by John Bowers
Thirty seconds later, in spite of laser fire that flickered down the trench from the left, the Fearless Fourless poured pell-mell into the bunker, slipped on the blood, and landed heavily beside Rico. Gearloose scrambled to his feet in a panic, his fatigues covered with gore.
"Jesus Christ, Martin-ez! You're a goddamned butcher! Fucking shit, man!"
"Hey, man, nobody told you to roll around in it!" Rico chattered.
They held the bunker for forty-five minutes, driving back another attempt by the Sirians to retake it. With five bunkers in Federation hands, the rest of Delta and the Engineer platoon poured through the minefield and into the trench, pushing the attack in both directions until they met friendly forces from other companies. As dawn peaked over the next ridge to the east, the Sirians had lost all but four of their bunkers. The defenders pulled back while they still had some advantage of darkness, and when full daylight arrived, the ridge was in Federation hands.
But just half a mile to the east was another ridge — a thousand feet higher than this one.
Chapter 32
Alpha 2, Alpha Centauri System
When the first stellar settlements had been established, some planets had become a homeland of sorts for particular regional and ethnic groups. Altair had become the new galactic center of Islam; Sirius had been settled initially by white supremacists from North America. Vega had been opened up by Scandinavians, French, Italians, and Greeks; Beta Centauri by Russians, Slavs, and Eastern Europeans. Asians and Africans had migrated a little later to Vega and Sirius, though in lesser numbers.
Alpha Centauri had become the first true planetary melting pot, at least by design. Similar to Terra in so many respects, it had almost a generic appeal to those who opted to settle the stars, and became something of an overflow world. The culture and government reflected Terra in almost every way, and though it wasn't a member of the Federation, Alpha 2 was so similar to Terra that it was almost like a sister planet.
Thus, the civilian population of Alpha 2 was clearly pleased to have Federation armies invade and drive out the Sirians. Unfortunately, such an invasion invariably meant a severe loss of life.
As the fighting raged for the first few weeks, the areas under attack were witness to streams of refugees trying to escape the battle zones. A few were fortunate enough to find themselves behind Federation lines, but most were forced to flee the advancing Feddies, deeper into Sirian-held territory. The Sirians didn't try to prevent them; the fewer civilians in a combat zone, the fewer worries for all concerned. There was little fear of sabotage or local resistance — Alpha 2 had never developed a military, a fact that had aided the Confederates when they first invaded in 0220. They'd taken the entire planet in a matter of days.
The first weeks of battle were traumatic on both sides, as no battle lines were clearly drawn. The Federation had landed in force in a hundred places, spreading like a virus as they sought to expand their gains. Losses were fearful, especially as space battles screamed through the upper atmosphere and orbital space, but by the fifth week of the campaign, things had begun to jell. The Federation held twelve percent of the landmass, and the Sirians began a concerted effort to reduce that toehold.
Sirian space power from Beta Centauri kept the pressure on the Federation fleet, making it increasingly difficult to reinforce and resupply the assault forces.
Tuesday, 27 October, 0229 (PCC) - Polygon, Washington City, DC, North America, Terra
Wade Palmer spent several hours each day in the War Room. Fresh signals constantly updated the situation, the holomaps changing hour to hour. Camarrell had been taken after several days of brutal combat, and other cities had been surrounded or penetrated. But in other places — in particular the central continent — Sirian counterattacks had all but destroyed the Federation Infantry units fighting there. The situation in space fluctuated almost hourly.
For good news, the Sirian presence on Altair was weakening. The Muslims had taken charge of their own war of liberation, and Federation armies were now little more than a support force. Fighter Service squadrons had virtually eliminated the Sirian fighter fleet; Wade no longer worried about Altair.
But Alpha 2 nagged him constantly. He even dreamed about it. Each setback upset his stomach; he almost felt the battles were his personal responsibility.
General Willard seemed almost pessimistic lately. Supply convoys were having increasing difficulty getting through, and no fresh troops had been landed in more than two weeks. The enemy still enjoyed numerical superiority on the ground, and with years of training behind them, the Confederates were fighting even better than anyone had expected.
