Come and Take Them

by Tom Kratman

  Through the smoke a forward Marine, on Observation Post, faintly glimpsed the outline of an armored vehicle, a Balboan Ocelot. The vehicle eased forward cautiously. Even more faintly seen were several more behind it.

  Although Carrera had ordered the Jagelonian cavalry officer to move forward aggressively, his little command had been so subjected to attack by Tauran aircraft, and slowed by them as it took to side trails, that it had actually been caught up with by the bulk of the Fifteenth Cadets.

  Suddenly there came a great explosion. The Ocelot lurched to a stop, smoke billowing from its open hatches. As the cadet crew began to disembark, those still alive, the Marines opened up, killing several. This may have been unwise as Balboan artillery was soon pounding the Marines’ line. Within a short space of time the Haarlemers were the unwilling recipients of a pounding steady and heavy enough to drive them down into their holes. They therefore could no longer see the mine field as cadet combat engineers began to clear paths through it. There were none of the aesthetically unappealing, multiculturally insensitive antipersonnel mines to slow the cadets’ work. These, influential elements in the Tauran Union had helped to outlaw internationally.

  Soon, through breaches made in the mine field, Balboan light armor was in and among the defending Haarlem Marines. Completely unaffected by the minefield that had no antipersonnel mines, the infantry of two cadet tercios simply stood up and, firing from the hip to upset the Marines’ aim, walked, then jogged, forward into the assault. The boys’ bayonets were fixed.

  The Balboan artillery lifted at the last possible instant. For some of the boys short-falling rounds made the lifting a lifetime too late. For most, it was salvation.

  The Haarlem Marines did not run but rather, outnumbered and outgunned, they died on their line. To some it seemed unfair somehow that their much vaunted long-range marksmanship did them so little good when the range had closed to under fifty meters.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  When given the German command, [Varus] went out with the quaint preconception that here was a subhuman people which would somehow prove responsive to Roman law even where it had not responded to the Roman sword. He therefore breezed in—right into the heart of Germany—as if on a picnic, wasting a summer lording it on the magistrate’s bench, where he insisted on the punctilious observance of every legal nicety.

  —Marcus Velleius Paterculus

  Tauran Defense Agency, Lumière, Gaul, Terra Nova

  Monsieur Gaymard, president once again of the Tauran Union under rotating presidency, was announced to Janier and the chiefs of land, air and naval forces, as, “The President of the Tauran Union,” just as if that office were real and meaningful, rather than an honorific passed among the true executives, the Cosmopolitan Progressives, or Kosmos, of the Tauran Union Security Council. The other chief members of the executive council—Anglia, Sachsen, Tuscany, and Castile—followed Gaymard into Janier’s private conference room.

  Janier was surprised at the presence of the Castilian. Perhaps he doesn’t know we did our best to destroy the Castilian battalion in mutiny in Balboa. Or perhaps he cares more for the rejuvenation being offered by the high admiral. Yes, I am sure that is it.

  “General,” began Gaymard, “what the hell is going on in Balboa and what can we do about it?”

  Janier sighed. This was a painful duty. After steeling himself for the inevitable, he said, “Right now, Mr. President, it looks something like equilibrium. That would be a false view, however. We began this invasion with six battalions of parachutists, two of commandos, one of dragoons and one of Sachsen Panzers. There were also three mountain battalions, six infantry battalions, plus a fourth that was, so to speak, visiting. We also had in place a fine battalion of Haarlem Marines.

  “Of those twenty-one battalions, some of which we call ‘regiments’ but are battalions all the same, at this point, and to our certain knowledge, we have lost three Paras, two infantry, the dragoons, and one mountain, and one commando. Most of the rest are badly attrited, as well. Also, most of the rest are fully pinned, unable to extricate themselves and with our forces in Balboa unable to help them in the slightest.

  “We further anticipate the destruction of the Haarlem Marines, the three Gallic Paras, two more infantry, and God knows what else. Lest you misunderstand, gentlemen, short of using nuclear weapons, those units’ destruction is inevitable. As is the loss of all of the troops we have in Balboa.”

