by David Drake
“I do.” Allenson turned to Major Pynchon. “How do we stand for artillery?”
“As most of it is Terran-supplied one-shot, self-contained, rocket mortars, I took the precaution of dispersing our tubes throughout the flotilla. We are still unloading, sir, but I would expect to have around two thirds of our compliment.”
“Excellent, that was well done, Major.”
Pynchon nodded his thanks to Allenson for the compliment.
“A change of plan, gentlemen, we’re not going to wait for the second wave. We attack Teneyk immediately with what we’ve got while it’s still light. Major Morton, you will stay here until you receive my signal. Then you and the Canaries will lift and act as a blocking force in the Continuum. No one gets in or out of the town.”
“Gotcha, General,” Morton said, face flushed with excitement—or maybe it was the cold.
“Colonel Kaspary will lead the Hinterlanders on foot to screen our advance. Take out any Brasilians outposts on our line of advance but silently please. Let’s not give the bastards any warning. Major Flako’s regiment will remain as camp guard . . .”
Flako protested but was quickly silenced by his brigade commander. Allenson continued as if he hadn’t heard. Overenthusiasm was a permissible fault in a junior officer.
“The regiments will assemble in column in order of their numbers, the artillery support regiment to the rear. We march out in twenty minutes. Is there any commander who thinks he or she can’t meet that deadline?”
He looked around the group. One or two looked uncomfortable and avoided eye contact. The brigade commander of the 2nd, a Colonel Percival met his gaze boldly.
“Well?” Allenson asked.
“I think it’s too hasty and we should take the time to fortify the camp first.
“Your opinion is noted, Colonel. Who is your senior regimental commander by the way?”
“Major Tannelle, sir,” Percival said, pointing to a stout woman.
“Very well, you are relieved of command, Colonel.” Allenson said. “Major Tannelle?”
“Sir.”
“Are you confident you can get the 2nd’s regiments into the line on time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any other questions?” Allenson asked.
“You will be leading the attack, sir?” Flament asked.
“Of course. I will be with the lead regiment.”
“The general will be just behind the lead regiment where he can oversee operations,” Hawthorn added for clarity.
“Thank you, Colonel,” Allenson said testily.
He had intended to be at the front but could hardly publically overrule his head of security in such a matter. That would set off an alarm among the other officers that he might try to manage their jobs as well as manage Hawthorn’s. He bestowed a crushing glance on his friend, who remained utterly uncrushed. Todd assumed a bland expression.
“You will notice that only nineteen minutes are left, people, so I suggest we all get on with it,” Allenson said.
It was childish to want the last word but Allenson felt like a child whose treat had just been snatched away.
The Hinterlanders moved out in loose dispersed fire teams within five minutes. The line regiments took a little longer.
“Thirty-five minutes,” Allenson said, checking his pad. “They’ve got to be sharper. Hell they should be sharper after all that training.”
“Seems pretty good to me,” Hawthorn replied. “I expected it to take an hour. How long do you think it takes a Home World battlegroup to be ready to march?”
“They have the luxury of operating to a different tempo,” Allenson replied, but he took the point.
The line regiments marched in column along the Teneyk road. This kept everyone together and maximized distance covered for energy expended. It was a suicidal formation if they were shelled or attacked from the air. That was not worth guarding against. The battle was lost before it started if the enemy knew where they were and had heavy weapons available to interdict them. Everything depended on speed and surprise.
It was like a desperate gambit in a game where only one distribution of cards could give you a win. You assumed the cards had been dealt that way and played accordingly, even if the odds were against you. Allenson had done his Kobold Day best to stack the deck. But an unlucky sighting by an alert enemy patrol and a competent artillery officer could undo everything. As the old saying went, if you can’t take a joke you shouldn’t join the army.
The column made at a steady three kilometers an hour. That was half the normal light infantry march rate. His people were already tired from the crossing and adrenaline can only do so much. The troops would have to fight like tigers when they reached Tenyek. They would only get one chance to take the town by coup de main. To get bogged down in a siege was in the long run to be overwhelmed by attrition.
About one klick out from the town they came across a barn. A halfhearted effort to fortify had been made by throwing up earthworks and piling sandbags around the entrance. Weeds and small yellow flowers grew on the heaped up soil.
The regiment in front of Allenson deployed from march into a semi-battle formation—semi because they were still far too clustered for combat. Allenson hurried to the front and moved in to investigate the building with the lead platoon. Hawthorn, Todd and the Special Project troopers stuck to him like glue.
The front door was open, revealing a man in Brasilian army fatigues sitting with his head down on a table. He might have been asleep were it not for the congealed blood. A trail led from under his chin to where it had pooled on the table. Hawthorn gave a signal and his troopers moved cautiously in, carbines at the ready.
The barn wasn’t that big so they were back out within a couple of minutes.
“Anyone in there?” Allenson asked.
The lead trooper shook his head.
“No one, leastways no one alive.”
The Hinterlanders had obviously dealt with the matter. Allenson studied the man at the table again. There was no sign of violence or a struggle, apart from a slit throat. He might have been executed while unconscious. A small still-civilized part of his mind protested but he crushed the thought. Kaspary’s men were in no position to take prisoners.
