by Rick Shelley
"It is tempting," Stossen allowed. A mental toss of the coin. I could support the decision before a court-martial if I had to. It seemed unlikely that he would get a chance to face a court-martial if things went badly on Porter. After another moment, he shook his head.
"Too tempting." He hesitated before he added, "But, no. Maybe it would be the smart thing to do. But we're going to stand or fall together. Having those men back here could make the difference. I can't take that chance."
"I didn't think so, but I had to make sure you looked at the option."
"Headquarters has to know our situation, and just how long we can hold out," Stossen said, half under his breath. "They'll get to us if we just don't give up on ourselves."
He had to believe that, but it was getting more difficult every hour.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Five Accord shuttles came in from the west, low, just enough before sunset to keep Porter's sun firmly behind them during the last stages of their approach. Even the troops they were coming to pick up had difficulty seeing the landers until the last minute before they settled down on flat ground a half kilometer from the canyon. The shuttles came in fast, settling to the rocky ground and swinging open the troop bay doors almost before they came to a halt. Echo and George companies were ready to swarm into the landers. The two recon platoons boarded last. Until the two line companies started filing in, the recon platoons formed a last perimeter guard. They had the last of the strike force's Vrerch missiles. The men carrying them had the launchers on their shoulders, ready to fire instantly against any Schlinal Boems or Novas that might appear.
But there was no attack on the strike force as it got ready to leave.
"Hurry it up," one of the pilots told Captain Ingels. "You've got enemy troops within five kilometers, moving this way."
"Another thirty seconds," Ingels replied. "How large a force?"
"Rough guess is three companies of infantry and a full battalion of armor. With that much on the ground, they'll have air cover timed to get here when the ground forces do, and I want to be far out of here before then."
"Okay, the last recon squads are coming through the doors now," Ingels said as they reported to him, then, "Button 'em up. We're ready."
Some of the last troops aboard had no time to strap in before the shuttles lifted off and accelerated back toward the west, away from the approaching Schlinal ground troops and their anticipated air cover. In one lander, two men managed to break arms in falls. There were dozens of less serious injuries. But men helped each other, and soon, everyone was in place—except for the medics who were treating the two broken arms. Those men would get a longer ride. They would be carried on up to the ships after the rest of their mates were deposited back on the plateau.
Captain Ingels linked to Colonel Stossen to report on the enemy movement toward the location they had just left.
"We've got 'em moving toward us also," Stossen said. "You're going to be coming in hot, just like the first day. Out as fast as possible, ready for anything. We want to get the shuttles out of the way before the attack breaks. If we can." The earlier sunset where the bulk of the 13th was had given the enemy more time to move into position.
"This the main event?" Ingels asked.
"Looks like it, Teu. Hang on, I've got another call coming in." He wasn't off the channel long. "We just had two mines go off. That means that the leading elements of the enemy attack are within two kilometers of our perimeter. You're going to be landing near the cliff. I don't want to get the shuttles any closer to the fighting than necessary. It means another forced march for your men when you get here. I need you on the line right now."
"Just tell us where, Colonel."
"I'll let you know as soon as I can."
Ingels alerted Lieutenant Vickers, the platoon leaders, and the noncoms. There was little time for details, because by the time the sergeants and corporals had passed the word to their men, the shuttles were popping up over the edge of the escarpment, moving toward touchdown.
"Everybody out!" Ingels shouted into his radio on the all-hands channel. "There could be enemy fighters over us any second."
The landing drill went smoothly. As soon as the last troopers were out, save for the casualties being lifted to the fleet, the doors closed and the shuttles lifted off at full acceleration, reaching straight for orbit and their hangars aboard the transports.
Colonel Stossen ordered the two line companies northwest, the recon platoons due north. "Quickly, if you please," Stossen finished, the tone of understatement giving the officers on the other end of the conversation a chill.
None of the troops were up to a real double time, but Ingels kept the pace as rapid as he dared, as fast as he himself could manage, something approaching quick step—drill-field speed.
