Go Tell the Spartans c-5

by Jerry Pournelle

  Owensford nodded. That was the blocking force down in the ravine to the west, and now he would learn for sure why the enemy seemed bent on committing suicide.

  "Put McLaren on." Another secure channel. The signals people all deserved medals.

  "Captain McLaren here," a thickly accented voice said; from New Newfoundland, the island settlement in the Oinos Gulf. "There's a force of at least three companies comin' doon the valley at me, Colonel. They're carrying heavy weapons, but they'll nae get past if we get fire support."

  "On its way, Captain," Owensford said. "Are you ready for chemical attack?"

  "As ready as I'll ever be. The lads that hae the gear ha' put it oon, the rest hae moved back to hasty shelters."

  "That ought to do it. We don't know what they have, or how much, but with luck it can't be that much."

  "Luck goes both ways, Colonel. We're warned noo, the lads know which side of the turf goes up."

  "Right. Captain, I don't mind if they get past you."

  "Sir?"

  "I want them to think they fought past you, but I don't want you taking casualties. When they move in, probably under cover of that gas attack, punish them as they go past, but mostly fall back on your reserves, regroup, and wait for the signal to counter attack. They're putting themselves into the bag, Captain, and I wouldn't want to stop them."

  "I see. We'll be ready, then."

  "Incoming," Sastri's voice said on the Heavy Weapons line. "New pattern. Incoming on all positions, single batteries to each of our battalions. Impact in thirty seconds."

  "Looks like this is it, Captain. Godspeed."

  "Sir, Morrentes calling, urgent."

  "Owensford here." There was a faint but unmistakable background sound, a rising and falling wail: the line was radio line of sight, possibly secure, possibly not.

  "Colonel, FAIROAK." Owensford whistled silently; radars inoperative due to enemy antiradiation missiles. "Ditto Firebase One, we've got movement all around. I'm lofting some of the Thoths, but there isn't enough target data to-"

  "Gas!" An automatic alarm squeal, and then Sastri's voice screaming on the override push: "Gas! All units are under gas attack, protective measures immediately gas gas gas!"

  "Morrentes here, the camp's under gas attack."

  "Loft your birds high, then drop them onto your old camp, sector fiver," Owensford said. "That's where they'll be coming in."

  "Gas, gas, gas . . ."

  A long chilling scream from someone, that ended in retching coughs. Owensford's hands were moving in drilled reflex, as a ring of plastic popped loose around the base of his Legion-issue helmet. Open the armor at the neck strip it back pull the tab; a sudden hiss as the seal inflated tight to his skin and the lower rim of his faceplate. Strip the hypnospray out of its pocket in the fabric of his sleeve and press it to the neck below the seal; antidote, if it was a nerve agent.

  But the Brotherhood troops and the RSI don't have Legion equipment. Except the Prince Royal's Own. And everyone has masks. It was still in the training. One reason gas wasn't used much. They have the masks, if they didn't ditch them as useless weight. Think of that as a way to weed out stupid troops. We had warning, not enough, but why am I surprised that terrorists use terror weapons? One thing for sure, they haven't any more experience with war gasses than we do.

  "Command override," he said. That put him on the universal push. There was no emotion now; everything felt ice-clear. "All units, gas counter-measures." He turned to Captain Lahr. "OK, that's their big move. Stop them now, and we've won. Andy, make sure we preserve records of this. Make damned sure of that. I want evidence that will stand up in every hearing room from here to the Grand Senate."

  "Now," Skilly said, looking at her watch. 0420. Her hand stabbed down, one finger extended.

  The Meijian touched a control. The antiradiation missiles lept skyward and looped over down toward the Royalist river-base.

  "Now," Skilly repeated. A second finger.

  The sky lit with violet as the bombardment rockets drew their streaks across the sky. Two hundred meters above the earth they burst, and a colorless, odorless liquid volatized into gas and floated downward.

