Steel Gauntlet

by David Sherman

  “Give me the rest of the bad news, how many casualties?”

  Bass glanced at the tanker whose leg was barely hanging on. “Nineteen dead, one wounded. But he looks like he’s going into shock, we need a corpsman if we’re going to keep him alive.”

  “Nineteen dead? But there were only ten of you!”

  “Hmm?” Bass’s face shields were up; the Marines could clearly see his grin. He was deliberately holding back the fact that they were all right. “Yeah, that’s right. But any day ten Marines can’t swab the deck with twenty dismounted tankers is the day those ten Marines should be retired.”

  “Charlie,” Vanden Hoyt said with more than an edge of anger, “are you telling me we don’t have anybody down?”

  “I’m not telling you that, I thought you knew it.” Bass’s eyes twinkled.

  Vanden Hoyt’s sudden, breathy release of tension was clearly audible over the radio. “Stop jerking my chain, Charlie. Anything else to report?”

  “There’s a fire started inside the building. We don’t have a lot of time to do it, but I’d really like to get those tanks out of there. We could sure use them.”

  Another voice broke into the transmission; it was Captain Conorado. “Lima Three-five, this is Lima Six Actual. Is there another way out of the building? Over.”

  “Six Actual, Three-five. Only through a wall. Over.”

  Bass switched from casual talk to almost formal radio procedure. “The building’s on fire, is that right, Three-five? Over.”

  “Affirmative, Six Actual.”

  “Then the building’s coming down anyway. If you’ve got anybody who can drive a tank, drive them through the damn walls, Three-five. Do you copy?”

  Bass grinned wider than before. “Roger that, Six Actual. Over.”

  “Lima Six Actual, out.”

  “You heard the man, Charlie,” Vanden Hoyt said. “ ‘Drive through the damn walls.’ Doc Gordon’s on his way to patch up your prisoner. Lima Three Actual, out.”

  Bass was still grinning. “I say again, anybody have any idea how to drive a tank?” He was sure it was only a matter of time now before the 552nd Tank Brigade was totally defeated. If he knew about the other armored units battling their way toward Oppalia, though, he probably wouldn’t have felt so good.

  Chapter 19

  The new day found the Fourth Armored Division stalled south of Oppalia. The tankers were under what cover they could find, which was precious little in the open land. Severely battered Navy Air halted its operations against the Fourth shortly after nightfall, but not before it had killed some three hundred tanks. To the north, the Ninth Armored Division took cover in a densely wooded area, its drivers ordered to kill their engines in hope of dissipating their infrared signatures before the Raptors killed the division. The Third Armored Division, still undiscovered, was perched at the foot of Rourke’s Hills, less than an hour away, hesitant to launch an assault against Oppalia. The navy attack against the Fifteenth Heavy Division succeeded in making it withdraw, but it withdrew in order and could still make a strike toward the Marine ground force. Only the First Armored Division was in full disarray. Some of its elements had made it back to the safety of the Tourmaline mining complex. Others were playing dead on the plain between Tourmaline and Rourke’s Hills. Only scattered small units of the First Armored Division, little more than a battalion’s worth, had made it through the pass and across the littoral plain to the eastern fringe of Oppalia. Captain Hormujh, commander of Company B, 261st Tank Battalion, found himself the senior officer among those small units, which made him their battalion commander.

  Captain Hormujh had chafed the evening before when Lieutenant Colonel Namur ordered him to take a defensive position. Now that the sun was up and the tanks of a full battalion were under his command, he was even more impatient to engage the invaders. The scouts he’d sent out on foot overnight reported back that the Marine expeditionary airfield was only three kilometers away from his makeshift battalion, and the navy airfield a couple of kilometers beyond it. He was sure that if he was given the go ahead to attack, he would quickly eliminate a big part of the major danger to the tanks. He waited with growing impatience for Lieutenant Colonel Namur’s reply to his latest report.

  In orbit on the Ogie, the Confederation command had a serious problem to deal with.

