by Tom Kratman
To the south, more artillery and mortar fire, 120s and 81s, added their voices to the rising din. Another fierce glow from the same direction suggested to Kruptkin that the indirect fires had found at least one more of the Tauran aircraft on the ground.
No building could have caught fire so quickly. Burn, you bastards.
As the executive officer, Kruptkin was responsible for initially overseeing the deployment of the fielded cohort of the Seventeenth Cadet Tercio’s air defense and other heavy combat assets. Those were “clubs,” too.
A roar from massed engines came from behind, then crept forward. At the head of the crawling column a wheeled armored personnel carrier came to a stop. From it emerged one of the adult cadre, a Balboan tribune, in this case.
Kruptkin didn’t have time to chat. He gave the commander of the motorized rifle company with its attached tank platoon the go-ahead to move across Santa Cruz Drop Zone, then promptly forgot about it as he turned and walked the short distance to give a little personal attention to getting the towed air defense guns and shoulder launched SAMs into action. Not nearly so effective as the self-propelled, four-barreled jobs, still the dual 23mm guns were dangerous enough to low flying enemy aircraft to ensure that they would be the first priority target once they made their existence known. Hopefully, they would last long enough to allow the cadet rifle companies to close with the defenders of the base.
Brought up on tales of young men, even boys, being asked to give their lives for their country in the Great Global War, Kruptkin only regretted the need, not the decision, to use Balboan boys for a similar reason.
All around Kruptkin, often not visible but still audible, the cadets of the Seventeenth formed up in the streets of Santa Cruz and began their march down the slopes toward Arnold Air Force Base. No Tauran air had interfered so far. Kruptkin knew that probably wouldn’t last. The sound of a heavy cannon firing told him that the tanks he had previously sent forward had engaged the outer defenders of the base. Seeing that the junior tribune in direct charge of the air defense needed no further help from him, Kruptkin mounted his personal vehicle, put on his night vision goggles, and then rushed westwards. He passed the cadet formations that were deploying on either side of him as he moved forward.
At the easternmost edge of Santa Cruz Drop Zone, Kruptkin saw the twenty-odd vehicles, tanks and wheeled armored personnel carriers, moving forward toward the base. Occasionally one of the tanks would stop to fire at one or another of the defender’s positions. The APCs’ heavy machine guns kept up a constant chatter. As the APCs and tanks reached to within three hundred meters of the wood line the infantry began to dismount from the side access doors. Through his goggles Kruptkin saw the boys struggling to fix their folding bayonets and then forming skirmish lines. A detached professional voice told the Volgan that the whole show seemed less than snappy. The experienced veteran’s voice answered back that it wasn’t bad, the boys being under fire for the first time and all.
Although he was too far away to hear it, especially over the thunder of the guns, Kruptkin knew that the commander of the unit ahead had given the order to conduct the assault. The cadets started marching forward, firing from the hip. The light given off by thousands of tracers threatened to burn out his goggles. Even over the sound of firing Kruptkin did hear the wild shrieks of over a hundred voices as the boys suddenly started their charge. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought that he saw some of the defenders running away.
Kruptkin called his boss on the radio and told him that the initial defense of the base was broken. “For God’s sake hurry up. We can take this place in an hour.”
Kruptkin was worried that the rear echelon motherfuckers in the Second Corps’ headquarters might give up before they could be rescued. Time was critical.
Second Corps Headquarters, the old Comandancia, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova
Sergeant Frederico Perez, of the Tenth Infantry Tercio was, in peacetime, a full-time supply sergeant for one of the infantry maniples. He would have been very happy if he could have remained so until his retirement. Now, however, he was stuck in a fighting position just inside the Comandancia’s thick concrete walls. He couldn’t see through the walls but that didn’t matter. His job for now was to watch over the open space of the interior for any Tauran helicopters that might try to land. Other people of the three headquarters stationed at the Comandancia were responsible for the exterior. This was almost perfectly fine with Sergeant Perez. It would have been better, of course, if he had been somewhere far, far from any fighting. As it was, if someone had to actually fight, Perez was quite content for it to be someone else.
