It was a little text book for Dekker's taste. He scanned the horizon, looking over the same ground that had taken all of five minutes for either of them to analyze. The only real terrain was the dunes behind them. Everything else was slopes and gullies that might as well have been a slab of concrete. They had no reinforcements, nowhere to fall back to and no resupply. They had no room to maneuver, either. Where they stood was the only place they could stand. And if they managed to hold back the Third Battalion, General Godfrey had two more she could send against them. It was a tactical nightmare.
Captain Douglas had his hands clasped behind his back, but couldn't hide his trembling fingers.
"What is it, Captain?"
"I've spent my entire life defending the Exodus Colony from the clutches of the Terran Guard. For years, we've held them back, but they just keep creeping inch by inch, marking each one with a headstone. My boys can hit a rat's ass at five hundred meters and there are no finer riflemen than those digging trenches behind us now. But there's always been one factor that we don't have this time."
"The Paladin."
Captain Douglas turned around. "That's right."
"He has his own mission. Part of a bigger picture, Captain."
"I'm scared, Colonel."
"You're supposed to be scared."
"Not like that. I'm not scared of dying - hell, I'm amazed I made it this far. Not scared of losing, either." He unclasped his hands and flexed his fingers but the tremor persisted. "I'm scared of letting these Marines down."
"You have to get past that, Captain. All you have to worry about is your mission. You take care of that, and there isn't a single Marine here that you'll be letting down." Dekker jabbed his finger at the communications building. "As long as Sergeant Preston gets the time he needs to build his contraption to light off the STI, your mission will be accomplished."
"A delaying action?"
"Oh, hell no. You go on an kill the Third Battalion if you can." Dekker turned his gaze to the northern horizon. "You know why the Terran Guard favors a direct assault?" Captain Douglas shook his head.
"Range. There's a lot going for this lovely world we've decided to call home. Wind. Dirt. Clay. Lots of clay. Copper, iron and nickel. But there's one thing it doesn't have." He took a step towards Captain Douglas. "Sulfur. Good old number sixteen."
"Gun powder."
"That's right. The Terran Guard have developed a great variety of weapons based on the rail gun, and they're wicked up close and personal, but they will never carry the range and accuracy of an R-51 long barrel firing a 7.62 mm slug using gun powder." He clasped Douglas's shoulder and swept his hand over the horizon. Run your first phase line out five clicks and pound it with HE when they get to it. Don't wait until three. When they get to four, you light up every mounted AV missile you have. Take out as many of their troop carriers as you can as far away as you can. Open up with those smokers at two and lay in the rest at one point five."
He turned to look at Douglas. "You've always had a good instinct of when to use the smokers. This time, use everything you have to keep them at arm's length. Before they run up and gut you with their rail guns."
Enemy Contact
Heat shimmered across the ground of the Shoahn' desert, smearing the image of the lone troop carrier into a smudge of silver and black as it appeared on the horizon. A billow of dust whirled up behind it, mixing with the shimmer to form an apparition that raced to catch up to the carrier streaking towards the two Marines manning the listening post at phase line Dog.
The image solidified as it came closer and the whining drone of its turbine reached them, barely more than a whisper that touched their awareness. The cloud grew thicker as a smear of gray rose up behind it, stretching across the horizon. Behind that, the dust rose up into a storm that rolled towards them, a wall of broken sky that carried a promise kept.
The Marine felt the air around him stop as his heartbeat filled his ears, muffling the hum of electric motors and the clatter of tracks lashing out from the rolling steel that crested the horizon. He tapped his headset.
"Whiskey Six, Whiskey Six, this is Dog Watch. Flash. Enemy contact. Badger is hauling ass 500 meters to our front. Enemy vehicles are right behind her deployed on line and moving fast."
Captain Douglas tapped his headset. "Dog watch, Whiskey Six, roger. Stand by for incoming fire. Break. Badger Six, what's your status? Over."
"Whiskey Six, Badger. We're hauling ass, like he said. We're bringing the entire Third Battalion from the Terran Guard Second Brigade with us. Where do you want them?"
"Badger, bring them into the spear point."
"You got it."
"Enforcer Battalion, all nets, lock your party lines. Break. Fire Mission mortars to follow. HE quick. Volley five rounds. Deflection two eight zero zero. Charge four. Elevation eight zero zero. Fire."
Captain Douglas knew the mortars were already set for the first phase line, which he had moved out to five kilometers, just at the edge of the maximum range of his 81 mm mortars. They wouldn't have time for bracketing as the vehicles move through their first set of registered fires. Behind him, the mortar squad leaders repeated his commands. His ears started ringing and his forehead grew damp as he watched the line of enemy vehicles through his binoculars. Barely visible as more than an apparition through the heat waves, he couldn't tell which side of the line they were on. All he could do was trust that his crews had sighted their aiming stakes, that the listening post had called the contact in time and that his crews would move fast enough to launch their shells in time.
He let out a quick breath when he heard the section leader yell "Fire," followed by the crack of shells firing and the tubes ringing as they spat their ordinance into the sky. Several more cracks filled the air as each team fired the rest of their rounds at one second intervals. Another chorus of voices called out from behind him, "Rounds complete."
