Colonel (UC)

by Rick Shelley

  "We're not going to stay here long," Lon told Phip. "Twenty minutes, tops. Too much chance the New Spartans will have this location registered for their artillery."

  "I was afraid you might have overlooked that possibility," Phip said. "They drop a high-angle shot inside these walls, the medtechs would have to scrape our remains off the plascrete." He gestured around. Some of the stains on the walls might have been from the previous occupants.

  "We'll set up outposts just inside the ring the New Spartans set up, past where they burned everything, but I don't want to move all our people into the city if we can avoid it. That might tempt the other side to start lobbing rockets in among civilians. We'll wait for dark to move against the first batch of the enemy in the city, get the ones around the spaceport. While that's going on, we'll send the chancellor and his people in under heavy escort. I'll feel better once they're off our hands."

  "You really think we're going to be able to pull this one off, Lon?" Phip asked, moving closer to Lon, simply whispering with the faceplate of his helmet up halfway.

  Lon glanced around the ruins of the farmhouse. The only other person inside was Jeremy Howell, and he was over near what had been the front door. "We don't have any choice. We have to pull it off. Somehow. Probably with just what we have here now. Even if I call in another regiment, we're going to have to do it ourselves." He shook his head. "Now let me be for a few minutes. I've got to see where everyone's at."

  Pieces of a puzzle. I don't have all the pieces, and there's no cozy holo to tell me what the finished puzzle is

  supposed to look like, Lon thought as he scrolled across his mapboard, seeing where each of his battalions were and where the enemy units were located. The enemy's main force was still moving east, doing what they could to stall the pursuit—leaving booby traps and small rearguard units to harass the Dirigenters—apparently looking for sound defensive positions, rather than simply looking for a little space to regroup, or actively trying to consolidate their forces, bring the smaller units back to them.

  That doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense unless they know they've got reinforcements coming, Lon thought, shaking his head idly. The farther they go. the more likely it is that they've got more assets coming in… and soon. He stared at the chart for a moment, then touched the screen softly. If they go past this point, they must know they have help on the way. It was an arbitrary decision, with no guarantee that it would have any relationship to reality, but he needed some reference mark to help focus his thinking. Then he turned his attention to the smaller New Spartan elements.

  The New Spartan rocket artillery was still trying to get lost in the wild country to the north, staying under cover of the forests, maintaining electronic silence as far as possible. For the most part they were successful at evading detection. They were moving too fast, and too erratically, for the Dirigenter artillery to knock them out on the rare occasions when they were located. And the infantry of Lon's 2nd Battalion had not been able to close with the enemy yet.

  The enemy troops who had manned the southwestern arc of the New Spartan line around University City were in the industrial district neighboring the capital's primary aerospaceport Parker Watson had his battalion close, moving to keep the New Spartans in place. Vel Osterman was with Watson, taking tactical command of 4th of the 7th and the heavy-weapons units supporting it. Several companies of the EDF were moving into position behind^

  those New Spartans. They were in direct contact with Osterman.

  Fifteenth Regiment had not yet closed with the New Spartans they were chasing—the units that had been on the southeastern end of the perimeter—or scare them into static defensive positions. Fal Jensen had one battalion moving to get between those New Spartans and the most heavily inhabited districts of University City. He was leading the rest of his regiment out on the other flank, hoping to keep the enemy units he was after from turning northeast to rendezvous with their main force.

  And here I sit with two battalions, as far from the fighting as I could get without actually running from it, Lon thought, making a face of disgust. Half a regiment that can't contribute to any of the battles for at least three hours. That did not feel proper, though he kept telling himself it was. He had three members of the Elysian cabinet with him, and a dozen of their staff people. All had to be turned over safely to their own people, moved inside University City and the defensive lines of the Elysian Defense Force.

  Lon glanced skyward. The dance going on involving the ships and fighters of both sides was another element of the puzzle, one he felt far from qualified to judge, let alone direct. The skipper of Peregrine remained in tactical command of that part of the Dirigenter force. Even when it came to using the Shrike Us for ground support or attacks on enemy ground forces, Captain Kurt Thorsen—Peregrine's captain—had to be consulted, not commanded. That was part of the interservice diplomacy between the Corps' line officers and the officers of its ancillary services. The defense of the ships was Thorsen's responsibility, and the Shrike II fighters were his first line of defense.

  Lon got to his feet, folded his mapboard, and stuck it in the specially designed pocket on the right leg of his battledress trousers. I can't see anything better than keeping on the way we've been going, he thought, gesturing to Phip Steesen, who had drifted off to the other side of the room. "Let's get the men up and moving, Phip," Lon said over their radio link. "We're not doing any good here chewing our tongues." Lon alerted the two battalion commanders, then went out of the shell of a house to where the Elysians were sitting together.