Echo Company had not traveled far before they heard the sounds of combat, the mixed wire fire of Accord and Hegemony weapons, the occasional crump-crump of artillery or rockets, and the higher-pitched blast of grenades or mortar rounds. The farther they went, the louder and more pervasive the sounds became, and not simply because they were getting closer to the action. The volume of fire was increasing steadily.
"Remember, wire discipline," Joe Baerclau warned his platoon while they were on the move. "Don't touch the trigger unless you have a target in your sights. We don't have wire to waste." That was an understatement of such dimension that it caused him to shake his head in wonder. Wire to waste. No matter how stingy they were, they were going to run out of wire before this fight ended. Joe had absolutely no doubt of that.
Joe looked to see where Goff was. Keeping track of Kam was becoming instinctive. Joe scarcely needed to think to look for him. Kam was keeping up with the squad, but he was near the rear of the group. Mort Jaiffer was staying close, hanging back, talking to the rookie as they moved.
One more fight, kid, Joe thought as he looked at Goff. If we make it through this one, we're all home free. And if they didn't make it, it wouldn't matter much whether or not Goff held up.
Twelve days of occupation had brought changes to the area surrounding the original LZs. Much of the ground cover had been trampled into mulch. Trees that had been damaged had been felled afterward, the wood used for fires and for shelter. Latrines had been dug; with chemicals added to neutralize odor and bacteria. A number of tents had been erected, not as quarters for the troops—everyone slept in the open, in their slit trenches—but to hold stores and to provide places for the medtechs to work. There had been no significant rain during the 13th's time on the plateau, but there had been heavy dew almost every night, and an occasional mist, normally just around dawn. But, generally, the weather had been almost perfect, if a little warm—a rare event in the mind of any mudder.
Joe used the time spent crossing the Accord's ground to check with the units on the section of line toward which Echo Company was hurrying. None of the noncoms he talked to had more than a second to tell him that it was hot and getting hotter—the fight, not the weather. Schlinal troops were coming on in waves, with air and armor backing them up. The Heggies were moving slowly but steadily, taking advantage of whatever cover they found to edge in closer, unit by unit. There were no wild charges against the line this time, but the more methodical, persistent advance would be even harder to throw back. If it could be thrown back at all.
—|—
An arc of eighteen riflemen and three splat gunners—covering slightly more than a semicircle, with the open section toward the escarpment—provided one last barrier in front of the 13th's command post. Over the last two days, those twenty-one men had dug in with some zeal, throwing up dirt ramparts around their positions, reinforcing their foxholes with tree trunks, and cutting clear kill zones in front of them. The riflemen had only the wire in their zippers and one spare spool apiece. The splat guns had only enough wire to last ten seconds of continuous firing. None of them were firing now. The battle was too far away for them. Their job was to watch, and wait.
One of those riflemen was Ze
l Paitcher, pilot without a plane. He didn't mind not shooting. He wasn't especially good with a rifle. That sort of weaponry had been neglected totally in flying school, and pilots were not required to periodically qualify with infantry weapons. Most of them were unlikely to go searching for opportunities to use those weapons. It would have been considered almost déclassé in the ready room. If any Heggies got close enough for him to actually have a chance of hitting them with a zipper, Zel was unsure that he would be steady enough to shoot at them. But he no longer had a Wasp to fly, and the colonel had no use for idle hands. Well, Zel's hands might be idle at the moment, but with a purpose. If the entire 13th failed to stop the Schlinal attack, Zel and his companions were expected to do the job, to keep the enemy away from their commander. For just as long as they could.