Without warning the interior of the courtyard blew up. Only partially stunned by the blast, Perez could see that one of the Comandancia’s buses was burning side by side with a jeep. Almost simultaneously a loudspeaker began to announce a demand for surrender. Through partially deafened ears Perez could still make out the insistent demand. He began to crawl over the concrete wall that separated the Comandancia from the outside.
With his torso and right leg on top of the wall Perez tried to move his left over as well. It wouldn’t budge. Perez looked down to see a strong hand holding his trouser leg tightly. A few feet from the hands stood Junior Tribune Torres, just twenty-one and as fanatical as could be imagined. Perez’s eyes opened wide to see that Torres had a pistol in his hand, the muzzle pointed at Perez’s head.
Thus it was that the first official legionary response to the Tauran demand for surrender of the Comandancia was a shot that didn’t go very far past its walls.
Fort Guerrero, Balboa, Terra Nova
Major Christophe Pittard, Executive Officer of the Thirty-fifth Commandos, like all the other members of his paratrooper unit, had hoped that the headquarters of the Balboans’ Second Infantry would give up without too much of a struggle. That did not appear likely, now. Although there had been a fair degree of surprise—the bodies of Balboans cut down as they tried to get from their barracks to their defensive positions attested to that—the Second was resisting ferociously from its barracks and the few outside positions that were manned. Even the fire from the helicopter gunships didn’t seem to do more than temporarily suppress the return fire coming at the Tauran Union forces.
From a partially covered position in the housing area to Pittard’s rear a 105mm howitzer fired directly at the northernmost legionary barracks. Great chunks of wood, plaster, tile, and concrete flew into the street and the golf course opposite with each high explosive round. After fifteen rounds of HE, the gun crew switched to white phosphorus. The building, what there was of it, began to burn.
Pittard couldn’t see them, but he knew a platoon of Third Company was using the cover between the flat ground of Fort Guerrero and the shore of the Bay of Balboa to approach that barracks. The rest of Number Three Company followed.
On the point of that company’s approach, Sergeant Thomas Gilbert led his squad forward. Occasional tracers flying overhead gave proof that the company’s route was in defilade from the legionary positions. Even an observer in the top windows of the barracks couldn’t see a man moving at a crouch.
As he shuffled forward, Gilbert heard the impact of something explosive on Arnold Air Force Base a few kilometers to the west. He wasn’t overly concerned. While his company was based on Fort Nelson, an annex of Arnold, his wife had long since flown back to their little home in Gaul. Just about everybody else in the world he cared about was in file behind him. Arnold and Nelson were someone else’s responsibility. Gilbert and his comrades only had to clear their chunk of Fort Guerrero.
Gilbert didn’t need a pace count to tell him when he had reached his destination; the gut-rippling explosions of the 105 shells told him exactly where he was in relation to the first objective. He stopped his squad, then crawled up the embankment to steal a peek at the building.
Gilbert’s commander, Captain Bernoulli, slithered up beside the vantage point Gilbert had chosen. Bernoulli was accompanied by Lieutenant
Garonne, the first platoon leader. The three had worked and practiced together for long enough that no words were needed. A few hand and arm signals directed the troops to their assault and support positions. A quick look around told Bernoulli that everyone was ready. He took a green star cluster from a side cargo pocket and fired the signal that would shift the artillery support and send his cutthroats into the assault.
The 105 firing in direct lay on the barracks shifted to the next one over. Machine guns kicked in to keep down any legionaries that were still in a mood to resist. At the signal from Bernoulli, Gilbert and his squad, followed by the rest of the first platoon, rushed forward screaming like banshees.
