by David Drake
Hawthorn lay prone at the far end of the trench. Allenson’s gut contracted. Hawthorn lifted his head, got up and dusted himself off. He ambled down the trench, his limp noticeably worse.
“You’re going to need a new gun,” he said to Allenson and held out the carbine.
A laser shot had deflected off the side, ruining the weapon. That explained why Hawthorn had stopped firing.
“You have the luck of the devil,” Allenson said with feeling.
“He’s supposed to look after his own,” Hawthorn replied with a grin, reaching down and helping Allenson up.
He switched the grin off.
“Speaking of which, you just can’t help yourself, can you? Shrenk was supposed to make the run.”
“Don’t be too hard on him. I really didn’t give him much choice in the matter.”
“Yeah, I can imagine.”
They sorted themselves out into a skirmish formation and proceeded without incident. They came to an excavation containing the central bunker that acted as the fort’s headquarters. A massive blast had collapsed the roof, taking out the whole structure. A leg stuck out from under the rubble. A trooper pulled at it to see if he could free the body.
Why the man felt the need to do this Allenson had no idea. The victim could not possibly be alive. A fact demonstrated when the limb came—being unattached to a torso. The trooper flung it down as if he held a poisonous snake.
Cinnerans joined them from other trenches that radiated out in all directions. All roads led to Rome or in this case led to what was left of the command bunker. Allenson tried to contact Shong but failed. None of the Cinnerans he questioned could offer any light on Shong’s whereabouts.
A soldier in Streamer Army uniform shot out of a tunnel from the north side.
“Don’t shoot,” the man shrieked when the rifle’s barrels turned in his direction.
He held both hands in the air and had lost or abandoned his weapon.
“Who are you?” Allenson asked.
“They’re right behind me, hundreds of them. It’s ever yman for himself,” the man sobbed, ignoring Allenson’s question.
There was another exchange of fire somewhere in the northern zone of the fort.
The man shrieked and pelted into one of the tunnels on the south side of the command bunker. More troopers emerged from the north and ran through Allenson’s group. Many had thrown away their rifles, helmets and other equipment. Their uniform flashes indicated that they were Eleventh Brigade troopers.
Todd grabbed at one of them.
“Let me go,” he squealed before wriggling free.
Cinnerans began to edge back into the southern trenches.
A burst of fire from the entrance to one of the eastern trenches downed two Cimmerans. Hawthorn punched a shot into the bronzed visor covering the face of the Brasilian commando who’d fired.
“Hold your ground,” Allenson ordered.
It was too late. If Shong had been there maybe he could have rallied his men. The Cinnerans didn’t know Allenson or Hawthorn. Once the retreat started it turned into a rout until only Special Project troopers remained.
“Back the way we’ve come,” Allenson said bitterly. There was nothing else to do.
“Slowly, in formation,” Hawthorn said. “I’ll shoot the first man or woman to run.”
The security troopers did know Hawthorn. They didn’t flee but acted as rear guard, stopping to fire and throw grenades whenever Brasilians pressed too hard. In the end they were outflanked. The trench structure gave a great deal of protection but Allenson knew that the game was up when they took fire from a side gallery.
He ordered the troopers to make a run for it. They passed through a tunnel in the scarp that led into the main defensive ditch where the high counterscarp trapped them. Allenson tossed a mental coin.
“This way,” he said, leading the group east along the ditch towards the city-side of the fort. That seemed a slightly more likely place to find an exit ramp. Hawthorn hung back with a couple of troopers as a rear guard. Every so often he lobbed a grenade to keep their pursuers from being too keen.
The chest of the security trooper walking on Allenson’s right suddenly lit up with multiple laser hits. They came from a heavy crew-served weapon in a bunker positioned to fire down the ditch. It was designed to halt any enemy trying to break into the fort but it just as adequately stopped anyone from breaking out. Allenson threw himself tight to the wall to be out of the weapon’s line of sight.
That was the thing with lasers, very accurate but they only shot in straight lines.
Hawthorn joined Allenson.
“If that bastard had waited another few seconds he could have mown us all down,” Allenson said.
“He doesn’t need to,” Hawthorn replied. “They’ve got us well and truly trapped. Do we rush the gun or the enemy section behind? May as well do one or the other right away. Our situation ain’t likely to improve any.”
“Neither,” Allenson replied. “We wouldn’t stand a chance. You and I might prefer to go down fighting but we have a duty to the others.”
He gestured at Todd and the troopers.
“We’ll surrender and hope the Brasilians are taking prisoners today.”
Technically, shooting soldiers trying to surrender was a war crime but trying to give oneself up in the combat zone was always a tricky business. Most successful surrenders took place before the battle or well after it when tempers had cooled. Allenson was sure of one thing. Trying to surrender after gunning down some of the attackers wasn’t an option.
War is full of the unexpected. Chaos rules the battlefield and it doesn’t always work to one’s disadvantage. As it happened they weren’t required to test the Brasilians mood.
