A Fighting Chance

by William C. Dietz

Two days had passed since the attack on Baynor’s Bay. It was cloudy, a gentle rain was misting the air, and Santana welcomed it. Hopefully the bad weather would keep the Ramanthian fighters on the ground. Santana, Dietrich, and their T-2s watched from the top of a low rise as the O-Chi Raiders trooped through a coffee plantation and entered the verdant jungle beyond. Santana knew that the forest was going to be both a curse and a blessing during the days ahead. A curse because he would have to fight the planet before he could battle the bugs.

  But the forest was a blessing as well. Because even though the enemy knew where the battalion was headed, it would be difficult to spot. Or, as Kimbo put it, “Finding us will be like looking for a blood tick in a dog’s fur.” Which was true although the Ramanthians weren’t stupid and would be able to narrow the search.

  Rona-Sa, Zarrella, and Alpha company had already passed the knoll by then. But as Bravo Company drew even with Santana, he had an opportunity to inspect Kimbo’s command. A civilian earthmover led the way, blade up and ready to cut a path through the forest. It was loaded with a hodgepodge of gear, and two soldiers were perched behind the driver, ready to defend her from the local wildlife should any attack from above. Santana didn’t think the tractors would make it all the way to the objective. But even a primitive trail would be welcome and make the initial part of the journey easier on his troops.

  Sergeant Marlo Lopez came next. Servos whined with each step, her pods made a thumping sound as they made contact with the ground, and the acrid odor of ozone followed wherever she went. Like the other quads, Lopez was burdened with a full load of weapons, food, and ammo, most of which had been provided by the militia. A real blessing since most of the Legion’s supplies was lost when the TACBASE had exploded.

  There were two reasons to place the quads at the front of each company. The first was their ability to trample everything except the largest trees. And that would become very important if the battalion had to abandon the tractors. The second was that when it came to firepower, there was nothing on O-Chi 4 that was a match for the giant quadrupeds. In the case of an ambush, the lead cyborg would be able to fend the enemy off until infantry came forward to provide support. The idea was to rotate the companies every couple of hours so that each got its fair share of jungle busting.

  Kimbo passed the rise next. He was mounted on a T-2 who was supposed to protect the company commander and provide him with mobility. The first, second, and third platoons followed. Santana was pleased to see the proper intervals between them. And judging from the marching ditty they were chanting, morale was good.

  But as the third tractor appeared, followed by a quad named Jiro Yakumo, things took a turn for the worse. Captain Ryley was mounted on a T-2. But unlike his peers, who had distributed their T-2s at regular intervals along the length of the column, Ryley had surrounded himself with seven cyborgs. All carrying bio bods of various ranks.

  Ryley nodded as he rode past and Santana nodded in return. When Santana spoke with Dietrich, it was over a private link. “Tell me something, Sergeant Major . . . Am I mistaken? Or are all of the people on those T-2s ex-members of the O-Chi Scouts?”

  “You’re correct, sir,” Dietrich replied gravely. “It looks as though Captain Ryley thinks that his friends should ride rather than walk.”

  Santana felt a sense of disappointment. It was the sort of favoritism that was not only glaringly obvious but would soon stir resentment among the ranks. Something would have to be done. And that wasn’t the worst of it. As the rest of Charlie Company trooped past, Santana saw that Ryley’s first platoon was so bunched up it would take heavy casualties in a grenade attack. Meanwhile, the third platoon was so strung out that there were a hundred feet between some of them. And that was a significant problem since they were supposed to guard the fuel truck that brought up the rear and protect the column’s six. Not Ryley’s fault personally, but a sign of laxness since it was his responsibility to keep a watchful eye on his officers. “Go have a word with the PL,” Santana said, knowing Dietrich had the same concerns he did. “Explain the importance of walking drag and tell her to close it up.”

  Dietrich nodded. “Yes, sir.” His T-2 left tracks in the mud as the rain fell harder. Santana looked up. The sun was little more than a yellow smear in the gray sky. The long march had begun.

