At first General Aguinaldo did not think he had heard General Han correctly. The Marine commander was dead tired, he’d been up since landing and nearly killed by enemy tank gunners several times as he made his way from one trouble spot to another, bolstering morale with his presence among the desperately fighting infantrymen, bucking up a bewildered commander with a hand on the shoulder and a few intense remarks and then dashing back to his headquarters to better coordinate his attacks.
“Excuse me, General? What did you say?” Aguinaldo looked as wary as he sounded. General Han closed his eyes briefly and steeled himself to repeat the disastrous news.
“Sir, Third Corps cannot deploy with its heavy weapons as planned.” He swallowed. “I just learned this morning that they mounted out without the spare parts they needed to—”
Han stopped talking when he saw the expression coming over Aguinaldo’s face. Anders Aguinaldo came from an old Filipino-Dutch family—wiry, swarthy, he was a Filipino with a Dutch temper, for which he was famous throughout the Fleet.
The Marine’s face was now turning a remarkable shade of dark brown.
“When will I be reinforced?” Aguinaldo asked in a very small voice.
“Six days, sir, when Ninth Corps arrives.” Aguinaldo said nothing, just stared at the army general silently. “Third Corps mounted out with a lot of deadlined equipment they failed to tell us about. Their commander counted on performing maintenance en route, but the freighter carrying the Corps’ spare parts broke down before a jump. We don’t know when it might reach as here.”
“What if Ninth Corps is in the same shape?” Aguinaldo said quietly. Had Han known the Marine better, he would have realized the calm was only skin deep. He had reason to be. Han’s news could mean total defeat for the invasion force.
Now it was General Han’s turn to remain silent. The answer to that question was obvious, and so devastating he refused to say it aloud. “You now have direct command of the Third Corps, sir. General Bosworth and I have both been relieved, and we will be returning to army headquarters on the first available shuttle.”
“You goddamned fool!” Aguinaldo shouted. “You army bastards have never come through when the Marines were holding the line! Never! Now you and whatsisname leave us holding the bag again and scoot off home. I ought to leave you two here and take my Marines home.”
Han jumped to his feet. He was about the same height as Aguinaldo but stockier, like his Korean forebears. “I’ve had enough of this crap from you and your goddamned admiral!” he shouted. One of General Aguinaldo’s aides, standing just outside the room, quietly closed the door, but the shouting now got so loud everyone in the command post operations room could hear the generals inside. The enlisted men grinned at each other, despite the fatigue that gripped everyone in the landing force. Nothing is so sweet as to witness officers falling out; the higher their rank the sweeter the sound, especially since it was the army getting chewed out.
Aguinaldo stood up and leaned across his desk. “You get your ass back to army headquarters, General,” Aguinaldo shouted, “and you explain why my men died in this damned place! Because you fucked up! Better still, you tin soldier,” Aguinaldo’s voice dripped with sarcasm at the insult, “you tell their families why their men died here!”
Han’s face drained white. He had once been a platoon leader and he’d seen combat. He knew he was responsible for the debacle, but to hear it put into words by another military man, his superior officer now but more than that, a renowned fighter like Aguinaldo, brought the terrible load of his failure home. He sat down hard, utterly deflated. Aguinaldo remained standing for a moment and then he sat down too.
“I—I... Yes, I am responsible for this, General,” he said quietly. Aguinaldo was surprised to see tears in the man’s eyes as he spoke. “Give me a blaster and a set of chameleons and put me into a rifle company,” Han said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I—I—I can’t go home like this.” He gestured helplessly. “Forty years a soldier, and now...” His voice trailed off.
Aguinaldo had calmed down now. “Well...” he began.
“Sir.” Han straightened his back. “My staff, General Bosworth’s staff, they stand ready for your orders. They are good men, General. They will serve you well. Don’t take any of this out on them.”
“Well, ah, General, I can’t use any sixty-year-old riflemen, but I appreciate the offer. How soon can Third Corps begin to land?”
