Until Relieved

by Rick Shelley

  "Remember that," Keye said before he signed off.

  —|—

  "Can't help you this time, Lieutenant," Roo Vernon told Zel Paitcher. "That entire port drive has to be replaced, and I can't do that here. Not now, at least. That's a three-man job, and we'd have to bring the replacement drive down from the ships. Even if the colonel okayed that, it'd take three, four hours of work once we got the parts. And without a clean room to work in..." He shook his head. "Be better just to slide the bird into one of the heavy transport lifters and do the work back in the hangar, on the ship. And we can't get one of those down here without more security than we've got. Sorry, sir."

  Zel wanted to scream his rage, his frustration, but he didn't. If the bird couldn't be repaired, it couldn't, and no amount of shouting would change that. Still, for a long moment, he could do nothing but stare at Roo, his body trembling with pent-up emotion. Then the emotion seemed to drain away, suddenly, and his body went rather limp. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  "I know you've done your best, Chief," Zel said. Under his breath, an intense "Damn!" slid out.

  "We've got one other bird in the same shape out of Red flight," Roo offered. "Short as we are, maybe the colonel will authorize bringing down the repair parts. I'm sure he wants as many of them flying as possible."

  "But you don't think it's a good idea to try the repairs here."

  "Not the best, no, sir. I wouldn't guarantee the work for more than ten hours of flying time 'less we do it in a clean room. An' that's pushing it. Get dust and organic molecules in there, fouling things up. The control circuits can be mighty touchy about that. You saw what happened before, sir. We got something in your bird and it shut right down. You were lucky, sir. It happened on the ground last time. This might be worse. A little speck of dust caught in the wrong connection can raise the heat 20 degrees in no time at all. Use the bird hard and you can go right on by the safety limits, not even know what's happened until you get drive failure. Temperature fault like that, you couldn't even count on 'jecting safely." Roo paused for a moment, trying to come up with some way to make the lieutenant feel better about his plight.

  " 'Nother day or two, likely everybody be grounded," was the best he could find. "We're down to the scrapin's on munitions now. Won't any of it last much longer. Your plane, sir, I'll have to get in and strip what ammo you're carrying so we can keep another bird flyin' that much longer." Privately, Roo doubted that the ammunition would last even one more full day. If the Heggies made one more determined assault on the 13th, the remaining Wasps would run dry in short order.

  Zel looked at the ground. He was out of the air, probably for the duration of the campaign—unless a couple of other pilots had to be grounded with planes that were still airworthy, and that was highly unlikely.

  "I guess that makes me a mudder," Zel said eventually.

  " 'Fraid so, sir," Roo said, sympathy in his voice. "Other pilots who lost their birds, colonel's took 'em right into the HQ detachment." Roo failed to suppress a chuckle then. "He's got the highest ranked rifle squad ever, I think."

  Zel looked up then.

  "Sorry, sir," Roo said quickly. "I just couldn't help myself."

  Zel was slow to say, "That's okay, Chief. If it wasn't me, I'd probably be making the same sort of comments." He had made the same sort of comments, talking to Slee about the three other pilots who had lost their planes but remained healthy themselves.

  "This campaign can't last much longer," Roo said, trying to be conciliatory. "Relief be here soon, maybe afore the day's gone."

  "I'll believe it when I see it," Zel said. He shook his head. "Talk to you later, Chief. I'd best go report to the colonel. If I can find him."

  "Last I heard, sir, HQ was still up by Bravo Company," Roo offered.

  —|—

  The Schlinal commander on Porter had not bothered to return a garrison to the city of Maison. There would be time for that later. After the Accord troops were destroyed, the people of Maison would be next on his list of Things To Do. They had to have helped the invaders. At a minimum, they had permitted the Accord to attack and destroy or capture the troops stationed there. He did not know yet which was the case. Either way, it really did not matter. In any case, the punishment for Maison would be severe, and extended. But... later. After the burr of the Accord had been eliminated from Porter, he would think about punishment for Maison. Anticipation was half the fun. The Accord: the Schlinal commander did not assume that they had merely killed all prisoners out of hand, as he might easily have done in similar circumstances. After all, they had turned loose the prisoners they had captured in Porter City. Without weapons, helmets, boots, or clothes, true, but they had not harmed anyone after capture.