Meetings were held every day in the Strategy Room, but the bulk of Wade's time was spent reviewing statistics and battle maps, trying to figure the best way to gain even the smallest advantage. Hundreds of other planners were doing the same.
On 27 October, Rear Admiral Boucher called a meeting of his own staff to review the current situation and talk it through, in the hopes of someone having a brilliant idea.
"The battle is not lost," Boucher said by way of opening the meeting. "We are not losing, but we also are not winning. At least, we are not winning as quickly as we would like. The enemy is fighting very 'ard."
The discussion went on for some time, several people making observations, offering suggestions — and generally arriving back at the starting point.
"Palm-air, do you have something?" Boucher frowned at Wade with his peculiar narrow-eyed stare.
Wade shook his head slowly.
"The problem now is fighter support from Beta Centauri," he said. "If we could reduce that, we could get more troops through to Alpha 2. But there's no way to do it. We still only have the five carriers, and they're operating around the clock. Our squadrons are strained already."
Boucher nodded. Nothing new there.
"I think," Wade went on, "maybe it's time to start basing our squadrons on Alpha 2."
Several people nodded, including Kamada, but Boucher looked troubled.
"General Will-aird is opposed to that idea at this stage," he said. "Many of the bases 'ave been so badly damaged that they cannot support our fighters. And with Sirian space power growing as it is, our fighters would be subject to destruction on the ground."
"I understand that, Admiral. But our fighters still have a twelve-hour round trip every time they go into battle. Even with our overlapping schedules and rotations from the Solar System, they're flying fewer missions than they're capable of. And think about this — if we base, say, fifty squadrons on Alpha 2, we can replace them in the order of battle with fresh squadrons from home. That will increase our fighter cover by fifty squadrons."
"Not only that," interrupted Beck, "but squadrons based on the planet will take fewer losses than they do now. They won't already be tired when they reach the action. I dare say we'll notice a ten percent drop in losses, maybe more."
"Beck is right," Wade said. "Another advantage is that we can give the ground troops closer support than we do now. Since the enemy has been bringing in fighters from beyond the system, we've been increasingly inadequate on ground support. I really think it's time, sir."
Boucher polled his staff, and most of them agreed — it was time to start basing Fed fighters on the ground.
"I will take this recommendation to General Will-aird," Boucher said reluctantly. "I do not believe he will agree, 'owever."
The meeting broke up. An hour later Cdr. Kamada called Wade into his office.
"General Willard was quite upset with the admiral," he said. "He said he won't put our fighters on the ground so they can be destroyed like sitting ducks. He also suggested that we aren't using our heads, if we can't come up with a better solution."
Wade looked at Kamada in alarm. As always, Kamada was expressionless.
"With all respect to General Willard," he said, "we're stretched pretty goddamned thin right now! What the hell does he want from us?"
Kamada tilted his head in warning.
>
"Careful, Palmer. Don't let anyone else hear you talk like this."
"Sorry, Commander, but — dammit, there's nothing wrong with the idea. Sure, there's some risk of space attack against our ships on the ground, but that's what Ladar is for. It's even more risky to keep sending them across six hours of warp space the way we're doing now, while the odds keep increasing in the enemy's favor!"
"I agree completely. But General Willard doesn't. We have to find another solution. Any more ideas?"
Wade held up his hands helplessly, then let them drop.
"No. That was it. I'm fresh out."
"Okay. Go home and get drunk. Maybe you'll find the answer then."
Wade snorted. "I'm not the only planner, you know. At last count there were about a thousand others."
"Yes, but you've had all the good ideas lately." Kamada grinned. "I'll see you tomorrow. Go home."
Alpha 2, Alpha Centauri System
Rico didn't know the name of the place, but he was glad to be there. The 33rd had just returned from the line after nearly four continuous weeks of action. Delta Company had taken thirty percent losses, and Second Squad was down to seven men. Quince had been killed days earlier, and Roberson wounded; the latter had just returned, giving Jesus all the credit for his survival.