  Gaymard chuckled mirthlessly. “Nuclear weapons? In the same hemisphere as the Federated States? Let us try to find some less radioactive way to commit suicide, shall we, General?”

  “Could not agree more, monsieur,” said Janier. “Further, the Balboans have managed to put up their air defense . . . navy is quite definite on that, they’ve taken appalling losses in aircraft.

  “Maybe worse . . . the Balboans started with maybe the equivalent of ten or eleven ground combat battalions, six of which we never suspected and not all of which were in a position to fight. The intelligence people have now identified maybe twenty-four battalions, which they call ‘cohorts,’ in or very near the combat area. Another six are moving from the Balboan training center at Cimarron and will be in action before nightfall. A further six or eight are moving down the highway from Lago Sombrero toward the Transitway. And they have managed to mobilize something like twenty battalions of artillery that are in range with even more on the way.

  “At those odds . . . we simply cannot win.”

  “I . . . see.” Gaymard’s face was ashen. He’d expected the news to be bad but this? This was beyond bad. “Is there any possibility of stopping the Balboans diplomatically?”

  Janier laughed. “Monsieur, at their current state of political, social, and philosophical development, the Balboans are centuries behind us. Centuries ago, was there a single state in Taurus that, attacked without warning in the dead of night, their soldiers killed and their citizens sent scurrying like rats for shelter, would then have said, ‘Oh, well, sure you can go home, no hard feelings.’”

  The general laughed again, this time bitterly. “No matter, in any case. A couple of days ago I had communications with their government. They have since become . . . ah . . . unavailable.”

  The general then added, “Mr. President . . . they’re going for the kill. They won’t be happy with anything less than our complete humiliation and expulsion from their country.”

  “Can we reinforce them, General Janier?”

  Janier looked over at the Chief of Staff of the Air Forces. That officer answered, “My planes have another brigade of parachutists, the Sachsen Brigade of Fallschirmjaegers, en route. But I believe we should call them back. If the Balboans have a credible air defense . . . ?”

  Navy answered, “It’s credible all right. We’ve taken up to twenty percent hits—though losses were less than that, thank God—on some missions. We just haven’t had the time to analyze their defense and put together the right packages to suppress it. Another thing . . . some of our smart weapons don’t seem to be acting all that smartly.”

  Air Force resumed speaking to explain. “The tight security and short notice we were operating under meant that we couldn’t alert more than a tiny fraction of our air power. And we expected to be able to reuse what we had alerted by refitting them at Arnold . . . which is lost now.

  “That’s starting to be corrected, but it will still be another two hours—at a minimum—before we can flood Balboan air space with power. The Sachsens are going to have to go in before that, or we’ll have to refuel them in flight. But, if we refuel them in flight, we’ll either have to reduce the bomb load being carried by the attack aircraft that are almost ready to take off or delay long enough for the tankers to land and top off again.”

  Gaymard said to the Air Force Chief of Staff, “I don’t understand this. It’s what? . . . a six-hour flight to Balboa, less from Santa Josefina. What have we been paying for, if you can’t get there with overwhelming force in a few hours?”

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sp; Air Force suppressed a sigh. “Mr. President. You and the security council gave us the order to attack with minimal notice. We had a choice. We could invade Balboa when they were fully mobilized and ready . . . and take unacceptable losses. Or we could use surprise. Surprise has its costs. Not every unit could be notified without word getting out. And if word had gotten out, you can be sure that Balboa would have gotten that word and would have been fully mobilized. That would have meant higher casualty figures.

  “But even if we had managed to keep surprise while getting all of our units ready . . . the Balboans are a militia army. Most of the time there’s nothing to attack except maybe their bedrooms and workplaces.

  “What we intended, and expected, was that we would be able to take out their leadership with minimal destruction and maximum surprise, bringing combat packages on line in a neat orderly fashion after the fighting had started and delivering firepower as and when needed.

  “And again, even if we had put everything in the air in a few hours, and if we’d been able to keep surprise, it would have been anywhere from hours to days before those aircraft could return to action, hours to days in which our forces would have had little or no air support.