  "It's not as if I actually need the men they left in Maison," he reasoned.

  He still had more than sufficient troops for the job. It was just a question of bringing everything together in just the right way at just the right time. Soon, the Accord would be low on ammunition and food. Even with all of his satellites out of commission, the commander could still tell how many enemy ships were over his planet. There had been no reinforcements, no additional stores of ammunition coming in-system. Or food. The invaders would be easy pickings when they got hungry and short of wire. The Schlinal commander had no delusions about the quality of his troops. They would not have been assigned to garrison duty on a world like Porter if they had been first-rate combat soldiers. Most were conscripts. Many were too old and out of shape for the front lines. But they had the numbers, they had the weapons, and they had more than enough ammunition to deal with the enemy. After all, no more than two thousand or so could have landed, and they had taken casualties. The Schlinal commander had no idea how many casualties, but that there were some was obvious.

  Soon, the commander promised himself. Eleven days was too long as it was. If he let this incursion go on much longer, his superiors would ask too many uncomfortable questions. In the Schlinal military, questions could be hazardous to an officer's career... not to mention his health. The delay meant that he would need a "glorious" victory. He would have to completely obliterate the enemy. That way, he could always rationalize the time by saying that he had merely been toying with them, experimenting with methods, preparing himself and his troops for future engagements.

  He smiled. Yes, that would go over well with the field marshal, and the baron.

  Tomorrow night, he decided with a self-satisfied nod. After another thirty-six hours of softening up, the enemy should be in just the shape he wanted. His troops ought to be able to simply walk over them. Both units, the one in the valley, and the larger one up on the plateau. The smaller force, the one that had raided the capital, was nearly to that point now, from appearances. They had been reported using captured weapons, and abandoning them once they were empty.

  "Easy pickings indeed," the commander whispered.

  With that decided, he rang for his batman, and for breakfast. He had a good appetite this morning.

  —|—

  Six Havocs made the trip back to Maison under cover of darkness. Thirty men from the 2nd recon platoon met the howitzers outside the city and confirmed that the Heggies had not returned. After that, it was a matter of an hour's work to load the weapons and ammunition that had been left for the residents of Maison. The locals also provided more than a ton of foodstuffs, mostly vegetables and fruit, after they learned that the 13th was low on rations.

  "We're in this together," the acting mayor of Maison told the senior officer. The acting mayor was under no delusions as to what the fate of Maison would be if the 13th was destroyed. The reason he was acting mayor was that his elected predecessor had been hung in the town square as an example, for some unexplained infraction of Schlinal rules. "We'll do whatever we can."

  —|—

  "Damn delivery truck," Eustace Ponks mumbled under his breath. "Spend a day and a half repairing the ole girl and they turn her into a delivery truck."

  Si
mon pretended not to hear. That was better than rekindling the tirade that had started within seconds after they received their orders to be part of the mission to Maison.

  The damaged drive wheel and axle had been replaced with parts scavenged from a wrecked Havoc. The job had still taken more than eighteen hours of concentrated work. The jury-rigged repairs made in the rift valley had caused additional damage. Halfway through the new repair process, Rosey Bianco had come within seconds of throwing up his hands and giving up. Eustace had taken the mechanic aside and spent ten minutes convincing him to stick with it. Neither man would talk about what was said in that conversation.

  It gives us a chance, Simon thought—collecting the captured weapons and ammunition, that is. If the infantry ran out of wire, the Havocs would not last long. Artillery and infantry, and even the air wing, were all dependent on each other. The flyers needed safe places to land for fresh batteries and ammunition. The Havocs needed safe areas as well, and infantry to keep the enemy from destroying them like bugs. A Havoc had little defensive capability. It was pitifully easy to knock out. The more ammunition the mudders had, the longer the Havocs would have some sort of haven. Of course, the Havocs themselves might soon run out of ammunition. They were down to just the rounds they carried with them now. Basset two was down to eighteen rounds. In a hectic fight, they might run through that many shells in ten minutes. After that, Basset two would be nothing more than an expensive battering ram. Or a delivery van.