Allenson allowed a flicker of optimism to light his normal gloom. Maybe the Cornuvians in the town would be similarly Kobolded. He didn’t go in to check his hypothesis by examining the other bodies. He had seen more than enough corpses in his lifetime and anticipated witnessing many more in the near future.
He called over the communications officer, a young studious-looking lieutenant with his equipment in a backpack, and ordered him to signal Morton. The transmission was disguised as a routine civilian message in case anyone was listening. Allenson hadn’t learned the officer’s name and had decided he wouldn’t unless the lad survived until the next day. Somehow he doubted he could keep this resolution.
Hawthorn left a security trooper outside the barn to prevent the following regiments from wasting time carrying out their own investigation when the regiment moved out. Flament kept them in loose formation and Allenson didn’t interfere.
The inertial navigator in Allenson’s pad reckoned they still had half a klick to go when they came across Kaspary’s Hinterlanders in a dispersed line in front of a low, lightly wooded ridge. The road turned aside to the right and disappeared into a gap in the downs.
Kaspary was easy to find because he sat on a flat-topped rock outcrop near the road.
“Teneyk’s just over the hill, General. The road goes through a cut in the hills where the Cornuvians have a timber blockhouse.”
“Very well, we will attack immediately.”
“With just one regiment?” Flament asked.
“Exactly so, Colonel. No doubt the other regiments will march to the sound of the guns. The longer we wait here the more likely we are to be spotted.”
Allenson pointed to various terrain features as he laid out the plan of attack.
&nb
sp; “Third Company will go over the ridge on the left flank under your direct command, Colonel Flament. The Second will attack frontally and First Company will take the right flank and clear the blockhouse. The Hinterlanders will circumnavigate the town and cut the road leading out on the far side.
“Where will you locate your HQ, sir?” Kaspary asked.
“I will be with the First,” Allenson replied in a firm voice. “The blockhouse blowing up will be the signal for the Second and Third to commence their assault over the brow of the ridge. “Any questions? Very well, gentlemen, positions please.”
Allenson joined the officer commanding First Company, a rather lissom brunette of the indeterminate age that rejuvenation treatments brought.
“I won’t interfere with your command, Major Rainhav, but I will be coming with you.”
Her expression suggested she was less than delighted to be accompanied by her captain general. Allenson quite understood why. Even if he managed to restrain himself from micro-officering her company there was always the possibility that he would get his fool head blown off. A dead general was not something likely to enhance her reputation or facilitate promotion. She was however far too intelligent to protest.
“Of course, sir, you’re very welcome,” she said.
He moved away to allow her some privacy to give her subordinates their orders.
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep the old man out of your way and out of trouble,” Hawthorn said in a stage whisper behind his back.
The major choked back a scandalized laugh.
Allenson decided that his dignity was best served by yet another temporary bout of deafness.
Rainhav gave her briefing in a few short sentences. Her three platoons jog-trotted along the road in column loudly singing a marching song that Allenson recognized as a variation of “I Don’t Want to Join the Army.” There were as many variants of the song as there were regiments in Brasilia and its colonies.
They pounded around the edge of the wooded hill and Allenson got his first view of the town. Teneyk sat in a low bowl surrounded by hills. It was much as he anticipated, an unremarkable market town of wooden mostly one-story bungalows. It possessed a central square, sided by two-story structures that housed the few government officials and mercantile leaders. Warehouse and workshops were placed to the perimeter to keep powered ground carts away from the living areas.
The town center was laid out on a grid pattern but the other buildings had been built haphazardly, creating a maze of back alleys. It was strangely quiet. Each wooden house possessed at least one stone chimney but smoke trickled from only a handful despite the cold.
Of more immediate worry was the blockhouse partly cut into the hill on the immediate left-hand side of the road. It was a suicidal defensive structure as there was no way of evacuating or reinforcing it in the event of an attack. The door actually faced outwards. The firing slit facing up the road was far too big, almost window sized. Allenson had the distinct impression that it was intended more as a customs post to regulate traffic than as a serious fortification. On the negative side, it was built from shaved tree trunks rather than wooden panels.
Rainhav didn’t hesitate. She waved her arm and her troops increased their pace and volume. This provoked no reaction from the blockhouse. The range shrank to thirty meters before a head poked out of the firing slit. It gawped at the approaching Streamers and a hand combed tangled hair. At twenty-five meters and closing, the head ducked back inside.
After a few seconds a second head appeared. This sported NCO stripes on a helmet and was marginally more alert. He took one look before disappearing and uttering an incoherent yell.
First Company took this as the signal to disperse. The time for subterfuge was over. Troopers dropped on one knee and discharged their laserrifles. Pulses sparkled off the blockhouse making little impression on the logs.
Three of Rainhav’s people put their heads down and ran full sprint for the building. Supporting fire from the rest of the company ceased when the runners blocked line of sight to the firing slit.