  Rear Admiral Havens’s face was drawn; he looked like he’d had several sleepless nights instead of only one. He also looked like he’d rather be someplace else.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, standing in front of the map display that showed the positions of the two stalled divisions and the two that had withdrawn, but not the unknown Third Armored, “my pilots have accomplished their primary mission.” His voice was tired and he didn’t sound like he fully believed what he was saying. “They have halted the advance of two divisions on Oppalia, and driven two others back with heavy losses.” He touched the console and several hundred red icons appeared on the map. “Our best intelligence estimate”—he nodded to General Aguinaldo—“aided by low-flying reconnaissance drones, is that we killed nearly nine hundred of St. Cyr’s tanks, and possibly fifty mobile artillery pieces.” He paused and seemed to be searching for what to say next.

  “There’s been a price,” General Aguinaldo said into the silence.

  Havens nodded. “We’ve lost fifty-two of the 190 Raptors we committed to the fight.” He shook his head with disbelief. “Their ground forces have proved better at fighting my Raptors than their air forces were.” He cleared his throat and gave a shake of his head before continuing. “I can replace nearly all of my losses with the four squadrons that haven’t yet been committed, but that would leave Navy Air without reserves. In short, if we resume our attack today, we don’t have enough aircraft to destroy the four divisions that we know about.”

  Admiral Wimbush listened to Havens’s report with growing consternation. If the Diamundeans resumed their attack toward Oppalia, there was no question they could defeat the Marines and wipe out the planethead. Such a defeat could prevent the army from landing and cost the invasion force the entire campaign. That would prematurely end the careers of every one of the admirals and generals in the room, most notably his own.

  “What do you propose to do, Admiral?” Wimbush asked, not sure he was going to like any answer his air commander would give.

  Havens managed not to flinch when Wimbush called him “Admiral” instead of by name. “Sir, I think we should hold back any attack until somebody moves. If one of the divisions resumes its advance, I will commit all of my squadrons to stopping it.”

  “What if more than one resumes its advance?” General Han asked. He was also well aware of the risk to the planethead.

  “We stop one, then move on to the next,” Havens said weakly.

  Han shook his head. His best option seemed to be to move the landing of III Corps up a day. He’d have to check with Lieutenant General Bosworth, the Corps commander, and see how far along his preparations were.

  Wimbush turned to the senior Marine, “General, how long can your Marines hold out?”

  “Against a multidivision armored attack, with just a few hundred Straight Arrows, our organic air, and no artillery?” Aguinaldo didn’t think that question deserved an answer. “I’m going to commit one of my two reserve FISTs. That way my Marines will have a better chance of knocking out the First Armored Brigade in a hurry. That might discourage the other divisions from resuming their advance.” He looked at Havens with a mix of sympathy for his losses and anger for the losses his own Marines faced.

  Then Wimbush broached the subject that bothered him even more than the loss of aircraft.

  “Admiral Johannes, why are we not getting string-of-pearls surveillance over Oppalia?”

  The intelligence chief looked to be in even greater distress than the air commander.

  General Aguinaldo went bolt upright—nobody had told him they’d lost string-of-pearls surveillance. His people on the ground didn’t know that; he had to get
the word to them.

  Sergeant Eagle’s Cry blinked against the harshness of the rising sun. He squinted to shield his eyes, but all he saw moving was the detritus of unswept streets lifting as the sun turned on the local atmospheric engine and set eddies of air into motion. He looked to the other east-facing window in the living room of the third-floor apartment his squad used as an observation post in its overnight position. He saw Lance Corporal Justice Goudanis’s face hovering a meter and a half inside the window. Goudanis was keeping watch seated at a small table, far enough from the window to be unobservable from outside, close enough to have a wide field of view. His blaster lay across the table, pointing out, his hand rested on the weapon. A Straight Arrow tube stood propped against the side of the table. Goudanis shielded his eyes by tipping his head down so the lip of his helmet shaded them.

  “You can’t see all the way to the horizon that way,” Eagle’s Cry said.