  "Now." A third time. Nothing visible here, but hundreds of kilometers to the north another of Murasaki's technoninjas touched the controls before him. Two solid-fuel rockets leaped aloft and arched west as they rose; they were not capable of reaching orbital velocity, but they had more than enough power to spew their loads of ballbearings into the path of the observation satellite. The steel would meet the orbiter at a combined velocity of better than sixteen thousand meters per second.

  "Now." Fourth and last. From all around the Royalist base, men rose and rushed forward, even as the alarm klaxons wailed.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Crofton's Essays and Lectures in Military History

  (2nd Edition)

  Herr Doktor Professor Hans Dieter von und zu Holbach:

  Delivered at the Kriegsakademie, Konigsberg

  Planetary Republic of Friedland, October 2nd, 2090.

  War among the interstellar colonies is a relatively new phenomenon, although civil disturbance is not. Only since the emergence of strongly independent planetary states in the 2060s has a new balance of power begun to manifest itself, with the traditional accompanying features: armaments races, offensive and defensive alliances, puppet governments and spheres of influence. This process is still incomplete, as the significant powers-Dayan, our own Friedland, Meiji, Xanadu-are still somewhat deterred by the enormous although declining and semi-paralytic power of Earth's CoDominium Fleet. Space combat remains an almost exclusively theoretical exercise. Ground warfare has been limited, with intervention in the disputes of worlds without unified planetary governments, or undergoing civil war, the characteristic form. The independent planets seek to defray the costs of raising armies and to gain combat experience by following the example of the autonomous mercenary formations and hiring out their elite troops; political influence often follows automatically, as in, for example, the close links now existing between the Republic of Friedland and the restored Carlist monarchy of Santiago on Thurstone.

  As one consequence of this pattern, the significant armies have continued to be small and usually based on voluntary recruitment, intended for deployment outside their native systems. The strong, industrialized and unified worlds have no use for mass armies, and the planets which need such have not the resources to maintain them. Thus reserves of trained manpower, and still more the organizational and social structures needed to support universal mobilization, have become virtually nonexistent. Some planets, of which Sparta is an excellent example, have attempted to raise well-trained and widely based militia systems. The primary weakness of this approach is the lack of standing forces, and hence of the infrastructure of higher command and administration; also, the lack of fighting experience, the only true method of testing the efficiency of a military system. . . .

  We was rotten 'for we started-

  we was never disciplined;

  We made it out a favor if an order was obeyed.

  Yes, every little drummer 'ad 'is

  rights and wrongs to mind,

  So we had to pay for teachin'-an' we paid!

  There was thirty dead and wounded

  on the ground we wouldn't keep-

  No, there wasn't more than twenty

  when the front began to go-

  But Christ! Along the line o' flight they

  cut us up like sheep,

  An' that was all we gained by doin' so!

  "Faster!" Niles hissed at the two guerillas who were supporting him on either side.

  "Niles." Skilly's voice.

  "Getting into position," he gasped. "Will be there."

  "You'd better."

  He could move, but there were limits on how fast a man with a hairline rib fracture could run. The hypnospray was beginning to take effect, pain receding and the band around his chest loosening.

  They h
ad caught up with the bulk of the Icepick column; men were crouched next to their loads of explosive death, looking forward to the firing ahead at the enemy infantry's blocking position, or up to where the forty-kilo loads of the Royalist heavy mortars would drop on their heads from only three thousand meters away.

  We're here. The cost had been high. All of his headquarters and special guards, dead or left behind to block that hard-nosed Spartan bastard who wouldn't parley. Can't blame him, but it was worth a try.

  "Drill A, Drill A!" Niles gasped, over the command push. Maximum gain. "DRILL A!" His escort stopped, and he pulled open the throat of his own armor to seal the ring around his neck; the Helot senior commanders had offworld helmets with all the trimmings, for obvious reasons.

  Stasis dissolved into action; nobody had explained why Drill A was practiced so often, but the movements were automatic. Helmet off. Pull the plastic bag out of its case on the belt, drag it over the head, yank the tab. Disconcerting how it plastered itself to the face and neck, but the areas that touched mouth and nose turned permeable instantly; permeable to air molecules, and nothing else. Helmet on . . . even the men probing with fire at the Royalist line ahead stopped the necessary few seconds. Or most did, from the way the sound dropped off for a few seconds, and anybody who didn't . . .