  The first day passed without major incident. Knowing that it would take extra time to set up the first encampment and having been advised that night fell quickly in the forest, Santana ordered a halt in midafternoon. With both the Ramanthians and wild animals to worry about, Santana knew it was important to construct a marching fortress each night. Given the variations in terrain, no two camps would be alike. But, wherever possible, the sites were to be located on high ground, both to provide good drainage in the case of a torrential downpour and to provide the battalion with a tactical advantage if it was attacked.

  Once the boundaries of the encampment had been staked out and approved by Rona-Sa, the next step was to bulldoze a free-fire zone that would prevent attackers from getting too close without being seen. After a sufficient swath of jungle had been cleared, it was time to excavate a deep ditch around the encampment itself. The loose dirt was placed inside the newly created moat to create a berm. Quads were assigned to anchor three corners of the fort, and a force of three T-2s was sent to protect the fourth.

  Two platoons of bio bods were to be on duty at all times and expected to stand two-hour watches. That meant most members of the battalion would get six hours of sleep one day followed by eight the next, a strategy that ensured there would always be enough people on duty to repel a sudden attack.

  That was the plan. But just as Santana had anticipated, the battalion’s first attempt to implement it took nearly three hours. Twice the length of time it should have taken given the fact that the unit had heavy equipment to dig the surrounding ditch.

  Rona-Sa, who was responsible for the process, was anything but pleased. The two officers were standing outside the command tent at the center of the compound as fighting positions were excavated and pop-up tents were deployed. “I’m sorry, sir,” the Hudathan said. “Tomorrow we will cut the time by at least an hour.”

  Santana nodded. “That would be wonderful. But even a half-hour improvement would be acceptable. Let’s try to get the time down to an hour and a half during the next three days. Practice makes perfect.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And please pass the word. I would like all of the officers and senior noncoms who aren’t on duty to gather in the command tent at 1900 hours. Pass the word.”

  “Sir.”

  Rather than eat by himself, or with his staff, Santana chose to roam the compound with empty mess kit in hand, mooching off the various units. Almost all of the squads had pooled their rations and added a variety of spices and other special ingredients to create communal meals. And, without exception, they were pleased to have Santana stop by.

  The process gave Santana not only a feel for morale but an opportunity to put names with faces and occasionally pick up an interesting tidbit or two. Like the fact that some of the troops had seen enormous three-toed footprints in the mud next to a stream—and others were suffering from what they called “crotch rot.” It was also apparent that Captain Ryley’s troops were gathered together according to what outfit they had been pulled from rather than the squad they were assigned to.

  Having completed the rounds, Santana made his way past the earthmovers and their fuel truck to the dimly lit command tent. Two of O-Chi 4’s three moons were partially visible through the interwoven branches above. An occasional howl could be heard from deep within the forest, and some rather large insects were flitting about. Santana batted at one of them as he entered the hab’s air lock and pushed through into the larger chamber beyond.

  Thanks to Corporal Colby, the necessary preparations had already been made. So all Santana had to do was gather his thoughts as the battalion’s officers and senior noncoms began to arrive. Once all of them h
ad taken their seats on equipment cases, crates, and boxes, the meeting got under way. “We made some good progress today,” Santana began. “But we’ll need to increase the pace tomorrow—and cut the time required to set up camp. So let your people know. The faster they put everything together, the more downtime they’ll have.

  “But that isn’t why we’re meeting tonight,” Santana said as he let his eyes roam the faces around him. “All of you know why we’re here. And that’s to take out the STS cannon on top of a mountain called Headstone. But what you may not be aware of is the fact that there are two ways to get the job done. With more on that, I’m going to hand the presentation off to Lieutenant Ponco. Lieutenant?”

  There was a humming sound as Ponco rose and glided forward to hover a few feet to Santana’s right. Besides serving as the battalion’s S-2, Ponco was in charge of a small group of men and women designated as scouts. And, thanks to her ability to fly through the treetops, she could see things that no one else could. It was a capability for which all of the officers and senior noncoms were grateful.