Allenson’s barge skimmed over the top of the counterscarp in a flicker of part-phased frame field. With the advantage of height its lateral tribarrels fired long bursts down into the ditch at targets out of sight of Allenson’s group. A loud whoosh and flash indicated that the starboard gun had found something vulnerable in the bunker to the east.
The barge dropped into the ditch. Allenson’s people flattened themselves against the scarp wall as the vehicle took up most of the space.
Boswell beckoned them from the pilot’s podium. The woman manning the port gun lifted her visor and winked at Allenson. She held out a hand to help him over the side. He thought she had the most attractive and welcoming smile of any human being he had ever met.
The barge lifted and pivoted on the spot as soon as everyone was aboard. The gunners raked the ditch again as they climbed. Allenson had no idea whether they had targets or were just laying down fire on general principles. He found he didn’t much care.
Todd made his way up the cargo hold to where Allenson sat. He kept one hand on the rail as the barge made a number of abrupt flight changes
“What now, Uncle?” Todd asked.
“Now we go back to the control room and try to salvage something from the shambles.”
CHAPTER 26
Forlorn Hope
Allenson entered the control room with the air of a surgeon about to carry out a last-chance operation on a dying patient. No one spoke, which was just as well as he was in no mood for small talk. He joined Ling at the main console and patched through to Kaspary, Morton and Buller who popped up as holograms.
“South Fort has fallen to a Brasilian commando raid but I reckon that lot have shot their bolt. They’ve taken significant casualties and have no land transport. The attack was a distraction but strategically pointless provided we don’t overreact and do something stupid. We mustn’t allow ourselves to be drawn into a war of attrition by trying to recapture the fort.”
Allenson turned to Kaspary’s hologram.
“Situation report, if you please.”
“Morton reports that Brasilians are digging in on the east bank of the Valerie but that scouting parties have started to venture inland. I don’t think it will be long before they try a reconnaissance i
n force. When they do I’ll hit them with an attack by however many troops I can move by frame. It would help if you could return some of my lift capability and the Cinnerans if you have finished with them sir.”
“I have some additional information that might be important,” Morton said.
“Go on,” Allenson replied gloomily thinking that it was exceedingly unlikely that he was going to find the news to his advantage.
“The Brasilians have acquired lighters from somewhere and have started to move their heavy artillery across the river.”
“But I gave orders that all lighters were to be concentrated under our control,” Ling said angrily. “There shouldn’t have been a single vessel left in the Hundreds or the Valerie. I’ll find out who screwed up and I’ll have their head.”
“Don’t waste your time,” Allenson replied, shaking his head. “Lighters could easily have been hidden by a traitor with Home World sympathies or just some businessman who didn’t trust us with his assets. Whatever, it doesn’t matter now.”
Allenson looked at the hologram of Buller, a move that would be replicated by Allenson’s hologram above Buller’s console.
“And how do you rate our chances once the enemy have their artillery in place?”
Buller shook his head.
“Zero! Our only hope would be to mount a raid and destroy the tubes or ammunition while they’re in transit or being emplaced. Of course, the Brasilian commander will expect such a countermove and be waiting.”
Siege warfare was like a board game where all the moves and countermoves had been worked out millennia before. Action and reaction were entirely predictable from the first turn.
Allenson replied. “I concur, we can’t win this round. They’ll methodically and slowly smash our forts to pieces one by one. If we stay here we’ll lose the army as well.”
He took a deep breath.
“Right, gentlemen, we evacuate to Brunswick starting immediately while we have the strength to overwhelm their pickets in the Continuum. We’ll do it in three waves by brigade, first the 11th, then the 5th. I want the 1st to go last. Once the enemy work out what we’re doing they’ll start to concentrate substantial blocking forces in the Continuum so the 1st may have to fight their way out. Major Morton?”
“Sir?”
“Your Canaries will sweep ahead of the first evacuation wave. Try to take out as many of the Brasilian pickets as you can. We want to keep the enemy in the dark about our intentions as long as possible.
“Gotcha, General,” Morton said far more cheerily than the situation warranted.
“Colonel Buller will go with the 11th in the first wave. Do what you can to fortify our Brunswick base, if you please, Colonel. Colonel Ling and the staff will evacuate with the 5th. Please organize the evacuation, Colonel Kaspary.”
Buller asked the obvious question.
“What will you be doing while all this is going on?”
Allenson answered without looking up from his datapad. His people had their orders and his mind had already shifted to the next problem.
“I shall be trying to confuse the situation by giving the Brasilian commander the idea that we intend to make a fight for Port Trent. I intend to impede their advance with a blocking force.”
Allenson looked up.
“I will need to hang on to your Cinnerans a little longer, Colonel Kaspary.”
Kaspary nodded but didn’t reply.
Various people wasted more time trying to talk Allenson out of commanding the Forlorn Hope, as the blocking force was promptly nicknamed. Allenson had none of it. He was utterly exasperated by people telling him that he was too important to risk. As far as he could see Kaspary, Ling or even Buller could do as good a job as him. God knows, they couldn’t do worse. It never occurred to him to wonder whether any of his subordinates could hold the army together.