  “Mr. President, have you any idea how hard it is to change an air tasking order less than three days out?”

  Ignoring the implicit criticism, President Gaymard asked Janier, “Will dropping that brigade make any difference to the final outcome?”

  Janier replied, “We don’t think so, sir. We’re talking about changing the odds from seven or eight to one, against us, to at best six to one. The most we could hope for is to delay the inevitable . . . slightly. And drive up our own casualty lists . . . which are going to be impressive enough in any case.”

  Air Force spoke up again. “Mr. President, I can probably inflict more delay from the air than that one brigade can inflict on the ground, but only if we don’t hesitate any further . . . if delay is what you want.”

  “Delay? Yes. Until we can get the Balboans to let our people go.” Wearily, and with a genuinely aching heart—he was no so much a bad man as a very, very weak one—Gaymard said, “Recall the paratroopers. Please tell General McQueeg-Gordon for me.”

  Why? wondered Janier. You’ve already told the general who matters.

  The Tunnel, Tauran Union Security Force-Balboa, Cerro Mina, Balboa Transitway Area, Balboa, Terra Nova

  The news from Janier was a death knell for the defenders. They had little enough chance with the Sachsen paratroopers. Without them there was none.

  Moncey, long Janier’s underling and supporter, took it particularly badly. Pounding his desk repeatedly, he exclaimed, “That cowardly son of a bitch! Get me de Villepin!”

  When de Villepin arrived, a matter of less than a minute, Moncey explained what he wanted done. “Everybody holds on until we can get the wounded and civilians out.” He spit out his next words. “Then I’ll try to surrender to Carrera . . . if he’ll accept a surrender.”

  “But where the hell do we evacuate the civilians and the wounded to?” de Villepin asked. Surrender was too uncomfortable to talk about, even when imminent.

  “The Navy. That’s the only safe place there is.”

  “I suppose,” de Villepin agreed. “The Zhong have been evacuating their civilians for hours now.”

  SSK Megalodon, Mar Furioso, Bahia de Balboa, eighty kiloyards north of the Isla Real, Terra Nova

  The Meg had not even managed to close half the range to the Tauran ship it stalked. The zigzag pattern made it seem unlikely to Chu they would ever get much closer.

  “Sonar? What’s the range?”

  It was there on the display screen but, what the hell, Auletti figured the skipper was nervous and wanted a human sound. “Sir, thirty-eight thousand yards. It’s extreme if you want to fire now.”

  The XO piped in, “Sir, we’ll never hit them at this range; if they keep on this course the wire will run out before we hit while, with their unpredictable behavior the torpedo will not hit without guidance.”

  Sonar raised a hand for silence. The whole bridge waited expectantly. After some minutes of listening with great care the sonar man announced, “They’ve changed course, sir. They’re heading almost exactly toward us. I make their speed to be . . . call it sixteen knots. The escorts are tagging along.”

  “All stop,” ordered Chu. “Fine. They can come to us.”

  Southern Perimeter, Herrera International Airport, Balboa, Terra Nova

  Every Balboan tercio had a small band of pipes and drums. Most Tauran soldiers didn’t know this. Nor had the morning’s festivities done much to inform them, since most of the pipers and drummers had dropped instruments and picked up rifles as they received news of the invasion. It came, then, as something of a surprise when, through the twisting smoke, was heard the sound of a dozen and a half pipers playing “el Pato,” a brisk Scots’ tune, perhaps drearier than most but giving a profound sense of impending violence. They also couldn’t know that “The Duck” was used in the legion to signal precisely that: “Make your hearts ready for the fight.” But then, that was pretty much the story with all bagpipe tunes, not least the wedding march.

  Adjudant-Chef Jung sensed the meaning of the message before most of his company. “Goddammit! Get ready! They’ll be here soon!”

  No counterbattery radar could hope to acquire bagpipes. No sophisticated satellite would notice them. The most subtle propaganda had no effect on them. A precision guided bomb had no more likelihood of hitting a piper than of hitting anyone in particular. It was not for nothing that England had forbidden them to the Scots as a “weapon of war.”