“Immediately.”
“Do they have any heavy weapons that will work?”
“Yessir, some.” Han passed a microchip to the Marine. “There’s a complete report on the Corps’ readiness status. They will be of some help to you. Enough, I hope, to...” He left the sentence unfinished. From outside came the rumble of a heavy artillery barrage and Han flinched. He stood up. He had completed his mission here, it was time to leave.
General Aguinaldo stood up. “I was a bit harsh a few moments ago,” he began.
“Sir, would you talk to Admiral Wimbush?” Han interjected, desperation written all over his face. “I’d like to stay with you in some capacity, help out in some way. I’ll defer my rank and gladly put myself under your command.”
Aguinaldo offered his hand. “No, General, that’s not possible,” he said firmly. “I appreciate the offer, though.” He was beginning to feel a twinge of sympathy for the army officer, but he suppressed it. He had a battle to win.
“Sir? Can you hold?” Han asked as he turned to go.
Aguinaldo shrugged. “Will a kwangduk shit in your mess kit? We have no intention of ‘holding,’ General. We’re going to break out and kick some ass. We’re Marines.”
Chapter 23
“What do you mean, the army’s not coming?” Lance Corporal Joe Dean demanded.
Lance Corporal Dave Schultz, the bearer of the news, didn’t look at Dean. His eyes kept scanning the street and buildings to their front, vigilant for signs of the enemy. He’d just returned from a platoon NCO meeting where the junior leaders of third platoon, Company L, had been given a briefing on the situation. He spat a long stream of saliva. “They ain’t coming. Army ain’t ready.” He spat again and finally turned to look at Dean. His eyes were hard, his face rigid. Anger twitched the corner of his mouth. “Dean, understand this. The army don’t like Marines. Never has. Army gets a chance to get some Marines fried, they take it.” He looked back to the front. “They ain’t ready. They ain’t coming.” Anger started a tick on his cheek.
Schultz’s anger wasn’t directed at Dean, who he thought should be in charge, nor was it directed at the army, which was guilty of leaving the Marines in an untenable position. His anger was at being appointed acting fire team leader. A fire team leader was a corporal, a noncommissioned officer. Hammer Schultz wasn’t an NCO, a leader of men. He was a career lance corporal. He’d argued that Dean should take over as acting fire team leader even though Dean was junior to him. But Bass and Hyakowa had taken him aside and explained to him, as only sergeants can explain, that as the more experienced man he had to be in charge. He’d fought in cities before, Dean hadn’t. He’d fought against regular armies before, Dean hadn’t. His chances of survival were better if Dean followed his lead than the other way around. Besides, he’d have to answer to them if he refused. Schultz had cursed and threatened, but a sergeant and a gunnery sergeant had just too much power and he finally acquiesced. With absolutely no grace.
“What are we going to do?” Dean asked. Uncertainty made his voice small; he knew there were hundreds, maybe thousands, more tanks facing them, and the Marines were running very low on Straight Arrows again.
Schultz rippled his shoulders in a half shrug. “Take as many of ‘em with us as we can.” He settled his blaster into a more ready position. Even if he no longer had a weapon that could kill a tank, maybe a tank commander or a driver would have his head sticking out of his hatch. Them he could kill.
Schultz suddenly cocked his head and put a hand to the side of his helmet to listen to an in
coming call. He acknowledged the call, then turned to Dean. A death’s head grin split his face.
“Remember that Corporal Henry back at Camp Ellis? Taught us artillery spotting?”
Dean nodded, wondering why Schultz asked.
Schultz nodded back, in the direction of the general support artillery battery they were screening. “We’re going to spot for them. Let’s go.” He examined the Oppalia street map he had, then flipped his chameleon screen down and disappeared like the Cheshire cat’s smile.
Dean dropped both his chameleon screen and his infra. He followed the red blob in his visor that was Schultz.
