Foss rolled his Raptor onto its right side so he could get a clear look at the ground and whistled. More than a hundred tanks were overrunning the airfield. A dozen billows of thick smoke laced with flame showed where several Raptors hadn’t made it off the ground. He leveled off and looked around for other Raptors. He saw some, but not as many as he expected to see. Then he looked around the edges of the airfield and saw rising smoke in three more places, places where Raptors started to take off but didn’t make it all the way up. As he looked, he saw another Raptor that was limping along a couple hundred meters below him explode.
“Jesus Muhammad,” he murmured, then into his radio: “Who’s in command up here?” Silence answered his call. The radio was set to the Black Sheep’s frequency, maybe another squadron commander was airborne, but it seemed like he was the senior pilot in his squadron. “Black Sheep, Black Sheep, this is Black Sheep Three. Form on me, at angels two.” He twisted the collective and shot up. At angels two he looked around and saw four Raptors forming on him and Geiger.
“That’s it, just six of us?” he asked.
“I saw Yamata’s plane get hit on the ground,” came the voice of Ensign Mann.
“The skipper got hit as he was lifting off,” someone else said. Two other pilots reported they’d seen someone’s Raptor killed on the ground. Six was all that were left.
Foss gave another quick look around. The survivors of the other three squadrons didn’t seem to be as well-organized. It looked like it was up to him to start the party.
“Black Sheep, Black Sheep. Angels eight, screaming meemies. Acknowledge.”
Crisply and in order, the five pilots confirmed angels eight, screaming meemies. Foss led his understrength squadron to altitude at a sharp angle, then swung around so they were almost directly above the airfield.
“By flights, pick a target and go for it,” he ordered. “I expect to see everybody back up here in about four-five.” He rolled to his right and nosed down. He blinked. Where did they all go? Of all the tanks he’d seen on the ground just a minute or two earlier, only a half dozen were still in sight. He locked his laser sight onto one and asked, “Got it, Roy?”
“Got it,” Geiger replied.
“Let’s get it.” He powered his dive.
Geiger peeled off Foss’s wing to hit the target from a slightly different angle.
At angels three Foss hit the trigger and saw the stream of plasma bolts plunging toward the rapidly growing tank. At angels two he threw in the forward jets and boinged back up. He was able to focus his eyes again and draw breath without pain when he was back at angels four. He looked to his side and saw Geiger in place, bare meters from his left wing tip. At angels eight he orbited and looked down. Four tanks and a lot of Raptors were burning. “Where did the rest of those tanks go?” he asked no one in particular.
Those tanks were halfway to the navy airfield. Thanks to the Marines getting hit first, the navy pilots had an extra minute’s warning before the provisional tank battalion hit them. Unfortunately for the navy pilots, they had more aircraft, and many of them had to run farther to reach their Raptors. Then again, none of them really expected whoever was attacking the Marines to simply swarm through and keep going. Captain Hormujh caught more than half the navy Raptors still on the ground. His tankers had a ball, especially enjoyable after the hell the navy Raptors had put them through the previous day.
Admiral Wimbush looked at Admiral Havens with profound disbelief. “I think I need to see a doctor about my hearing,” Wimbush said. “Would you kindly repeat what you just said?” His voice cracked on the last syllables.
Rear Admiral Havens looked even worse than he had that morning. Still, he managed to dredge up a strong voice. “Sir, twenty minutes ago Diamundean armor launched a surprise attack on the expeditionary airfields at Oppalia. They destroyed sixty-three of the Raptors at the navy airfield.”
“Sixty-three?” Wimbush repeated weakly.
Havens could only nod.
“Out of how many?” Wimbush didn’t really need to ask; he knew there were only 138 navy Raptors planetside. He asked the question simply to give himself time to think. General Aguinaldo didn’t give him that time.
“Before those tanks hit the navy airfield, they hit the Marine airfield,” the Marine commander said stonily. “They knocked out twenty-one of the forty Raptors I had on the ground. Including the ten I had in the air, I only have twenty-nine left planetside. Thirty-nine including the ten still in orbit. Admiral, I’m afraid we have an intelligence problem that was serious and is rapidly getting worse.”