"The whole armor of God," he told anyone who would listen. "I tell you, fellas, you've got to give your hearts to the Lord."
"Didn't stop a laser, did it?" Texas pointed out.
"I'm alive, Graves. Don't you get it? A millimeter to either side and I wouldn't be!"
"Yeah, you told us already! " Maniac said. " Let's go get laid."
They were in a small town a few miles from an ocean. Alpha Prime had just set, and the air was fresh with sea breeze. Rico was tired but exuberant. His luck had changed for sure; after Titan, he'd privately wondered if he was a marked man. But he'd just been through some hellacious combat, and was still around to talk about it.
"Hey, Lieutenant!" Maniac had spotted Bauer a few yards away, talking to the quartermaster. "Which way to the pink ladies?"
Bauer glanced in his direction, but ignored him until he completed his conversation. First Platoon stood around wearily, waiting for directions. A minute later, Bauer strode toward them.
"No pink ladies until you guys get cleaned up," he said. "Follow me, men."
He led them to their temporary billet, a row of tents set up to house itinerant soldiers, and assigned them housing by squads. He showed them where to find the water showers and the mess tent, then finally admitted that pink ladies were available.
"The 41st Domestic Detachment is expecting you," he said. "But nobody gets admitted without a shower and a shave. Any questions?"
"How long will they wait for us, sir?" Gearloose asked worriedly.
"Until you get there. They have girls on duty all night. Take your time, make yourselves smell good, and make damned sure you clean your teeth." He grinned and turned away.
Rico staked out a rack, a low metal bunk with a thin mattress — technology several hundred years old — and tossed his backpack onto it. He kept his rifle as he headed for the showers, and spent nearly an hour under the hot water. He was unable to remove all the dirt that had accumulated over the weeks, but did the best he could. At least he felt clean, and refreshed. He accompanied White to the mess tent and they ate hot food for the first time in days.
"You gonna visit the girls?" White grinned at him as they ate.
"I dunno. I never do that much."
"Yeh, I noticed. Back on Luna you hardly ever went. How come?"
"I dunno. Doesn't really seem right. I mean, what if they get knocked up?"
"You kiddin'? Didn't nobody never tell you? They're hypnoed! They can't git knocked up."
Rico had known that, but didn't say so.
"Just the same," he said, "I never felt right about it."
White finished his meal and pushed his tray aside.
"Well, do what you want. Me, I figure I might not come out the other side of this war. Could be the last chance I'll ever git. I never turn it down."
Rico grinned. "Yeah, I noticed."
Texas, sitting a few chairs away, had apparently been listening.
"Hey, Knee Grow — you know the definition of a Latin lover?"
White broke into a toothy grin.
"No, Texas. Tell me."
Texas smiled, and winked at Rico. "Just a fuckin' Mexican!"
Walking back to his billet afterward, Rico breathed deeply of the fresh ocean air, enjoying the sensations of just being alive. He walked slowly, looking up at the night sky. Alpha 2's only moon was in full phase, casting a silver glow across the ground. It was a beautiful evening, so far from home. A romantic evening.
Rico sighed. He'd never been much good with girls, even though Texas teased him about being a Latin lover. He'd had a girl friend briefly in high school, but it hadn't been serious. He'd enlisted less than a year later, and the Star Marines didn't afford many opportunities for romance. He would much prefer to share an evening like this with a girl he cared about, but maybe White was right. They were light years from home, might never get back, and — what the hell? Biology made its demands whether one had a special girl or not.
Twenty minutes later he located the camp street where the 41st Domestic Detachment was located. It looked like the rest of the camp, just a row of tents stretching off down the street. The only difference was the sign in front of the tent, which proclaimed it as unit headquarters, like the lobby in a hotel, and the small red lanterns that glowed at the entrance to each tent on the street.
Feeling ill at ease, he removed his helmet and stepped into the first tent. Two other men were already there, getting set up. They left a moment later, and the woman behind the makeshift desk smiled at Rico.
"Hi, there, Star Marine! Are you from the 33rd, too?"