  Goudanis shrugged. “Don’t need to,” he replied, his voice thick from lack of sleep. “They won’t be coming from that far away.” Goudanis turned away from the window to look toward his squad leader. “They’re probably less than a hundred meters from us. That’s all the farther I have to see.” He turned back to the window. “Someone told me that last night.”

  Eagle’s Cry smiled lightly. He was the one who’d told Goudanis the Diamundean forces were probably no more than a hundred meters away. Eagle’s Cry glanced out the window again to make sure nothing had changed since he looked away, then said, “I’m going below to get everybody up. I’ll send someone to relieve you in a few minutes.”

  Goudanis grunted in reply.

  Eagle’s Cry had to go out onto the street to reach the rest of his squad. Most of them were in the shop that occupied the first floor of the building. Bladon and Nolet were inside, looking out the display window.

  “See anything?” the squad leader asked.

  “Nothing,” Bladon said. Nolet shook his head.

  “Better chow down now, we might be moving out soon.”

  “You know something you haven’t told us?” Bladon asked.

  “You know nobody ever tells squad leaders anything until they have to do it.” He went through the shop to the room in back. Idly, he wondered where the people were who lived and worked in the entertainment and dining district. The Marines hadn’t seen any civilians during their advance the previous afternoon, and no one was at home when they occupied the upper story apartments to use as overnight observation posts. He dismissed the thought.

  Five Marines were asleep in the back room—Linsman and Claypoole, and Corporal Barber’s assault gun team. Barber opened his eyes as Eagle’s Cry entered the room.

  “Sun’s up,” Eagle’s Cry said in an ordinary voice. “Reveille, reveille.”

  Barber sat up and stretched. The others rolled over and groaned. They’d all taken turns on watch; nobody had enough sleep the night before.

  “Can’t be, it’s too early,” Claypoole mumbled.

  “Gimme another ten minutes,” Neru murmured. Barber reached a leg out and kicked his gunner’s boot. Neru yelped, then sat up stretching and yawning.

  “Rat, you and Claypoole go upstairs and relieve Juice. Take chow with you and eat.”

  “Sure.” Linsman sat up and loudly cleared the night phlegm from his throat. Rubbing his eyes, he stood. “Let’s go, Rock. No amount of beauty sleep’s going to do you any good.”

  Claypoole groaned, then arched his back and jumped to his feet.

  Eagle’s Cry continued to the back of the shop. As he went through the rear exit he heard Linsman say, “Stop your complaining, it’s your own damn fault. Nobody made you enlist in the Marines, it was your decision. You’re just getting what you deserve for doing something so dumb.”

  The street in back of the building was just wide enough for a medium tank, and one was sitting there. Brigadier Sturgeon had been delighted by the capture of the three tanks. He wanted to take them and use all three for the defense of the expeditionary airfield, but the entire infantry chain of command from Eagle’s Cry all the way to Commander Van Winkle objected. They’d found them, they wanted to keep them. Sturgeon relented and let them keep one medium. Even though everybody from the battalion commander on down wanted the tank, possession went back down that chain to the squad that captured it. So Sergeant Eagle’s Cry found himself the proud owner of a medium tank. It would have been a wonderful addition to his squad—if he had any idea of how to use a tank. But he didn’t, so he parked it out of harm’s way overnight. Corporal Bladon’s fire team occupied it during the night. One man was supposed to be on watch at all times while the other two slept. Bladon was standing in the commander’s hatch when Eagle’s Cry stepped into the street.

  “Did you learn anything?” Eagle’s Cry asked his senior fire team leader as he clambered onto the tank.

  “Sure did,” Bladon replied. He shook his head. “These Diamundeans must think their tankers are a bunch of dummies. Everything’s marked with symbols. Even an illiterate could figure out how to do it from the markings. And the ones who can read, well, there’s a manual at every station.” His eyes were red-rimmed

  “You get much sleep last night?”

  Bladon shook his head. “We were too busy learning about this tank. It was after twenty-four hours before I made anybody stop and go to sleep.” It was just past six hours now, which meant none of them had gotten any more than six hours’ sleep.

