his fire team joined in. The men did move farther apart, but they kept advancing—more rapidly now. They went straight for the pod. That, at least, offered some cover—as long as they chose the correct side to shelter behind.

  "Ezra, talk to me," Joe said.

  There was a maddening delay before Ezra said, "It's kinda hard right now," through obviously clenched teeth. Joe had no doubt that Ezra was wounded. The voice was a sure giveaway.

  "Tod, Wiz. What shape are you in?" Joe demanded.

  "Tod's hurt, not too bad, I think," Wiz Mackey said. "His helmet's bust though."

  "What about you?"

  "I've felt better, but I'm not bleeding, and I don't think anything's broke."

  "Can you get to Ezra?"

  "I'll get him," Al volunteered.

  "Check on that pilot first, Bergon," Joe said. "Wiz?"

  "I'm already moving toward him."

  "Stay put," Ezra said. "I'll come to you. I'm not dead."

  While he talked on his helmet radio, Joe had reloaded his zipper, shucking the empty wire coil and inserting another twenty meter spool. The carbine's power cell was good for two hours of continuous firing, but twenty meters of wire lasted no more than ten seconds on automatic fire.

  Al Bergon crawled around the Wasp pod, snaking on his belly to get to the canopy on the far side.

  "Can't tell if he's alive or not," Bergon said after he got his first look inside the cockpit. "He's unconscious at least. How do you open these things?"

  "Front end of the canopy, about twenty centimeters down, there's a panel that lifts out, and a handle underneath," Joe said. "Either side of the cockpit. If you can't reach the one on the low side, you'll have to try the one on top. Let us know. If you have to go for the exposed handle, we'll lay down covering fire."

  A moment later the others heard a grunt over the radio. "Damn, it's going to be close," Bergon said. "I think..." There was a pause, and then, "I got the panel up. Now, if I can get my hand under there."

  Joe waited, almost holding his breath. He heard the sound of the latch releasing before Bergon confirmed that he had it open.

  "The whole canopy slides backward, if it isn't too badly damaged," Joe said.

  "It's moving," Bergon said. Then, another "Damn!"

  "Now what?" Joe demanded.

  "Stuck. I don't know if I can wiggle in enough to... Yeah. I've got my head and arms in. Jeez, there's blood all over in here."

  "Is he?" There was no need for Joe to finish the question.

  "There's a pulse," Bergon said. "It's weak, but it's there."

  "Can you get him out by yourself or do you need help?"

  "I could use a hand," Al admitted.

  "Hang tight. Mort, see if you can get around there without getting your ass shot off."

  "I'll get there. I'm very attached to my ass. Never go anywhere without it."

  Joe raised up and started spraying wire over the top of
the capsule, more interested in suppressing enemy fire than in finding any targets. There would be time for that later, once the pilot—and his own casualties—had been recovered and treated.

  Mort scooted around the capsule.

  "See if you can drag the canopy back a little more," Al told him. "Maybe both of us together."

  After a few grunts and curses, Al said, "There, I think that's enough. I'll open his harness. Be careful when we pull him out. He survived the rocket, I don't want to lose him to the rescue."

  "Oh, crap." That was Mort. "He can't have much blood left inside him."

  "Enough to raise a pulse," Bergon replied. "That's all we can ask for right now. Careful there. Let's slide him around... Hold on, his foot's caught on something. I'll have to get in there again."

  "Hurry it up," Joe told them. "We've got company coming." He switched channels. "Lieutenant, we have hostiles moving our way, two hundred meters out on a bearing of 325 degrees from the capsule, at least ten men."

  "You'll have help," Keye promised. "Hold one." When he returned to the channel, he said, "Two Wasps coming in right now."

  Ezra's fire team moved closer to the rear end of the escape pod. Ezra was moving with difficulty, but he was moving on his own. Neither Tod Chorbek nor Wiz Mackey showed any lingering effects from being shot. The wire had come from too far away to penetrate, though the side of Tod's helmet was badly cracked.

  —|—

  Slee and Zel came in fast, wingtip to wingtip. They triggered their cannons as soon as they saw their targets, riding their guns harder than the shooting instructors recommended. Rules went out the canopy when Wasp pilots were protecting one of their own who had been shot down—or the mudders who were trying to save him.

  "Come on, you bastards," Zel muttered under his breath. Out in the tall grass, the enemy soldiers were clearly visible. Even though they had dropped to the ground, they had nowhere to hide. The open patches where they had flattened the grass or pushed it aside marked them as clearly as spaceport beacons.