Wimbush looked at Rear Admiral Johannes. “When will the string-of-pearls be fully operational again?” he whispered. “Sir, we are using shuttle craft to reposition satellites. Hopefully, we’ll have Oppalia covered again in several hours.”
“Several hours?”
Johannes nodded numbly. No matter what happened from here on out, he was sure his career was over.
Chapter 20
Company L was still in its overnight positions. The word that filtered down was both battalion and FIST reconnaissance units were up ahead looking for enemy hiding places. Nobody in the company complained about having to sit around and wait. D-Day had begun too early and gone too late. Facing tanks with too few antitank weapons had been the most frightening thing most of the members of the company had ever done. The company lost five men dead and seven others evacuated with wounds or other injuries—heavier casualties than all but the most experienced of them had ever seen. It didn’t matter to most of the Marines that they gave far worse than they got, D-Day had been hard, damn hard. They were able and willing to keep going, to search out more enemy tanks and kill them. But everybody—well, nearly everybody—in the company was glad for the respite.
Lance Corporal Dave “Hammer” Schultz stood glaring out a third-story window. Without looking to see if anybody was below, he spat.
Corporal Leach laughed.
Lance Corporal Joe Dean, who was looking out the other window, glanced at Leach and wondered what was so funny.
“Hammer, who’d you just spit on?” Leach asked.
“Don’t matter,” Schultz said with a grunt.
“ ‘Don’t matter’? What if Commander Van Winkle was passing by and you spat on him?”
“Deserves it.”
Leach’s eyes bugged “Why does our battalion commander deserve to be spat on?” This should be fun, he thought.
“We’re sitting.”
“So what?”
Schultz finally turned from looking for enemy to look at his fire team leader. “Marines ain’t supposed to sit. We’re supposed to kill.” He resumed looking for someone to kill.
“Yeah.” Leach nodded slowly. “But where are the people we’re supposed to kill?”
“There.” Schultz waved a hand in a way that indicated just about everyplace to the front.
“That’s why we’re sitting, Hammer. They’re out there someplace, but nobody knows where. We can waste a lot of time and energy trying to find them, and maybe expose ourselves and take more casualties. Maybe use up rockets we can’t afford on targets that aren’t real. Both Battalion and FIST have recon out there, so when we go, we go where the bad guys are and don’t waste effort or resources trying to find them. When we know where they’re at, we’ll go get them.”
Schultz spat out the window again. This time he looked, but not until after he spat.
Dean shook his head and returned his attention to the front. Overhead, the Raptors that had been flying to the FIST’s front all morning turned and headed in the direction of the airfield.
The wait wasn’t as long as Schultz made it seem. At ten hours, Company L got orders to move out. Their objective was a sports arena a kilometer and a half away. Recon reported there was a company of tanks hiding in it—and tankers on foot were providing outlying security; recon had fixes on a dozen fourman observation posts at ranges of up to five hundred meters from the arena. Third platoon led the way. Its f
irst objective was to silently take out all the OPs between them and the arena. Naturally, most of the observation posts were between them and the arena, little of the security was on the other sides.
“Recon found them, why didn’t recon take them out?” Claypoole grumbled as second squad prepared to move out from the storefront of the building they occupied overnight.
Linsman gave him a you-dumb-guy look. “That’s not recon’s job,” he said. “Recon’s supposed to find them, we’re supposed to fuck them.”
“All right,” Claypoole conceded with full lack of graciousness, “then why doesn’t FIST send Raptors in to hit them?”
Linsman couldn’t resist anymore—he lashed out and slapped the back of Claypoole’s helmet. “They want it done quietly. There’s nothing quiet about a Raptor strike.” He shook his head, and added almost to himself, “Dumb guy.”
Claypoole glared at him, and for a moment he thought Linsman had called him “new guy,” the hated sobriquet he’d gotten rid of two campaigns earlier.