  “As you might imagine,” Ponco began in her usual matter-of-fact manner, “an STS cannon requires a lot of power. That’s why the bugs drove a thermal tap down to access the heat available in the planet’s mantle. But rather than drill down through Headstone, which would have made the task that much more difficult, they chose a site located about fifteen miles west of the mountain. And according to information gathered by Colonel Antov and passed along to us through Captain Kimbo—the process of trenching, laying conduit, and backfilling the ditch was well under way three weeks ago. We don’t have much imagery since the chits own such a large section of the sky, but here’s a peek at the site.”

  Ponco deployed a tool arm, aimed a remote at the black box positioned on the floor in front of her, and pressed a button. A holo blossomed above the box and began to rotate. The picture had been snapped from the edge of space and enhanced. The audience could see the section of raw earth where the forest had been cleared away, the moatlike defensive ditch, and the carefully placed weapons emplacements. A com mast, a landing pad, and the top of what might have been a subsurface installation were visible as well. So was a trench that extended out from the compound and ran through the forest like an unhealed scar.

  “So there you have it,” Santana said, as the image imploded. “At first glance, the tap looks like it would be easier to attack than Headstone. Of course, all of the important stuff is buried Ramanthian style—so it’s likely to be more difficult than it looks. The bugs are very good at building underground habitats as all of you know.

  “At this point, we’re far enough away that we could go for either target. So I’d be interested in your opinions. Or, put another way, which pile of shit would you like to step in first?”

  That got a laugh, just as it was intended to, and the discussion began. It went on for twenty minutes or so. Most of the debate centered around a very important question: Was the geothermal tap the only source of power for the cannon? Or had the Ramanthian engineers installed a fusion plant or something similar on Headstone? If so, the bugs might be able to fire a shot or two even if the tap had been destroyed.

  Although he had invited his subordinates to discuss the matter, Santana had been careful to reserve the final decision for himself. So once all of the viewpoints were aired, he stepped in. “Thank you for the lively discussion. It’s my view that we have to go after Headstone because even a couple of shots fired at ships clustered around the O-Chi jump point could be disastrous. But now that you have considered the matter, you will be ready to answer questions from your troops. I think you’ll agree that they deserve to know what we’re doing and why. Questions? No? Then I’ll see you at 0500. Let’s see if we can break camp more efficiently than we made it. Captain Ryley . . . A moment of your time please.”

  Ryley, who was already on his feet, looked surprised. Some of his subordinates lingered, as if to stay with him, but left after Santana frowned at them. Ryley was a little over six feet tall. He had dark hair, beady eyes, and a sensual mouth.

  According to what Santana had heard from others, Ryley was the well-connected son of a wealthy family who had been hired straight out of college and sent to O-Chi 4 to learn the pharmaceutical business from the ground up. Then, when the war began in earnest, Ryley had enrolled in the militia to avoid the draft back home. Once Earth fell to the Ramanthians, he was trapped on O-Chi 4 and couldn’t get off-planet when the bugs landed. A not-altogether-complimentary biography.

  However, on the flip side, Ryley was said to be intelligent and had distinguished himself during the failed assault on Headstone. As a result, he had won both a planetary defense medal and a field promotion prior to Temo’s attempt to seize control of O-Chi 4’s government. Plus, rather than stay with her, he had chosen to support the existing power structure. “Have a seat,” Santana said, as the hab emptied out. “How are things going?”

  “Fine, sir. Thank you.”

  Judging from the look in his eyes, Ryley was wary and a bit suspicious. Why had he been singled out? Santana, who had been a captain only months before, understood how the other man felt. “Good. Captain Rona-Sa tells me that your people did a good job breaking trail today.”

  Ryley seemed to relax a bit. “Some of us have had quite a bit of experience, sir.”

  Was Ryley’s comment a simple statement of fact? Or a slap at the off-world troops and the locals from south bay? There was no way to know. Santana nodded. “Yes, of course. Tell me something. I noticed that you chose to place all of your T-2s at the front of your column. I wondered why.”