That afternoon, Allenson, accompanied by Todd, put on his dress uniform in all its splendor. He joined a parade on the flat area outside the Central Fort that served as a ship park. Hawkins had the Cinnerans lined up at attention alongside the survivors of the 11th who had garrisoned the South Fort. They had started as two companies of Seerwood Foresters but there were not enough troopers left to fill out more than a couple of platoons.
Fortunately Cinneran losses were light, which was just as well as they had been understrength to start with. Now they were at about fifty percent of establishment. Unfortunately the casualties included Major Shong whose corpse presumably lay somewhere unrecovered in South Fort.
Allenson ignored the Foresters and addressed the Cinnerans.
“Colonel Kaspary put you people under my command because, and I quote him, you were the best regiment in the 1st, meaning you were the finest regiment in the army. Well God help the colonies if that’s true. You broke and ran before a handful of Brasilian light infantry.”
Actually, the Brasilians were elite special force commandos but that didn’t need to be explained.
“But I’m going to give you a second chance to redeem yourselves. The army is evacuating Trent. You and I will guard their rear in the position of most honor.”
The position of most honor was also the position of most danger but that point didn’t need dwelling upon either.
“There will be no more routs: Colonel Hawthorn?”
“Sir!”
Hawthorn snapped crisply to attention. Allenson hadn’t been aware his friend even knew the right moves.
“You and your men will accompany us. You will shoot the first man that displays cowardice in the face of the enemy.”
“Yes, sir,” Hawthorn replied unemotionally.
He grinned at the assembled Cinnerans, whose officer at the front of the parade took two steps forward and saluted.
“That will not be necessary, General. No man here will run.”
There was a murmur of approval from the ranks.
“You are?” Allenson asked.
“Captain Braks, sir, in acting command of the regiment.”
“Very good, Captain,” Allenson replied but he didn’t rescind his order to Hawthorn.
“What about us, sir,” asked an officer from the Foresters.
“I’m sure your people did their best, Lieutenant. You’ll evacuate with the rest of the 11th.”
“With respect, sir, I would like a return crack at the Brasos. We’ll do better next time.”
Allenson considered.
“Well, if any Forester feels the same way he may volunteer to accompany the Cinnerans under your command.”
About half volunteered, which was less than Allenson had hoped but more than he had expected.
Allenson retired to his quarters and minutely examined topographic maps of the region to the north of Port Trent. The Brasilian artillery had crossed the Valerie several kilometers upriver, an unnecessary precaution as there was no possibility of the Stream Army interdicting the operation. He looked for a blocking position, somewhere he could hold up the enemy for a reasonable time—preferably without losing a regiment in the process.
He understood the thought processes of the Brasilian commander as if he could read his mind. The artillery was the weapon that would win the battle for Port Trent. Therefore it must not be left vulnerable to any risk, however small. Time was on the Brasilian side. Accordingly the commander played safe and did things by the book.
In a Home World army, that was almost more important than winning. One couldn’t be criticized in defeat provided one did things properly. On the other hand doubts would always hang over a general who won using unconventional tactics. Some people might suspect he was not sound.
The Brasilians would protect the artillery with their main force as it moved south into position to reduce the forts one by one. Light infantry would be sent ahead to seize key strategic points and create a road lined by friendly troops.
He considered letting the Brasilian lights flow past a concealed blocking force then spring an ambush on the main column but reluctantly rejected the i
dea. The light infantry would merely return and counterattack his rear, trapping his people against the main column. Ambushing the Brasilian light troops would have to suffice.
If he had read the Brasilian commander correctly the man would halt the main column in any case once the ambush was sprung until the situation had been clarified. This would achieve Allenson’s purpose of delaying the Brasilian attack on the forts in the most cost-effective manner—cost effective, that is, as measured by troops lost versus time won for the evacuation of Trent to proceed.
So he pored over the map looking for a suitable ambush position. It would have to be somewhere guaranteed to be on the Brasilian march route, somewhere that offered his people concealment and cover but left the enemy exposed. But somewhere not so obvious that the light infantry commander would automatically deploy into combat formation in the expectation of a trap.
The route was easy enough to discern. There was only one all-weather stabilized road that ran south parallel to the Valerie. It meandered well inland along the edge of the river’s flood plain. He rejected as too obvious a perfect ambush position where the road crossed a tributary on a bridge.
The road swung west just north of the Trent Line to connect with a second stabilized road that came in from the agricultural areas. A small town had grown up at the junction as is the way of things. The buildings would give his men concealment. The flat fields around the town would leave anyone moving down the road completely exposed, like toy soldiers on a table top. When things got too hot the town structures would also give cover for his men to run for it.
He touched an icon on the map and the town’s name was displayed. It was called Kismet.
The door opened.
Allenson clicked off the map and turned to greet his wife. He spoke quickly to avoid questions that he did not want to answer, such as why he was personally leading the Forlorn Hope. Trina was too bright to bullshit about the blocking operation. She would grasp that it had every possibility of turning into a suicide run. In vain would he explain that he had a plan to get away, albeit along a very dodgy avenue of escape.