Through his headset, he heard the section leader report, "Shot, Over."
"Shot, out."
Now all he could do was wait while the shells took the better part of a full minute to arc through the sky and swoop down on their targets. He glanced behind him to see his mortar crews swabbing out their tubes and uncasing more rounds.
As much as he wanted to wait for the first volley to hit the ground, the enemy carriers were closing fast and he needed to put more rounds down range to take out as many as he could before they were close enough to fight back. He could wait and correct, improving the accuracy of his fire mission or he could walk his mortars blind, relying on his own judgment honed from years of operating the battalion's Fire Support Team. Waiting meant letting them get closer. Firing blind meant guessing. But every dead vehicle at range was one more track that couldn't hurt them.
"One, three, five and seven, up two turns. Two, four, six and eight, up three turns." The section leader repeated his command and a few seconds later, another volley of five rounds rang out from each tube.
The section leader made his second report that the volley was complete. "Shot, over."
"Shot, out."
Just as finished he speaking, the first volley of shells exploded on the horizon in a line of plumes leaping into the sky, creating a wall of dust and smoke that obscured the enemy line. His heart leapt into his throat when he saw black smoke boiling up from one of the impacts and then another, followed by a rolling orange ball of fire. The vehicles broke formation and started to weave across the ground. At first, it looked like they were breaking in confusion, but as they turned back in sequence, he realized they were performing a well-practiced maneuver. For a moment, he imagined General Kim's face hovering in front of him, grinning.
When he heard the thump-crack of the explosions as the sound finally reached him, he said, "Not this time, you sonofabitch."
He pointed to one of the Marines he had assigned as a runner. "Private, get up there and wave the Lieutenant in. Direct her to the rear of the complex."
"Yessir." The runner scurried into
position between two of the machine gun nests. The rumble of tires from both of Simmons's carriers floated towards the line as she ran the vehicles towards them at full speed. The runner extended his left hand into the air and folded out his right arm. When she was within fifty meters of their position, he started waving his left hand in an arcing motion with the rhythm of a turn signal. The whine of the turbines from the carriers running at full throttle pierced the air as the carriers veered sharply to the right, swaying hard against suspension springs creaking in protest. The dust boiled over the runner and the machine gun nests next to him. A flurry of slivered rock pelted him from head to toe as he turned to face the rear of the carriers racing away. He extended his arms again and gave the same signal as the carriers streaked past the line of trenches where Charlie company had dug in. When the carriers reached the anti-vehicle missile teams posted at the end of the line, they careened around the corner and barreled towards the back of the complex.
Through his headset, Dekker heard the voice of the Marine at phase line Dog scream over the thunder of the Terran Guard's vehicles as they crossed his position. "Whiskey Six Whiskey Six, tripwire Dog, tripwire Dog, tripwire Dog."
A flash followed by a white trail of smoke reaching out across the ground caught his eye. The anti-tank missile team on the left flank was already engaging the lead vehicles of the Terran line. He could still only see their dust trail at this distance. The white smoke trail disappeared near the horizon and then he saw a plume of black shoot up into the sky, followed by a rolling yellow haze and what he thought was a glint of sunlight from the tumbling remains of a vehicle swirling in the fireball.
His right hand twitched as he reached for the case on his belt and snapped it open to retrieve his own field glasses. As he brought them to his eyes and focused on the horizon, he saw the vehicles of the Third Battalion adjusting to fill the gap in their line. Behind him, another volley of mortars rang out from their tubes. The Terran line did not slow down or waiver; it just kept coming and he felt the urge to run to the side to keep from being run over. "Disciplined sons of bitches," he said to Captain Douglas.
"They're trying to close the range," Douglas said. "Just like you said they would."
"Make believers out of them, Captain." Dekker lowered his field glasses and snapped them back into their case. "I'll be in the communications center."
Still looking through his own glasses, Douglas said, "Aye aye sir." He tapped his headset as another streak of smoke reached out and detonated a Terran troop carrier. "Missile teams, get off the carriers. Focus on the tangos or we're going to be in a world of hurt."
"Whiskey Six, Spear Master, negative contact tangos."
"Well keep looking. They're out there somewhere."
Dekker paced to his command carrier and swung open the hatch. Shahn'Dra sat on the floor with her knees folded against her chest. Jommy was still kneeling next to her with his hand on one shoulder. They peered out at Dekker like animals hiding in a cave.
"Come with me," he said. He reached out and took Shahn'Dra's hand, helping her out of the carrier. She stood wavering for a moment, then rolled her shoulders back and shook her head. "Are you alright?" he asked.
"I am tired, but not hurt. In time, my strength will return."
Dekker smiled. "Good. Can you walk?"
"Yes."
Jommy scrambled out of the carrier and fell in behind Dekker as he led them across the compound, mortar tubes ringing out with more rounds as they walked past them. He led them around the side of the communications building to Simmons's carriers standing guard behind it.
Swinging open the hatch to her command carrier, he said, "Stay in here. Don't come out unless somebody tells you. You're going to hear things that you really shouldn't have to. Don't panic." He looked at each one, making sure they understood. "No matter what, stay right here. Do you understand?"