Six FISTs, complete now that their artillery was planetside, had landed. Their front lines, the infantry and Dragons, should have been more than three thousand men, but casualties had reduced that number to somewhat fewer than 2,500. They had to secure a perimeter that included both the seaport and spaceport and the many square kilometers of the city that the Marines had driven the First Tank Brigade out of. Fewer than 2,500 men to secure that perimeter and advance it. Fewer than 2,500 men on foot and in light armored vehicles to take on the remaining 250 tanks and defeat them, then occupy the entire city of Oppalia and hold it against an expected counterattack from as many as four armored divisions. The Marines did not, could not, cover the entire perimeter they had, there simply weren’t enough of them. The perimeter had gaps that whole tank battalions could drive through without opposition. It was into one of those gaps that Schultz led Dean.
A ten-story building, one of Oppalia’s tallest, stood at one end of a broad, two-kilometer-long boulevard. Stunted elms imported from Old Earth to line the boulevard struggled to wrest nourishment from the alien soil.
“We can see from up top,” Schultz said when they reached the building. He looked around for street signs, then at the name of the building.
The two Marines had to slag the locking mechanism of the main doors, which set off alarms. They entered the deserted lobby. Dean looked around apprehensively, expecting security guards to come running.
“No one’s here,” Schultz said. “Everybody’s hiding somewhere.”
Dean realized Schultz was right. “Besides,” Dean added, “they can’t see us. And two Marines can deal with a whole company of private security, right?”
Schultz didn’t bother replying. He walked deeper into the lobby.
Dean looked around and headed for a bank of lift tubes.
Schultz saw where he was going and snapped, “This way.”
“What? Where are we going?” Dean asked as he scampered after Schultz.
“Stairs.”
“Stairs? It’s a long way up, Hammer. Let’s take the tube. That’ll be a lot faster and easier.”
Schultz shook his head. “What if the power fails? Be a long fall.”
Dean looked wistfully toward the lift tubes. He didn’t relish the idea of climbing the stairs. But he had to acknowledge that Schultz was right about the possibility of a power failure. Now that he thought about it, he was surprised the city still had power at all.
The wind, mere gusts at street level, was a steady, strong breeze on top of the building. They went to the east-facing parapet and looked out over the city. From up above, the unpopulated streets looked even emptier than they had from ground level. The eerie lack of people-noises in a city made Dean imagine he could hear his heart beating inside his chest even over the low roar of the wind. The only relief from the emptiness was a couple of kilometers to the south they saw several Dragons clustered in an open park. To the north, a patrol of three Dragons nosed along a residential street. Otherwise they saw no movement or other sign of people.
Dean shivered at the eeriness of it—a city that size should be teeming with people. Even in the midst of a battle, he expected to see movement. But other than the one patrol, there wasn’t any. Neither was there any noise of fighting. All along the perimeter, the Marines had beaten off the First Tank Brigade’s counterattack. Now the Diamundeans were licking their wounds and the Marines were waiting for reinforcements and resupply that they no longer expected. The entire city waited, hushed. Not even Diamunde’s native avians cried their songs.
Schultz called in their location. He used street names and the building’s name to tell where they were. Technical difficulties kept the satellite crew from closing the gap in the string-of-pearls so the Marines were relying on civilian street maps to give locations.
The two Marines waited and watched.
General Aguinaldo intently studied III Corps’ readiness report. Major General Daly read the screen over his shoulder. When Aguinaldo had seen enough to have a general grasp, he leaned back and said to Brigadier General Sommers, General Han’s one-time chief of staff, who was now working for him, “It looks like the 10th Light Infantry Division can land right now. Is that right?”
“Yessir,” Sommers said, his voice mirroring his uncertainty about how to deal with the Marine general who’d so suddenly and unexpectedly become his boss. “The 10th can begin boarding Essays within a half hour of receiving orders.”