  “Well, get them up and chow them down. Then you can tell me what you think you can do with this tank.”

  A few minutes later Ensign Vanden Hoyt and Gunnery Sergeant Bass showed up, eager to learn what they could about the tank and how they could use it.

  Captain Hormujh was finally given the permission he wanted to attack the airfields. He didn’t bother to hold any sort of staff planning sessions or devise an elaborate plan. He felt there was neither time nor need for them. He knew the city, and so did most of the company and platoon commanders under him. This would be a quick and dirty raid where so many things could happen it didn’t make sense to plan for any of them. The instructions he gave his subordinate commanders were simple. He told each of them which streets to follow west to the Marine airfield and where to stop—he hoped it was out of hearing of the airfield. His next order would be to assault. The biggest problem he saw with these orders was that the part of the city his tanks were going through was residential—it wouldn’t provide them with much in the way of cover from either visual or infrared detection. But all of his commanders had shot down Raptors on their fight to the city, and the reports he’d heard from the other divisions told him they’d also had success against the Confederation Air. His only question was, if the Confederation forces saw his battalion approaching, would they be willing to attack inside residential neighborhoods?

  He needn’t have worried. The Marine and navy group commanders at the expeditionary airfields didn’t know that the satellite views they had of Oppalia and environs hadn’t been updated for several hours, and consequently they had no idea that they needed to provide their own aerial security. The Navy Air groups were sending out flights of Raptors to observe the stalled divisions, and remind the Fourth and Ninth Armored that they were still there and able to resume their attacks. The Marine group commander had one squadron, ten Raptors, flying in the front of the infantry positions, while the other four squadrons on the ground sat fueled and armed, with their pilots standing by in a ready room. None of the air units knew a battalion of tanks was approaching them.

  Captain Hormujh stood in his commander’s position with a stillness that belied the impatience with which he waited for the last of his company commanders to report that they were in position. He forced himself to maintain communications silence, with only the tersest acknowledgments of each company’s arrival at its jump-off point. When the last commander reported in, he gave a two word command: “Attack now.”

  One hundred eight tanks, half of them TP1s, rolled forward at top speed.
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br />   The first hint the pilots of Marine Attack Group 33 had that the morning was about to change from quiet was when the box in the ready room squawked, “Scramble, scramble, scramble! Bogies on the ground, in sight and approaching fast!”

  “Is this a joke?” Captain Hans “Pappy” Foss yelled back at the box. He was out of the door by the time his words finished leaving his mouth. Whether he thought “bogies on the ground” was a joke or not, he reacted automatically to the “scramble” command. He’d covered better than half of the sixty meters to his Raptor when the oncoming tanks finally registered on his mind—they were half a klick away and closing fast. “My God,” he murmured, and threw his sprint into overdrive.

  Foss’s crew chief was climbing out of the cockpit when he reached it. “All revved and ready to go, Pappy,” the corporal shouted over the roaring of the Raptor’s engines.

  Foss nodded at his crew chief as he jammed himself into the cockpit and rammed on his flight helmet. He raced through the shortest preflight checkup he’d ever made: He checked that the ground and air brakes were both off, the engine was powered up far enough to get him off the ground, and glanced around to make sure his ground crew had cleared off. Then he twisted the collective to aim the exhausts down for vertical takeoff and shoved the accelerator to max. The Raptor shot up. A round from a TP1 sailed through the air below his rapidly rising aircraft; a second’s delay on his takeoff and the round would have killed him and his Raptor:

  “Black Sheep Four, Sheep Three. Are you airborne?”

  “That’s an affirmative, Black Sheep Three,” came the laconic voice of Ensign Geiger, Foss’s wingman. “You want to do this in orderly fashion, or ethnic fire drill?”

  “Let’s start off orderly. Angels one.” Then he had to twist the collective to horizontal flight because his altitude was already passing through angels one. A quick glance to his left rear showed Geiger in the wingman’s position meters away from his wing tip.