—|—
Colonel Stossen stayed away from the front lines this time. In fact, he stayed in or very near his CP. Too much was happening for him to allow himself to get sidetracked by the fight on any one portion of the perimeter. The 13th finally had a solid command post, split logs laid across a bunker dug into the dirt, anchored by three trees that were still standing. The log roof was covered with nearly a meter of dirt and rock. In addition, the bunker was—somewhat—camouflaged with leaves and small rocks. The bunker would not be proof against a direct hit from a tank's main gun, or a bomb or rocket from a Boem, but the fortifications would stop wire and hide the residents from casual discovery by visible or infrared light at any distance.
Stossen kept telling himself to stay inside the bunker, but he was less than proficient at obeying his own order. Every few minutes, it seemed, he would duck outside to take a look toward one section or another of the perimeter, propping power binoculars on the roof of the bunker, or leaning against a tree. It bothered him that he was having so much difficulty steadying the glasses. His hands and arms had developed a palsied shaking the night before, and the trembling had only gotten worse through the day.
"CIC has everything from here, up to the minute," Dezo Parks reported. He had been sitting cross-legged in a corner of the bunker for the last forty-five minutes, making certain that none of the 13th's data, mostly action and casualty reports, would be lost, no matter what happened to the men and their equipment.
We'll go out in proper military style, Parks thought. He had given up hoping for any reprieve. Even if the relief fleet entered Porter's system that very instant, it would still take eight hours for them to get in position to provide any help to the men on the ground. Dezo Parks doubted very much that the 13th had eight hours left.
Stossen nodded absently. He was listening to a report from the commander of Fox Company.
"They claim to have knocked out four Novas," Stossen said. "Digby has moved his men up to the Novas and taken over their automatic weapons. None of the tank cannons seems to be operational. Or Digby doesn't have anyone who can figure out how to operate them."
Parks managed a short laugh. "Can't have everything. What kind of infantry are they up against?"
Dryly, Stossen said, "According to Digby, dead ones."
"The strike force units are reaching their positions now," Parks said. Like Stossen he was monitoring outside calls while their conversation continued. "Echo and George at least. Haven't heard from the two recon platoons yet."
After several minutes of silence between the two men, Stossen said, "The Heggies won't back off this time. They mean to finish the job."
"I know," Parks replied. "With a little luck, I figure we might hold out for another three or four hours. Not much more than that if they continue to press the attack. If we had more wire, more of all munitions, it might be different, but..."
Stossen didn't reply. After a short hesitation, Parks spoke again. "I know the answer to this, Van, but I'm your exec now, so I have to ask. Our chances of beating back this attack appear to be slightly less than nil. Do we fight on, or do we try to arrange surrender terms?"
Stossen lifted his visor to stare at Parks.
"I told you, I have to ask," Dezo said.
Stossen nodded. He took a deep breath before he answered. "The 13th does not surrender while we have a weapon or a man to wield it. Not to Schlinal troops. Anyway, they don't like to take prisoners."
—|—
Echo Company moved into positions that had been prepared in advance. Alpha Company had dug two sets of primary and secondary defense lines. Until Echo arrived, Alpha had spread out to cover twice as much front. The two platoons that had been covering Echo's section of the perimeter moved out as soon as their replacements arrived. The men of Echo had no time to spend getting acquainted with their new digs though. There was activity beyond their front.
The field of tall grass that had occupied Joe and his men the first morning on Porter was a half kilometer to their left now, and even farther out beyond the reduced perimeter that the 13th was now defending. Echo was well back in the trees now.
The Schlinal troops were moving forward with great deliberation, taking their time, sliding along the ground from one tree to the next, digging in—if minimally—and pouring fire into the Accord lines. After checking with one of Alpha's platoon sergeants, Joe learned that the Heggies had advanced no more than fifty meters in the hours since they arrived to start the battle.
"They figure they got all the time they need now, sir," Joe told Lieutenant Keye after relaying that information.
"Maybe they do, Joe."
"If they've got as many troops out there as we've been told, they could run over us in minutes. Not like the Heggies to be so careful of their mudders."
"They're just waiting for us to run out of wire. That has to be it. The Heggie C.O. wants a real walkover." Keye made no attempt to hide the bitterness he felt. So long a road to end like this.