“Gather around, people,” Sergeant Eagle’s Cry called. “Listen up carefully,” he said when all of his squad members were close enough to hear his normal voice. He made marks on a civilian street map of Oppalia. The map indicated individual buildings as well as streets. “This is where we are.” He made an X. “This is the arena.” He drew a circle around a symbol on the map. “There are listening posts in buildings here, here, and here.” He made three more X’s, each on a different block; the building indicated by the middle mark faced a two- or three-square city block park. “We’re going to approach them from this direction.” He traced a line along streets that took them out of the way and allowed them to come at the building farthest to the right from its side. “We can go this far riding on the tank.” He made another mark about halfway to the first observation post. “Second fire team will enter the building through the side door.” He continued to make marks as he talked. “The OP is on the third floor. Third fire team, when second reports they’ve made their kill, you leapfrog to this building. It’ll be tricky; recon didn’t find any side door, and the rear door is jammed and can’t be opened quietly. The OP is on the first floor.” He shook his head. “Recon didn’t say why it’s on the first floor. Then third team leapfrog and get the third OP. It’s on the second floor. Remember to do it as quietly as possible—we don’t want to alert anyone we’re coming.” He looked at his men solemnly. “If you see anyone talking on any sort of communicator, hold off until they get off it. Questions?”
“What about first fire team?” Bladon asked.
“You’ve got the tank, you provide support if we need it. Stay two blocks behind the rest of the squad. I’ll let you know if we need your help.”
Corporal Bladon glowered. He didn’t like being left out of the action this way. “Third fire team’s shorthanded, let them have the tank and we’ll take out an OP or two.”
Eagle’s Cry shook his head. “You’re the ones who spent the night in the tank. You know how to use it, they don’t. Besides, it takes at least three men to operate one of those tanks, and third fire team only has two men. Any other questions?”
“What do we do after we take out the OPs?” Goudanis asked.
“Don’t be so anxious. I’ll let you know when I find out. Ready? Let’s do this thing.”
They all headed for the tank.
“Listen, Birdie,” Bladon said, walking next to his squad leader, “put Linsman and Rock in the tank with me. They both know how to drive. We can show them what they need to know about driving the tank, and show them how to operate the gun.” Eagle’s Cry shook his head. “Still takes three men.”
“Put Clement with them, or Nolet. Let one of the other fire teams be short.”
Eagle’s Cry stopped and faced Bladon. “Tam, you’re my senior fire team leader, my most experienced. I need my most experienced man commanding that tank.”
Bladon shook his head sharply. “I’m most experienced on foot, I don’t have any more experience with tanks than anyone else in the whole FIST.”
“You’ve got more time sitting in a tank than anyone else, you studied them more than anybody else. That makes you more experienced. You found the tank, you wanted to keep it, it’s yours.” He sighed. “Tam, you’re probably going to have more than your share of the shit before this day is over. Now let’s get going.”
Reluctantly, Bladon dropped the subject.
In a couple more minutes second squad was all in or on the tank and rolling to the point where the second and third fire teams would drop off and move ahead to kill the observation posts.
“What are they doing?” Claypoole asked nervously. “Do you think they got spotted and taken out?” He and Linsman were crouched with Eagle’s Cry, waiting at the side of the building second fire team had entered five minutes earlier, the building with the first observation post to be killed.
“Snooping and pooping,” Eagle’s Cry replied softly. He was almost successful at keeping the concern out of his own voice. “It takes time to get to the third floor and into position without being spotted. Even with chameleons. Maybe the OP’s reporting in and they have to wait.” He shrugged.
“But what if—” Claypoole’s question was cut short by the crack!—sizzle of a blaster.
Eagle’s Cry held up a hand to forestall any questions. He listened carefully to his helmet comm. After a few seconds Corporal Saleski reported, “We got ‘em.”
Eagle’s Cry let out his breath in a whoosh. “Let’s go.” He rose to his feet and trotted around the front of the building. Hugging the fronts of the buildings, the three Marines hurried to the next corner. A moment later, second fire team exited the building and followed. Two blocks farther back, Goudanis rolled the medium tank forward.