"Yes, Ma'am." Rico's face felt hot. The woman was middle-aged, yet she was petite and attractive. The front of her uniform was unbuttoned halfway down, and he could see white cleavage pressing upward, begging to be noticed. She wore light makeup and some kind of dizzying perfume. Her hair was a light silver, soft and feathery. She looked beautiful.
"Can I see your datatag, please?" she smiled. He lifted it from around his neck and handed it to her. As she scanned it, she talked to him as if they were old friends. "Sounds like you fellows just got back from a hell of a fight," she said. "We sure do appreciate the job you Star Marines are doing. Here you go."
She handed the tag back to him, and he strung it around his neck. She was smiling again.
"We have quite a few girls available at the moment," she said. "Do you have any preference? Blonde, brunette … ?"
Rico's tongue slid uncertainly over his lips.
"You, uh, got any Spanic girls?"
"Yes, of course we do. Several. Would you like to meet them?"
"Um, any one will be okay, I guess." He felt squeamish putting it like that. "Just whoever is available."
She smiled again, trying to put him at ease.
"Tent number 11. Her name is Lupe. I think you'll like her." She handed him a slip of paper from her printer, and he thanked her, then backed toward the entrance. "Oh, by the way —" She winked at him. "We're not very busy tonight. Take your time."
Number 11 was on the left, sitting quiet and dark amid all the other tents that looked just like it. The red lantern glowed dimly, and he hesitated a moment before entering. His nerves sang with an apprehension every bit as strong as what he felt in battle, though it was a different kind of fear. He forced a deep breath and stepped through the entrance to the tent.
The interior was so dark he didn't see her at first. The only light came from a small blue lamp just inside the doorway. She stood to one side of a very sturdy hoverbed, which was trimmed in pink lace, and she was wearing a negligee, the top half hanging several inches clear of her stomach, held away from her body by the swell of her breasts. Rico stared at her in wonder for a few seconds,
and belatedly removed his helmet again.
She was staring at him, dark and sultry. He couldn't see her face clearly, but could tell she was stunning. A figure like in a pornographic holomag, long black hair that fell in thick, gentle waves down her back. Full, sensuous lips, and large, beautiful brown eyes. Her age was impossible to guess, but he estimated her to be around twenty.
She moved sensuously toward him; "slunk" would be a better word. He could smell her perfume before she reached him, and his mouth suddenly felt dry. She reached for his printout and filed it in a box with several others, never taking her eyes from his face. She slid her arms around his neck, pressing her full breasts against him.
"¿Como te llamas?" she murmured.
"Rico," he gulped. "¿Y tu?"
"Yo soy Lupe," she breathed, and fastened her full, sexy lips onto his mouth.
Rico hadn't realized how badly he needed it. Her sensuality was almost magnetic, and within minutes they were in the hoverbed. He lay with her a long time afterward, letting her kiss him, caress him, as if rewarding him for the risks he'd taken. He tried to find out a little about her, but she didn't talk much. The most he got was that she was from Argentina, her name was Lupe (pronounced LOO-pay), and she thought he had the body of a Greek god. Rico was sure she said the same to all her other customers, but he still didn't mind hearing it.
They had sex three times, and she was by far the most passionate woman he'd ever been with. She was the kind of girl in bed that everybody wanted to marry, but nobody ever did. She acted as if she were starved for sex, and he had to wonder if her passion was genuine or faked; it was rumored that the pink ladies were hypno-conditioned to desire whatever man they were with.
As he left her two hours later and headed back to his billet, he decided he didn't want to know.
San Francisco, CA, North America, Terra
Henry Wells had made a decision. It had been difficult, but after agonizing over it for some weeks, he was sure it was right. He stepped before a battery of microphones that had been set up outside the Federation Center, and made his announcement. Beside him stood Yvonne, still young and lovely at fifty-two, and their "daughter", the vivacious and smiling redhead whose face had become popular with armed forces around the system. Lester Rice was also there, as a member of his party and his close friend. Holocams dodged for advantage as reporters stared at him with bated breath, ready to grab any breaking news and run with it.