They both nodded.
"Good." He swung the hatch closed and stepped back.
As the mortars continued to fire, a chill ran through him as a question plunged into his consciousness like a knife: Is this all we have left?
Uplink
Dekker stepped into the communications building, closed the hatch and leaned against it as Sergeant Preston dialed out the screws on one of the com panels. Preston grabbed the curved handles on each side of the panel and yanked it free from the console. He turned the panel over and laid it on a narrow bench, exposing its attached cables and a honeycomb of circuit boards as Lt. Simmons watched over his shoulder.
"Lieutenant," Dekker said, waving Simmons over.
As she approached him, he could see her expression soften. He put his hand to his forehead, stripping away the sheen of sweat that had forced its way onto his clammy face.
"What is it, Colonel?" she asked.
"I have a care package in one of your carriers that I think should be displaced."
"The girl?"
"And Jommy."
"What about the rest of the civilians Ortiz brought with him?"
"They joined the line. Ammunition runners, that sort of thing."
"Untrained civilians?" Simmons asked. "Are we sure we need to go there?"
"Surviving Dirt Hill is good enough training today, Lieutenant. I'm not sure it's going to matter much."
He ran his hand over his forehead again, stripping more sweat from his forehead.
"Are you alright, Colonel?"
"Yeah. It's just - you know. I'm worried about Jommy I guess. I knew his father." He feigned a smile, trying to disarm her scrutiny.
"I'll take care of it," she said, stepping around him to tug open the hatch.
Dekker pushed himself away from the bulkhead and shuffled to Preston's bench.
Preston tapped his headset. "Private Martin, I need a stack of oscillators and a burner. Hustle it up."
"What is your report, Sergeant Preston?"
Preston ran his fingers through the the cables snaking from the back of the panel into the recesses of the console. "Sir, I'm going to try and modify the main transmitter and set its tuner for three different bands - one of which should work for uplink."
"Why three?"
"I don't know if it's using Ka, Ku or S-band.
"Are you sure about those frequencies? Wouldn't a tuner be better?"
"I can burn hard coded frequencies much faster than I can wind a tuner. We're talking about inserting a few chips here, not redesigning the board."
"What's your marksman score?" Dekker asked.
Preston turned to look at Dekker. "Sir?"
"I'm just wondering how well a tron as smart as you can fire a weapon."
Preston grinned. "I'm an expert marksman, sir. Qualified for sniper school, too."
"Fair enough," Dekker said. "What about power?"
"We have plenty, as long as we don't start powering up the rest of the complex"
"How long will you need?"
"Hour or so."
"And how long to make it mobile?"
Preston's fingers stopped moving through the cables.
"Sir?"
"How long to rig this thing to work on a track?"
"Sir, I'm not even sure I can make it work in place. I have power and an antenna array to work with here. On a track - I don't even know if we have the power."
"See what you can work out, Sergeant," Dekker said. "I don't think we'll be able to stay here very long."
Sergeant Preston fumbled with the cables a moment longer. "Yes sir."
Last Stand
As Captain Douglas watched the Terran line race through a wall of smoke and dust, the cracks and thumps of his latest mortar barrage finally reached him, lending a new reality to what they were, what they meant and what he needed them to do. Several seconds later, a new line of plumes from the second volley rose up from the desert floor. Half the rounds landed right in with the vehicles, knocking some of them on their side. The other half landed just in front, crushing the front ends of several carriers, forcing them to stop. One round
made a direct hit and one of the carriers disappeared in an orange flash and black smoke boiled into the air.
How many people had just ceased to exist in that moment? How many Marines would stay alive because of it? Slow down. We're just getting started. The truth he couldn't yet face - because, if he did, he would be compelled to do nothing more useful than to walk out onto the field and throw up his arms, yelling 'I'm here, right here, put it down my throat' - was that the only thing he had done was purchase of a few scant seconds. Time was the thing. Slow them down. Tie them up. Delay their attack. Keep them away, keep them away, until there was enough time to let the inevitable finally break through. But that was a while away still. It had to be. There was the end and there was the end of all things. All of it boiled away in the black smoke that took with it the answer to the only question that mattered: how long?
His headset crackled with the voice of the next listening post. "Whiskey Six, Whiskey Six, Tripoli watch, the enemy line is 500 meters inbound Tripoli."
"Spear point two and four, engage," he said.
Marines loaded missiles half as tall as a man into the mounted launchers fifty meters to his front. Gunners perched on plastic seats mounted underneath the tubes peered through high powered binocular sights and jockeyed the aiming grips as they sifted through the array of targets bearing down on them. A flash of yellow flame shot out from the rear of one of the tubes and splashed against a steel blast guard ten meters behind it. The missile leapt from its tube with a ripping hiss and streaked across the ground streaming a trail of white smoke.
As Douglas watched the missile string out he heard the rippling thumps of his most recent mortar barrage, turning the wall of dissipating dust and smoke into a reality that told him they still had a say in all of it; they still had a voice and it reached out with a roar and he knew that somebody out there was afraid of it.
The Terran Mandate Page 20