A laserrifle appeared in the slit and fired, dropping one of the sprinters. It was immediately answered by the slap of Hawthorn’s heavy hunting rifle. The remaining sprinters made the side of the bunker. Hawthorn fired again through the unwisely wide slit. Someone screamed.
The door of the blockhouse opened a fraction. A hand clutching an ion pistol emerged. The owner of the arm tried to angle it around the blockhouse to take a shot at the sprinters without exposing his own body. It proved an impossible task.
One of the sprinters fiddled with a package before posting it through the slit then both dropped flat. They must have used a ridiculously short fuse because there was an impressive blast before they hit the ground.
The bunker heaved like a man taking a massive breath before an equally massive exhale. Smoke, dust and fire shot out of the slit. The bunker’s door blew clear of its hinges. It came to rest on the far side of the hill in a tangle of splinters and burnt meat.
Game on.
“Charge,” Allenson yelled, starting forward.
CHAPTER 30
Decision
Quick as Allenson was off the mark, Hawthorn’s security detachment was faster. They surged in front of him. Each one fired a short burst of laser pulses from his carbine through the blockhouse doorway as he passed. By the time Allenson reached the structure it was well alight. Black smoke billowed out from the entrance and through cracks in the roof.
The Second and Third Companies poured over the ridge, yelling battle cries or just screaming. One lost his footing in a steep section and tumbled end over end. He was brought to a halt by slamming into a tree.
Still nothing moved in the town.
Allenson overhauled the troopers in front of him to reach the front of the charge. Hawthorn yelled something he didn’t quite catch.
First Company as in the town proper before Cornuvians tumbled out of the buildings. The enemy wore a variety of brightly colored civilian overcoats over Brasilian Army battle suits. First Company poured up the road while Streamers from the other companies infiltrated into the commercial zones.
A couple of Cornuvians staggered out of a bungalow door on Allenson’s right. The one in front sported a purple parka and a lemon-colored yellow feathered boa that was surely intended to adorn the neck of a dancing girl. He was armed with a bottle of yellow liquid and scratched his crotch with his free hand.
Allenson dropped to one knee and triggered a long burst from his carbine. The laser pulses chopped the man into the dirt. The feather boa burst into flames. Allenson was so surprised at hitting the target that he was late shooting at the corpse’s colleague. That man backtracked with remarkable alacrity and dived back inside.
A head appeared at a window, provoking a hail of fire from the security troopers around Allenson. He had a snapshot glimpse of the face and naked breasts of a wide-eyed woman before laser-hits reduced her to burned meat. The timber planks around the window burst into flames under the onslaught.
Cornuvians shot back from the windows. A Streamer curled over and dropped. A security trooper hurled a small cylinder through the open door. Allenson felt as well as heard the thump of a thermic blast. A bright flash illuminated the interior of the bungalow, followed by roaring flames.
They pressed on.
A bright orange pulse from some sort of over-charged energy weapon shot over Allenson’s head. He had no idea what if anything it hit. Streamers pumped fire into the windows of any structure in the general direction of the shot. Paint burned off. Wood cracked, spitting flames. Wooden buildings were more a liability than an asset in a firefight. They offered little protection against laser weapons and turned into death traps when they inevitably caught fire.
At a corner they ran smack into a gaggle of Cornuvians running the other way. The two groups interpenetrated and inextricably mingled. Something struck Allenson hard on the left shoulder. He lost his balance, stumbling sideways over a Streamer who rol
led under his legs.
Allenson fell on one knee. He let go of his carbine with his right hand and placed it on the ground to steady himself. He felt the familiar sensation of combat-time when the universe slowed down. His senses focused down onto whatever microscopic event his hind-brain thought critical.
A silver combat dagger stabbed the rolling Streamer between the shoulder blades.
Sunlight shining through the clear cold winter air glittered off the serrations of a double-edged blade. A ferret-faced woman grinned at Allenson, showing a single blackened front tooth. She allowed herself the luxury of enjoying the sensation of killing. She twisted the knife before withdrawing it from the fallen Streamer’s back. Jagged edges tore at his flesh releasing red blood in slow spurts.
Allenson used the time the woman wasted in sadism to drop his useless one-handed hold on the carbine. It fell slowly as if in a half-gee gravity field. By the time she attacked he was already upright and balanced. He leaned forward with both feet firmly on the ground.
She thrust the blade in a vicious upward lunge aimed at his belly. He twisted to one side and deflected it with his left forearm. Momentum carried the woman past. He completed the turn, hitting the back of her neck with the heel of his right hand. He put his whole body weight into the blow. He struck not so much at her but a point ten centimeters beyond her.
She folded around his hand. The impact propelled her forwards. Her body leaned forwards and her head rotated back to gaze at the sky. With both arms flung out she looked like a devotee of a religious cult who had achieved an orgasmic revelation.
The woman pitched away like a rag doll and disappeared into the melee. The last glimpse he had was the silver dagger trailing a spatter of blood droplets as it rotated free in the air. Allenson hadn’t shed a tear over Fendlaigh. He wouldn’t waste a moment’s compassion on some psychotic mercenary.