  Rockets burst overhead; there were cries of alarm from the Helot columns, but no rain of bomblets followed.

  . . . anybody who didn't, deserved what was about to happen to them.

  "Kolnikov!" he snapped, as they came to the head of the column. "Hit them, hit them now."

  It was quiet ahead. All quiet. The gas must have acted more quickly than he thought. The Helots were already surging forward through the woods; their screams no less chilling for being muffled through their gas filters. Niles drove forward himself, the pain in his side was distant, he would pay for it later, no time to think of that. Past the enemy line, past gunners sprawled shot or bayonetted around their machine gun, helmets off and gas filters in their hands. Firing, screaming; the company behind him deploying and charging uphill, at right angles to the Royalist blockforce's position, rolling it up from the downslope flank, throwing them back toward the top of the ridge.

  Grenades crumped and rifles chattered; he could see figures darting through the woods. Firing, falling; not all the enemy were down, the RSI's training was recent and the response to the gas alert quick . . . but it was enough. They were getting past the enemy. Losing troops, but they were getting past, moving faster now. . . .

  "Keep moving, Kolnikov!" he said, turning from the fight and loping up to one of the sleds. The men pulling it were sprinting now, their breath harsh and rasping through the filters, faces red and contorted into gorgon-shapes. One stumbled and went down as a bullet punched into his side. His comrades ripped him free almost without breaking stride, and Niles snatched up the rope and put it over his shoulder.

  "We're through, everyone move, this is it, do it, lads, go, go, go."

  Ahead was the knoll where the weakest of the Brotherhood forces waited; the Eighteenth, the one that had been dropping off men for the firebases. Men and weapons . .

  "Go, go, go!" The sky screamed as the follow-on bombardment launched. He had lost a third of his frames to the Royalist counterbattery fire, but there were enough for these two targets.

  The knoll lit with a surf-wall of flame.

  "They're past us, Colonel," McLaren said. "I thank you for the warning. I've lost aye more o' my laddies than I like, but 'tis no what would hae happened if we hadna known."

  "Can you see the enemy?"

  "Aye, they're past and running up toward the Eighteenth's encampment."

  "Excellent. Regroup and get ready to go kill them." Owensford switched channels. "Stand by to Flash Blue Peter Four," he said quietly.

  "Standing by."

  "Let me know when they go to ground, McLaren," Owensford said.

  "Aye, that I will, Colonel. That I will, the murtherin' bastards."

  "Warning."

  "Go ahead, Guns."

  "Colonel, incoming, our position and the Eighteenth's, all their batteries on those targets. Thirty seconds to impact." A second's pause. "Second launch. I should have better counterbattery after this, but we're going to be buttoned up in our holes until they run out of rockets." The mortar crews had no overhead protection, and the submunitions would slaughter them if they stood to their weapons.

  "Right. Button up and stay buttoned. Andy, get me the Eighteenth."

  "Eighteenth Brotherhood, Wilson."

  "Wilson, they'll be battering hell out of your old position. Get down and stay down. When the bombardment's over, continue your withdrawal."

  "Sir, we'd like to go after them."

  "Negative. Your mission is to stay intact and stay alive. Just by existing you keep the bastards in the sack they put themselves in. They thought they'd fight through you. They don't know you're still organized and on their flank."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "Good man. Hang in there."

  WhumpWhumpWhumpWhump-the bursting charges of the rockets went on longer this time, much longer. The aching moment of comparative silence, and then the long roar of white noise. The sound of the wire shrapnel hitting the sides of the command car was like being inside a steel bucket that was being sandblasted. The seven tons of armor rocked back and forward as the bomblets cascaded off its hull.

  A much louder explosion, and for a moment he thought the command van would turn over.