  Radio waves carried complex messages, with detail and—sometimes, at least—clarity. Friendly pipes sent a simpler message: “You are not alone. You will not have to fight alone.” To the enemy on the receiving end, the message was different: “We’re coming to kill you. You can’t stop us. All you can do is surrender . . . or die. And, by the way, we’re not all that interested in prisoners.”

  “Incoming!” shouted Jung, along with a dozen or so of his men. Suddenly, the wailing of the Balboan pipes was drowned out by the shrieks of dozens of incoming shells. Soldiers of the Para Brigade hugged earth as best they were able. Even so, some were flung into the air, torn apart by hot flying shards of steel and iron. Amidst the explosions, they never heard the revving of engines as legionary Ocelots raced forward.

  A near-landing shell tore Jung’s left foot away. He fainted with pain and loss of blood. “The Adjudant-Chef’s down!” cried a nearby Tauran soldier. Another shouted “Tanks! Tanks!”

  Balboan rifle and machine gun fire picked up to a furious crescendo. Bullets cracked and spat against walls and streets. It was death to put one’s head into the air, or so it seemed. It would have taken better training, and been more expensive in money and blood than the country was willing to pay, to have convinced the soldiers otherwise. It was, in any event, far too late for that.

  The artillery lifted. A soldier took one look at a nearby Ocelot and raised his hands in surrender. The tank shot him down; no time for prisoners.

  A breach made, the Eleventh Tercio poured in to the center of the Airborne’s perimeter. Rout became general. First one, then another, of the Tauran artillery batteries were overrun. Not dug in, with no armor to protect them, the gunners died by their guns. The wounded were abandoned.

  To the north the Third Tercio, painstakingly reassembled, renewed its attack. An hour later the commander of the Gallic Para Brigade died by his command post, fighting to the end and cursing politics and politicians to the last.

  Later in the day, as the survivors of the Airborne brigade were herded away, a lone soldier was seen to take his wallet from his back pocket. He removed a card from the wallet. On the card were instructions telling those who had given him his initial training some years before that they were to stop harassing and intimidating the soldier should he produce the card. With a remorseful look back toward the place where his brigad
e had been destroyed, the soldier proceeded to rip the card into very tiny pieces. Then, prodded by a rifle butt, he began his journey into captivity.

  Alfaro’s Tomb, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova

  “Take them!” Fernandez ordered. Though as a cripple he’d ordinarily have had more sense than to go near the fighting, in this case, the importance of the capture and the fact that the Taurans were on the run made him be at the site.

  Grenade launchers coughed out rounds of tear gas. Then a half dozen of Fernandez’s own men hurled themselves against the doors and windows of the little house. Fanning out through the rooms, they used rifles as clubs to subdue the occupants.

  A few minutes later Fernandez entered. The prisoners were already bound and gagged. “Your wife sends her regards,” he said to the leader, Arias. “Now you and I are going to have a little chat.”

  Alcalde Flores, Balboa, Terra Nova

  The Tenth Artillery Legion had had a fight of it taking back their casernes and guns. The defenders on the ground were badly outnumbered, true. But they had had the support of a full battalion of good guns, even if the guns were slower than usual. The Tenth Artillery had paid in cash for every building and gun retaken.

  The legate of the Tenth had been torn between offering his batteries in support as soon as the casernes had been recaptured or waiting until he could assemble a sizable, even decisive, number of guns, mortars and rocket launchers. In the end he had listened to the pleading of Third Corps’ commander and assigned two batteries of heavy guns to help that brigade crush the Taurans at Herrera International. The rest were held quiet for the nonce, except for those that smoldered, wrecked, where a Tauran aircraft had penetrated the legion’s air defenses umbrella.

  There had also been the problem of getting the guns away from their artillery parks. Many a brave, and rather unlucky, Balboan boy had given his life trying to move the pieces away to safer firing positions while 105mm harassing and interdiction fire fell around him.