"Sir?" Joe hesitated before he continued. "What do you figure happened that they didn't come back for us?"
Lieutenant Keye stared at Joe for a minute, then shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe the main task force got beat bad, or bogged down. I hate to think that they abandoned us, for any reason, but—even more than that—I hate to think that we might miss pickup by no more than a matter of days, or hours."
"You think they're still coming?"
Keye nodded. "They'll come, soon as they can." Even if it's too late to help us.
—|—
First squad had been reorganized as a single fire team during the shuttle ride back from the valley. With Al Bergon wounded and evacuated, and Joe Baerclau serving as platoon sergeant, there were only five men left in the squad—really only four effectives. Kam Goff found himself sandwiched between Mort and Ezra, with less space on either side of him than normal. Kam doubted that the arrangement was as accidental as it was made to appear. There had been no relaxation in his mates' observation of him. He had never had a moment to himself. Even a latrine trip was never made alone.
They know I'm useless for fighting. Kam took no offense at that, and he was beyond sorrow or self-pity. He knew he was useless. His comrades obviously worried that he might try to kill himself. At least, everyone did make a pretense, not saying or doing anything openly to make the situation more painful than it was for Kam. He had the spool of wire in his rifle, but no spares. Those had been distributed, on the sly, to the others in the squad. Ezra had taken care of that, personally.
At least I don't have to worry about finding a way to end it anymore, Kam thought. A wry smile found its way to his face. He was glad for the visor on his helmet. No one else could see his expression. The way this is shaping up, the Heggies will do me the favor soon enough.
—|—
Basset two still had eleven rounds of ammunition. After that, it would be useless, except to protect its crew against enemy wire. Wire was about all that the armor would stop. At the same time, the gun was a magnet for heavier enemy munitions. Once Basset two ran out of ammunition, the crew would be safer abandoning their ride and taking their chances with enemy wire. Each of the four men had an infantry helmet c
lose at hand now. With all the casualties the 13th had taken in its twelve-plus days on-planet, there were plenty of spare helmets.
Eustace had virtually stopped talking since the Havocs had returned from Maison with the captured enemy weaponry. He broke his silence only when it was absolutely essential, and then he kept his words to a minimum. Simon had never seen Eustace like that before. He didn't seem to be angry, at least not at anyone in particular. Angry at life in general... or at the way it might end soon... was the way that Simon interpreted it, with a shrug. There was always the chance of death in combat. Havoc crews had the odds against them. But that was different. Either death came or it didn't. Here, on Porter, death seemed to be waiting for all of them. They would run out of ammunition. The infantry would run out of ammunition. Inevitably. Then the Heggies would do whatever they damn well pleased.
Simon had a fatalistic appraisal of what that would be. He had already made his peace.
—|—
For the most part, the shooting coming from the 13th was limited to the men with Dupuy RA rifles. They were the only ones who still had a—relative—abundance of ammunition. In the line companies, two Dupuys were assigned to each platoon, one for every fifteen men. The recon platoons were rather more heavily equipped with the sniper rifles, two for each twelve-man squad. The Dupuy could not fire on full automatic, which cut down on its rate of fire, but at ranges under three hundred meters, the rocket-assisted slugs could penetrate any body armor in the galaxy, or shatter a helmet—and the skull beneath it. Striking before their rocket assist ended, the slugs might be still accelerating when they hit. The men chosen to use the Dupuys were usually the best marksmen in each platoon. Their efforts helped to keep the Schlinal advance slow. With little need to worry about distance or windage, they needed very little in the way of a target, and as soon as one of them caught a Schlinal mudder in his laser sights, the trigger went back.
The Dupuys made a distinctive sound. Back in his bunker, Colonel Stossen paused to listen to them. He had been critical of the Dupuys in the past, touted as a long-range weapon—unlikely ranges for the most part. But they were finding a better purpose now.