  Might as well start now, Simon thought. But he knew that Eustace would never see it that way.

  —|—

  Kam Goff woke feeling halfway rested for the first time since landing on Porter. Even after sleeping with the knockout patch that one time, he hadn't felt really rested. Of course, he had been wakened prematurely from that sleep. But this time, he woke on his own, quickly, fully. He felt exceptionally clearheaded, also for a change. Under other circumstances, he might have gotten rapidly to his feet, ready to face a sunny new day. But that could never happen again, not unless he found a magic potion that allowed him to forget everything he had seen and done on Porter. And Kam did not believe in magic.

  The bright alertness of waking refreshed quickly dulled as the events of the last eleven days reimprinted themselves on Kam's mind. It always came back—the killings, the blood, numbness, vomiting—all of it, down to the looks his comrades gave him when they thought he wouldn't notice.

  He always noticed. After several minutes, Kam finally sat up and looked around. They had made camp in a narrow canyon this time. He actually grinned at the thought that it could be a death trap. Enemy gunners on top of the canyon walls, shooting down: that would be a real slaughter. If the recon squads patrolling above were overwhelmed quickly, or missed spotting an enemy force, Echo and George might simply cease to exist.

  The countryside had become distinctly foreboding during the night's march, but it was only now clear just how foreboding. Up above this canyon, there seemed to be no trees at all left. There were rock-strewn vistas that might have come from an airless moon. Rarely was there any greenery visible, only in sheltered nooks, mostly along the few watercourses. The occasional bird stayed far overhead—scavengers looking for a meal. More rarely they saw a small animal, usually at a considerable distance. Most of those animals were the small hopping reptiles one of the men had jokingly termed a bunnysaurus. They did make decent eating, though they tasted nothing at all like rabbit.

  There was a thin stream running through this canyon, never more than two meters wide and sixty centimeters deep. The current was swift though, and the water clear and cold and pure. Doc Eddies had found no worrisome contamination with his field tests. In many ways, the water was even purer than the recycled fare they had known aboard ship coming to Porter. It certainly tasted better.

  I wonder if there are fish in it? Kam mused. He wasn't even sure that Porter had fish or recognizable analogs. Many worlds did, and many that had no native fish had imported them from Earth (or one of the other worlds with piscine fauna) to stock their waterways. He had seen pictures of beautiful, exotic species from dozens of worlds. As a child, Kam had once had a terrestrial aquarium, stocked solely with genuine Earth species. That hobby had lasted for nearly a year before the last of the fish had died, from some complaint he had never been able to identify.

  Kam got to his feet and stretched, twisting his body and moving from side to side. He looked up at the sky. The sun was shining in a cloudless sky. At least the portion of sky he could see between the canyon walls was cloudless. Despite the burden of his memories, Kam felt as at ease with himself as he could remember ever feeling. There was a measure of comfort to everything now, and had been since he had taken over Al's duties and made his other decision. He had finally come to terms with his failings. He knew what he had to do, and he knew that he could do it.

  A beautiful day, Kam thought. A beautiful day to die. If he could escape the watching eyes of his comrades long enough. He had noticed them tracking him, every second of every hour. He suspected that they even stood guard over him while he was asleep. It didn't matter. He would find his opportunity. And then he could really rest.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Corporal Dem Nimz of the 3rd recon platoon led his squad back into the canyon bivouac. The recon platoons were organized differently from the line companies. Each recon platoon was divided into twelve-man rather than seven-man squads. Within those squads, the troops were divided into three 4-man fire teams. Recon soldiers normally operated in smaller units than line troops did, most often without backup from air or artillery. Recon soldiers tended to be more independent by nature, more difficult to fit into the normal garrison discipline of the military. But the nature of the men, and the nature of the assignments they drew, also brought a certain amount of consideration. It was rare for them to be pressed to act like drill field soldiers.