Ciudad Antigua, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova
In this old and quaint area of Balboa—the place where, centuries prior, Belisario Carrera had attacked, captured, and burned the headquarters of Old Earth’s United Nations in Balboa—the mobilization of the Tenth Infantry Tercio went on fairly unhindered. While it was unavoidable that the artillerymen of the gun battery should have to actually enter the armory to get the keys to unchain their guns, most of the troops assembled in nearby houses. The gunners took serious losses from the Tauran aircraft overhead as they tried to get their guns into action, but the foot soldiers managed to assemble mainly unscathed.
Under the Taurans’ plan, the Tenth Tercio was supposed to be engaged and held in place by airpower and some minor number of infantry as they became available. With the natural friction of the operation the Tauran infantry had not yet arrived. It remained to be seen whether they could arrive or would instead be diverted to some other mission.
When the broad spectrum jamming began and cut both Tauran and Balboan radio communications, the tercio had been somewhat stymied in a way they really hadn’t remotely expected. Carrera—the thoughtless son of a bitch—had kept the Volgan built “trawler” a very deep secret. This lasted until the commo chief realized that he could probably get phone communications with either his legions or Second Corps headquarters in the Comandancia. When the Comandancia answered on the first ring, he passed the phone to the tercio commander.
The Tenth’s CO, Umberto Pizzaro, could hear the crump of Tauran artillery through the phone as well as through the air. He asked for the Corps commander, but was informed that Legate Suarez was having a wound treated.
“Serious?” Pizzaro asked.
“I’m always serious, sir,” the man at the other end of the line answered.
“No, you dipshit, I mean is the wound serious?”
“Oh, sorry, sir. We are told the legate will live.”
“Fine, give me the corps exec.”
“Here he is, sir.”
“’Berto, this is Dario. The old man’s down, ’Berto. I don’t think he’ll die; the medics say ‘no.’ Hell, the medics say he’ll be back on his feet inside of two hours. But come quick with your troops, friend, or we’re all going to die. The ever-so-peace-loving Taurans are using everything they’ve got on us, jets, gunships, artillery, tanks. They’ve gotten over the wall twice already, but we kicked their asses out again. We can’t keep it up forever. Come running or we’re dead. Keep someone on this line ’til you get here.”
Pizarro sent runners to bring his company commanders. Then he ducked into a hallway, pulled out flashlight and map, and began planning how he was going to relieve the headquarters.
Lago Sombrero, Balboa, Terra Nova
Carrera left his CP, guarded only by Soult. He and Jamey walked in the path the cadets had trod.
The cadets had attacked on line and at a pace little faster than a walk. With the tanks leading them, firing their machine guns and canister rounds from their 125s, the Ocelots fired high explosive and machine guns. Behind the Ocelots marched the cadet infantry, firing off to the sides.
Though the attack proceeded at a fast walk, it was still faster than the Paras could react to, since they, under all that fire, could only move with any chance of survival at a belly crawl They had barely stood a chance. The bodies—some crushed and leaking—littered the runway where Carrera walked. These showed that, even fucked by fate, they had still tried.
They were trying still. Up ahead, Carrera could see a group of them trying desperately to break down a bundle that might contain enough antitank weapons to let them defend themselves. Carrera watched them keep trying while machine guns closed on them. He watched without expression as the same guns tore them to bits.
Not that the cadets hadn’t taken losses, too. Almost a half-dozen armored vehicles flickered and smoked in the breeze. Nor were all the bodies Tauran, although most of them were. To the southwest, where the trail was free of caltrops and the wheeled APCs had gone, more firelight showed where the Paras had made a more costly, although still futile, stand.
Behind the lines as he was, Carrera was in only incidental danger from the Paras’ rifles and machine guns. They had enough to do without bothering with a lone man far from the action. Thus when two navy jets off of HAMS Indomitable came in to investigate the scene at Lago Sombrero and discovered the disaster that had overtaken the Paras there, Carrera was nowhere nearby. When the two pilots decided to try to do something to help out on their own initiative, Carrera was also nowhere near the impact points for the bombs and twenty millimeter cannon. He added another half-dozen tracks and perhaps fifty cadets to the loss column. It was a small satisfaction that one of the jets was taken out by the Balboans, spinning down to a flaming landing by the coast, while the other flew off.