  "Sastri here. We lost one of the one-sixty-mm's, something hit the ready ammunition in the pit with the tube," he said. A hint of real pain this time; like most gunners, the officer from Krishna loved his artillery pieces. "Priorities?"

  "Stand by to flash the Eighteenth's former area. They'll learn in a minute that they aren't the only ones who can be clever."

  "Sir, I have the Third Brotherhood on the push. Secure."

  "Owensford here."

  "Colonel, they-there was at least a company of them, we ran right into them while the gas attack was on, what shall I do?"

  "Stop them," Owensford said. "You know where they are, you still outnumber them, just stop them. Don't let them through, and it won't be long. Henderson, I gather you went to their support. Report."

  "Sir. Fifteen percent casualties."

  "Gas situation?"

  "We're all right. The Third Brotherhood took some heavy losses. Lot of them down, still alive."

  "Leave 'em for the medics. If you don't hold that position, they'll all be dead anyway. Running away just gets you killed, you and everyone you left behind as well."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "Consolidate your present position, mop up those hostiles who are giving the Third trouble, then push directly south down the valley towards me, keeping the armored cars on your western flank as close to the forest as possible. Hit the force that's blocking McLaren, and roll in on the rear of the people attacking the Eighteenth Brotherhood's old encampment from the valley."

  "Sir."

  "Morrentes here, Colonel, the rebs are over the wire, they're over the wire, I've lost two of my observation outposts and Firebase One isn't reporting, they're using some sort of precision-guided light missile, laser or optical or something they're flying them right through the firing slits of our bunkers-"

  "It's a damned good thing you're not in them, then. Calm down, Morrentes." Peter watched as data flowed into the map table. The scouts were doing their job, the river base was sending data. A wedge, right through the eastern perimeter of the base, driving straight for the CP and the artillery.

  "You can't let them get the artillery, or we've all had it. I know we scattered your troops, now collect what you've got left and get ready to counterattack. Defend those guns. You're to hold them until Barton gets there. Less than an hour."

  "Yes sir."

  "Good man. Out. Ace?"

  "On the river, Pete. They tried to stop us, but we had a surprise for them. ETA as per."

  "T
hank you."

  More bomblets rattled against the command caravan. "The great thing," Peter said to no one in particular, "the great thing is not to lose your nerve."

  The third wave of enemy rockets had stopped. The ridge outside was almost swept clean of snow, littered with dead men and mules-others were limping or running through the emplacement, adding their element of horror and chaos-but the flanking infantry companies were moving, deploying and heading south. There were figures moving and muzzle flashes all over the Eighteenth's former position. It was time.

  Whunf. The 106mm recoilless gun crashed, igniting the brush behind it. The shell hammered up a gout of dirt two hundred meters ahead, and a platoon of Helot infantry threw themselves forward on the position.

  "Keep moving, keep moving!" Niles said again; his throat was hoarse, but it was not safe yet to take off the gas filters; water seemed like a dream of paradise, and rancid sweat soaked his uniform inside the armor, chilling when it came into contact with the outside air.

  He dashed forward himself. His troops were firing wildly, charging forward, in among the enemy bunkers-

  No one was shooting back. The Royalists must have been stunned by the artillery bombardment.

  "Kolnikov!"

  "Platoon Leader ben Bella here, sir. Company Leader Kolnikov's dead."

  Oh, sodding hell. He had been one of their CD men; only a Garrison Marine officer, but competent in a humorless Russian way.

  "Are you in contact with Sickle elements?"

  "Yes, sir. They're considerably disorganized, sir, the Fifty-first Brotherhood mauled them pretty bad before they withdrew."

  "Well, get them organized, man!"

  Crump. Shockwave, another, like hammer blows. Downslope a dozen more tall flowers of dirt with sparls of fire blossoming at their hearts. The enemy 160mm's were back in action-astonishing, with the intensity of the bombardment they'd just gone through-and that used up the last of our rocket ammunition. Bloody hell.

  The last Helot elements burst out of the wood, a wave a hundred men strong. Niles grinned to himself; it was the right time, but also an interesting way to get men to advance-have the enemy shell them into it.