  The sergeant who had commanded Nimz's squad on landing had been killed the first day, on a patrol far beyond the lines. Nimz still had eight men left, including himself. The squad worked its way down a narrow pathway along the canyon wall. When they entered camp, they headed directly toward Captain Ingels's command post on the far side of the canyon, under an overhang that gave the area the appearance of a cave mouth.

  "I didn't want to say anything over the radio, sir," Nimz said when he was face-to-face with the captain and both men had their helmet visors up.

  Ingels raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You ambushed a short company of Heggies. What happened then?"

  "We caught 'em fair, sir, and didn't lose a man doin' it," Nimz said, nodding at the satisfying memory. "They walked right into our kill zone, an' we did 'em up proper. Three splat guns." He smiled broadly. "The body count was ninety four, including three wounded Heggies who couldn't make it another hour. Far as we could tell, no one escaped. I'm pretty sure o' that, sir, but not full one hundred percent. Maybe ninety-nine point five." Nimz had to restrain himself to keep from laughing, still on a high from the ambush.

  "So, what was the problem?" Ingels kept his voice even. He had dealt with recon types often enough. He had even done a short tour as a recon platoon leader before deciding that he fit in better with a line company—that is, before deciding that he really didn't belong with the crazy reccers.

  "The Heggies know we're short of ammo, sir. Know it. Plain and simple, no doubt at all. We took ninety-four rifles. The most any of the dead Heggies had was two full spools, plus whatever was already in the magazine. An' no spare power packs. One of the wounded managed to talk a little before he died. Said their officers got orders that they weren't to go into combat with any more ammo than that. Their reserves were being held back, out of our reach."

  For a moment Ingels simply stared at Nimz.

  "We brought back the rifles and wire," Nimz added. The captain's silent stare bothered him in a way he really couldn't understand.

  "Every little bit helps," Ingels allowed. He sighed. "But if they know we're hurting..."

>   "Yes, sir," Nimz said, mostly to prevent another lengthy silence. "You see why I didn't want to put that on the radio."

  "You did right, Corporal. Thank you. Get your men fed and settled down for a rest. We'll get the weapons distributed."

  Ingels stood motionless and watched while Nimz rejoined his men and led them off toward a space a little farther upstream. North. Anyone who thought much on the subject wanted to be upstream of everyone else. The stream might have been pure when the strike force arrived, but the presence of so many dirty humans would not leave it that way for long.

  After two or three minutes, Ingels lowered his visor and said one word on a private channel. "Vic."

  "Yes, Captain?" Lieutenant Vickers replied.

  "Come see me, soon as you can."

  Ingels lifted his visor again, walked over to the stream, and looked down into the water. He knew that he had to pass the intelligence on to Colonel Stossen—over the radio, despite the sensitivity of the information—but he wanted a moment to think through what he would say first. He knelt slowly and (lipped his hands in the stream and splashed water against his face. Then he dipped again and took a long drink. He had a canteen cup on his belt, but this was quicker and, in a way he did not try to understand, more satisfying, even if it was far less efficient.

  If only wire flowed like water, there for the taking.

  —|—

  Joe Baerclau had a dull ache in his lower back that simply would not go away. He had even had Doc Eddies take a look, but all the doc could do was to put a soaker over it, and even that did not seem to help, or help much. The ache was still there, a constant reminder nagging at Joe's attention. The ache even disturbed his sleep, insinuating itself into his dreams, keeping him from the deep oblivion his exhaustion merited. Keep me on my toes, Joe told himself, trying to find something positive in the pain. I get too deep asleep, I might not wake up if we're attacked. There was really little chance of that, but it did address one of Joe's constant worries in a combat situation. From experience, he knew that he would never sleep that soundly. If there was any gunfire at all around, it would snap him right out of sleep, ready to return fire or do whatever else the situation might demand. But he always worried about it.