They were in a mixed residential area—mostly single houses and small apartment blocks, with a scattering of convenience stores and restaurants at ground level. Most of the buildings abutted each other; the few that didn’t open directly onto the sidewalk seemed to be eating or drinking establishments that used the space between their front walls and the sidewalk for outdoor seating.
“Your turn,” Eagle’s Cry said to Linsman and Claypoole when the three of them ducked into a recessed bistro frontage short of the next corner. “Unless they’ve got some kind of infra or motion detector spy-eyes out there that recon didn’t spot, they can’t see you coming until you get there. Ready? Go.”
Claypoole padded rapidly to the corner behind Linsman. They ran with a shuffling, gliding motion that made almost no noise. After several long seconds they reached the corner, crossed the street, and dropped to a knee next to the shop front recon had reported held a three-man observation post. Claypoole looked across the way at the park. Straight-boled trees grew in it, the foliage of the trees beginning three or four meters above the ground and continuing upward another twenty meters or so. That was why the OP was on the ground floor—the men in it could see under the trees; in an upper story, their view would be blocked by the trees.
Linsman put his head close to Claypoole’s and whispered, “I’m going to take a look.” A moment later he whispered, “Back.”
The two Marines eased back toward the corner.
“Here’s the situation,” Linsman said in a low voice when they were at a safe distance. “It’s a butcher shop. The door’s open. One man is inside the window on the far side of the door. He doesn’t seem to be paying a lot of attention. One is lying on a counter on the right side, maybe sleeping. I didn’t see the third man. Damn, I wish we could go in the back way.” He shook that thought off; wishing wouldn’t change anything. “Here’s what we do. I’ll go in first and get the one on the left. You come in on my heels and go for Sleeping Beauty. We’ll use our knives. Then we have to find the third one. Use our knives if we can, blast him if we can’t.”
“They’ll see our knives,” Claypoole said—the Marines’ combat knives weren’t chameleoned.
“We’ll be too fast. And like I said, the on
e man watching isn’t paying much attention. He probably won’t see the knife until it’s too late for him to react. The other one’s sleeping, he won’t see anything at all.”
“Okay.” Claypoole took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. Not knowing where the third man was bothered him. “Put your hand on my back. Stay with me. I’m going to run. Let’s go.” Linsman stood and waited until he felt Claypoole’s hand. “Go.”
The two ran. Claypoole did his best to keep in step with Linsman, but he couldn’t see the other Marine’s feet to avoid stepping on his heels. The tock-tock of their footfalls were swallowed up by the park and didn’t echo. In seconds they reached the butcher shop and Linsman pivoted right, through the door, then left to the watcher. Claypoole lost his pacing and his toe clipped the side of Linsman’s heel when Linsman turned left. Claypoole staggered a step or two, then regained his balance and headed toward the man lying on the counter. Behind him, he heard the clatter of the watcher falling. He was still a couple of steps from the man on the counter when a door in the rear of the shop flew open and a blaster bolt flashed through the room. The bolt sizzled just past Claypoole, hit the front window and melted a wide hole in the glass. Claypoole glanced toward the rear door and saw a man in a gray uniform standing in the doorway, pointing a blaster. The man had a screen suspended from the front rim of his helmet and seemed to be looking straight at him. The muzzle of the blaster swung toward him.
“He’s got infras!” Claypoole shouted as he dove under the counter his man was on. A blast shot through where he would have been if he hadn’t dropped. He heard the man on the counter scrambling to his feet. Then he heard a scream and a gurgle and the blasterman thudded to the floor.
So did the man on the counter. He bumped into Claypoole and his eyes popped because he was touching someone he couldn’t see. Even so, he reached out with both arms, groped at his invisible opponent, and locked his arms around him in a bear hug that squeezed the air from Claypoole’s lungs. Claypoole was on his right side, his knife hand trapped under his body. The tanker tightened the bear hug while Claypoole struggled to suck in a breath as he twisted his knife arm free then shoved the blade into his opponent’s kidney. The tanker gasped and arched his back, reaching a hand around for the knife, but Claypoole pulled it out and sliced the man’s exposed throat. The tanker spasmed and thudded his heels on the floor while Claypoole skittered away from him.
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