Aguinaldo heard the nervousness and stared at the army brigadier general, his expression daring Sommers to add a qualifier.
“Sir, I inspected the 10th myself. They’re ready.”
“Except they only have one Straight Arrow per squad”
Sommers swallowed. “That’s right, sir. The heavy equipment still hasn’t arrived, but we have Straight Arrows.”
“Third Corps has enough S.A.’s to arm every man in the 10th Light, and every one of my Marines. Isn’t that right?”
“Yessir.” Sommers swallowed again and thought quickly. He knew the Marine would accept nothing less than instant action. “Sir, I have palletized S.A.’s that can be boarded on Essays immediately for distribution planetside.” Sommers saw Aguinaldo’s face darken, and hastily continued. “Sir, another one or two S.A.’s can be issued to each squad in the 10th as they board their landing craft. This can be done without slowing them down.”
“Then do it. I want the first echelon of the 10th Light Infantry Division planetside in one hour.” Aguinaldo turned to Daly to give him further orders.
Sommers saw he was dismissed and rushed from the command room to issue a communiqué to the commanding general of the 10th Light. The army was going to come through for the Marines. He didn’t know how, but he knew a major general who would hang if the 10th didn’t begin landing on time.
Schultz and Dean watched the still city for an hour and a half, reporting in at twenty-minute intervals. None of the other combination observation post/spotter teams had any more activity to report than they did. The only elements of the six FISTs that made contact were the reconnaissance teams that prowled the city looking for the hiding places of the First Tank Brigade. Recon’s job was exactly that—they found the tanks. It was someone else’s job to fix them and kill them. None of the tankers had any idea they were found.
By nineteen hours enough reports had made it back to Marine headquarters for General Aguinaldo to be reasonably sure he knew where enough of the tanks were for him to kill the First Tank Brigade. He issued orders. Marine artillery would open fire on all known hiding places. Then the six FISTs would advance into those places and take the survivors prisoner—or kill them if they tried to fight. The 10th Light Infantry would follow the Marines and clean up anyone they missed—which should be just about no one. In another hour the entire city would be in the hands of Confederation forces.
But the best made plans never do survive the first shot. Marine artillery opened fire on schedule and was answered by counterbattery fire, not from the First Tank Brigade, but from the lead elements of the Third Armored Division. Because of the continuing gap in the string-of-pearls satellites, no one saw the Third Armor racing from the foot of Rourke’s Hills to the city.
“What? I’m awake,” Dean said when Schultz poked him sharply with an elbow. He looked where Schultz pointed. “Ohmygawd.” Through a gap between buildings a couple of kilometers to the no
rtheast, he saw a line of tanks flitting in a direction that would take them across the front of their position. The only question he had was would the line of tanks intersect the boulevard they watched over. “We’ve got to report this.”
“Report what?”
“The tanks.”
“What are you going to say, we see tanks? How many, where are they going? We don’t report until we know.” Schultz slid his magnifier screen into place and the gap suddenly looked like it was a hundred meters away. “You look there.” He pointed to the other end of the boulevard.
Casting glances toward the gap, Dean watched the boulevard. “How many are there?” he asked when he didn’t see any more tanks.
“I counted fifty,” Schultz said. He didn’t add that fifty didn’t include the number that passed before he started counting.
“Where are they going?”
Schultz didn’t know, so he didn’t answer.
A moment later they knew. The lead tanks turned onto the boulevard a few blocks from the far end. At that same moment, the artillery opened fire on the known hiding places of the First Tank Brigade.
The Third Armored Division was armed with a weapon the Marines hadn’t seen on tanks before—rockets. One tank in every squad of the battalion turning onto the boulevard in front of Dean and Schultz had a launcher that could send rockets straight up. Each platoon had a tank with a guidance system that could direct the rockets to their targets. Each company had one tank with a radar that could detect shells passing through the air and track them back to their origin. The one company of the battalion that was on the boulevard quickly deployed to begin counterbattery fire.
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