  Ryley was immediately defensive. “I thought we were free to run our companies as we see fit.”

  “Within certain parameters, yes,” Santana said mildly. “Now, perhaps you would be so kind as to answer my question.”

  Ryley shrugged. “The T-2s are fast and heavily armed. So they constitute the perfect fast-reaction force.”

  It was a reasonable answer. Even though it was Santana’s belief that the cyborgs should be stationed at regular intervals throughout the column where they could provide immediate fire support. “I see. And the bio bods assigned to ride them? I noticed that all of them were ex-Scouts.”

  Resentment flashed in Ryley’s eyes. “Is that what this is about? I chose those individuals I believed to be best qualified.”

  “And that makes sense,” Santana replied. “Up to a point. However, what if your most qualified people are wounded or killed? Riding a T-2 takes some getting used to. Others must be ready to step in. Plus, there are appearances to consider. Some might look at the situation and come to the conclusion that you have favorites. That would be bad for morale.”

  “Someone?” Ryley demanded resentfully. “Or you?”

  The conversation was not going well. In fact, Ryley’s combative manner could only be described as disrespectful verging on insubordinate, something Santana wouldn’t tolerate. He frowned. “Unfortunately, your comments serve to confirm my worst fears. Beginning tomorrow you will integrate the T-2s into the column and rotate the bio bods assigned to ride them. And, when you address me, you will use the honorific ‘sir.’ Understood?”

  Ryley stood. His face was flushed with anger. “Yes, sir. Am I free to go?”

  “Dismissed.”

  Ryley did a neat about-face and marched to the lock. Moments later, he was gone. Santana heard a stir and turned to see Dietrich emerge from the walled-off cubicle that he shared with Colby. “That one looks like trouble, sir.”

  Santana frowned. “You were listening?”

  Dietrich nodded. “Of course.”

  “Shouldn’t you mind your own business?”

  A smile appeared on Dietrich’s cadaverous face. “I was.”

  The proximity alarms that had been placed around the perimeter were triggered by animals during the night—and one soldier managed to trip and take a tumble into the defensive ditch. A mishap that would dog him for days if not weeks.

&nb
sp; Breaking camp was always easier than making it. So once the troops were fed and the pop-up tents came down, it was only thirty minutes before the march resumed. Unfortunately, the weather had improved, and as Joshi carried Santana up to the head of the column, he knew it was only a matter of time before the Ramanthian aerospace fighters found them. All the chits had to do was open a map and draw a straight line from Headstone to Baynor’s Bay—knowing that the Confederate force would have to be within one or two degrees of it.

  Fortunately, the enemy didn’t have enough arms, legs, and beaks to launch a long-distance counterattack and work on the STS cannon at the same time. So the battalion was reasonably safe from a ground attack until it was a lot closer to Headstone.

  Meanwhile, Bravo company’s tractor roared loudly as its fifteen-foot-wide blade cut a swath through the thick undergrowth and threw waves of brown soil to either side. The crawler was about thirty feet long, fifteen feet wide, and thirteen feet high. That was large but not big enough to fell the forest giants that towered more than three hundred feet in the air. As a result, the temporary road snaked back and forth as it followed the path of least resistance in a consistently southeasterly direction.

  The march was pleasant at first. The air was cool, birds sang from the trees, and the terrain was mostly flat. But as the sun rose higher in the sky and the humid air grew warmer, people began to tire. And what had been a pleasant walk was transformed into a mind-numbing trudge. A constant effort was required to keep the column moving, while noncoms worked to maintain the correct intervals and medics dealt with foot problems.

  Adding to the difficulty was the need to conduct occasional drills. Because the question wasn’t if they would be attacked but when. All of which kept Santana and his officers busy roaming the length of the column. And that was where Santana was, about halfway back, watching a tech repair a T-2’s knee servo, when Ponco’s voice flooded his helmet. “Zulu Seven to Zulu Nine. We have a casualty. One of my scouts is down. Over.”