By radio Carrera spoke to Rogachev. The jamming didn’t interfere much with radios so far from Pericles and so close to each other. His orders were simple—finish off the Paras, stay until at least two of the reserve mechanized tercios were fifty percent mobilized, then move east toward the city. He, Carrera, would meet them on the road near Arnold Air Force Base. Carrera also made a call to the First Corps commander, telling him to move when he was ninety percent mobilized. Carrera then had himself driven to the east, toward the City.
The Tunnel, TUSF-B Headquarters, Cerro Mina, Balboa Transitway Area, Balboa, Terra Nova
The three principles of the effort—Moncey, de Villepin, and Bessières—couldn’t know for certain that their plans were collapsing. Even so, the latter put two and two together and came up with the mathematically perfect answer: “We’re fucked.”
And that was relying only information given and information missing down in the concrete lined bowels of the hill. Conversely, from his vantage point atop Cerro Mina, Moncey could hear the impact of explosives on both Arnold Air Force Base and Fort Nelson, to his southwest, and Brookings Air Force Station to his northeast. Nothing was hitting Dahlgren as of yet.
But that’s mostly because Dahlgren hardly matters, he thought. At this range he couldn’t distinguish the tank gun fire from the other explosions. He could, however, see green tracers where none should be. The legion was attacking where it should not have been possible for them to attack. The amount of firing told him that these attacks were in strength. Where could they have gotten such strength?
Mind racing, the general rushed back to the stuffy ops center below. It was well that he did, since just before his entering the Tunnel, the wave of fire from somewhere swept over the hill’s topographical crest, precisely where he’d been standing. Crossing himself at the narrow escape, Moncey entered the Tunnel and practically ran to de Villepin’s intel office.
There it was in black and white on the intelligence chart. All of the legion’s maneuver tercios were unmobilized except for those of the Third Corps, which were scattered about the City looking for the murderers of Tauran female supremacists, and a couple at Fuerte Cameron, far from the center of action. Satellite, air, and such ground recon as had been possible all confirmed that. None of the training battalions on the Isla Real had moved back to the mainland by sea. The tercios at Fuerte Cameron, the Fifth Mountain, undergoing annual training at Mobilization Level II, and Twenty-second Airborne (Volgan . . . though it was at least forty percent Balboan by
this time), were scattered all over creation.
But in at least two places he knew of, the legion was attacking, while in two others, there were troops defending that ought not have been there.
This Moncey thought impossible until a sudden thought occurred to him: Oh, shit. The cadets. And if there were two groups of cadets on the attack, there had to be at least six. Maybe more. Bastards, using children.
Moncey looked to the main operations map. The military schools were posted on it as “no fire areas,” places where the Tauran forces couldn’t fire without permission from the commander of TUSF-B himself. If the legion had moved them into attack positions not too far from their schools there would most likely be one at Lago Sombrero, one or, more likely, two for the east bank of the Transitway, opposite Cerro Mina, one more that was probably attacking Brookings, one for the Shimmering Sea side, and the last one . . . that would be at Herrera International, which explained why the Gallic Para brigade was stuck.
“Two, Three, Air, get over here!”
Once they arrived, Moncey began to lay out what he suspected was happening to their operation and roughly what he wanted done to fix it. In a flurry of activity the TUSF-B staff began to try to formulate a reaction that would—or at least might—save them all from disaster. Radio communications were out, the jamming was broad spectrum—even the frequency hoppers couldn’t get through reliably. The phone lines, on the other hand, worked perfectly. Orders began to crackle out over those. That orders went out to the subordinate brigades made little difference, however, since those brigades had no telephonic commo with the battalions.
One very notable exception was the Thirty-fifth Commando. From his TOC at Fort Guerrero, the commander of that unit did receive his orders. So it came about that, just as Number Three Company of the Thirty-fifth was getting ready to rush another of the legion’s barracks, the order came to cease the attack, get control of the artillery, and move to the Bridge of the Colombias.