  "We've got to get moving again. Sorry the rest couldn't have been longer," he told them. "With a little luck, we'll get you back to your people tonight. If nothing else goes wrong."

  "Don't worry about us," Berlino said, the first of the Elysians to get to his feet. "We'll manage." He seemed less nervous than before, as if all he had needed to collect his wits were a few minutes to rest. He gestured to hurry his compatriots to their feet. "We can all do with the exercise, in any case."

  Moving half a regiment was not as simple as moving a platoon or a company. It was not just scale, but growing complexity as the number of levels increased, communications and making sure that each subordinate commander knew his unit's responsibilities and which other units were responsible for other necessities. The two battalions with Lon were spread out over more than half a square mile. Even for a short break they had moved into a defensive perimeter, no one completely relaxing, no one forgetting that there were hostile soldiers about—and the possibility of rocket attack with very little warning. Now, flankers were put out on both sides. Platoons were put out in front to scout the line of march and warn of any ambush. One company waited to follow the rest as rear guard. This time the rotation of duties put Junior's company from 1st Battalion behind the rest, split in two elements, covering both lines of march.

  Lon was very near the geographical center of the strung-out formation, with his headquarters detachment, the men forming a loose shield around him. Phip Steesen was near the front of this inner formation. Torrey Berger was near the rear. In the middle, only Jeremy Howell was especially close to the regimental commander. He always stayed close to Lon. Two squads of troops flanked them. The Elysians were not far behind, with their own squads of bodyguards.

  Several times in the next hour, the entire formation came to a halt when the point squads spotted possible mines or booby traps. Those had to be checked out carefully and the real explosives detonated or inactivated before the march could start again. Electronic snoops—left to report on troop movements—were also deactivated, destroyed, when they were found.

  On the march, Lon moved just like any private under his command—rifle at the ready, finger resting over the trigger guard, his eyes sweeping from side to side, looking for any possible threat. That there was little chance of any enemy getting close to him mattered little. He felt no lessening of the tension he had always felt in a potential combat situation, though he handled it far bette
r than he had as a young man. There was always a chance of trouble—a sniper, a booby trap that had somehow been missed by everyone else, anything.

  At the same time, he was kept busy with the demands of command, keeping track of his far-flung units, receiving updates from Jensen and his own battalion commanders and from CIC. The one good thing about the sheer volume of communications was that it gave him no time to worry about his own physical well-being… or that of his only son, now about five hundred yards north of him, in the rear guard.

  That was where the trouble came.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Lon heard a crackling sound like wood burning in a fireplace, distant and faint, but he recognized the sound for what it was: automatic gunfire. He had heard it often enough over the years. Seconds later, he took a call from Captain Jaz Taiters, commander of D Company, 1st Battalion, 7th Regiment—D-l-7 in military shorthand. Taiters was a nephew of Arlan Taiters, the lieutenant who had mentored Lon through his stint as an officer cadet… and who had been killed on Lon's first combat contract. Jaz also was Junior's company commander.

  "We're being hit on the left, Colonel," Taiters reported, his voice well under control. "Sounds like maybe two platoons. They were already firing before they switched on electronics, so we didn't have any warning. I guess they infiltrated after everyone else went by. Doesn't seem possible they could have been sitting there for long and not been spotted."

  "Can you handle them alone, or do you need help?" Lon asked, fumbling his mapboard out of its pocket.

  "If we've got anyone close, I wouldn't turn down help," Taiters said, "but I think we can handle them alone if we have to. I do have four men down already, and they're gonna need medical help in pretty short order."

  Lon bit off the question he wanted to ask, about Junior. "Have your men keep their heads down. I'll order an artillery strike. I have the positions of your opposition on the mapboard. Can you tell if any of your wounded are in critical condition?"

  "Two of them are going to need trauma tubes as fast as we can get them. Hang on while I tell everyone to get down. Your son is leading a platoon to try to flank the ambushers."

  Lon used the delay to order one battery of self-propelled 225mm howitzers to drop a load on the New Spartan positions. "Take care with the coordinates," he told the battery commander. "We've got men within fifty yards of them." Junior's okay. So far, he thought with relief—almost with too much relief, considering how many other men were also in harm's way.

  "Fire mission on its way," Lon told Takers when the captain came back on line. "I'll get the medtechs and trauma tubes started your way while you finish off any of the enemy the artillery misses."

  "Will do, Colonel, and thanks."

  It was only marginally appropriate, but after he had sent the medtechs on their way, Lon dialed up his son's platoon channel to listen in. He could hear gunfire more clearly over this channel—Junior apparently was much closer to the New Spartans than Captain Takers—but there was no unnecessary chatter. The order to take cover had already been given. He heard the whistle of incoming artillery rounds and then the explosions. The first blast was isolated, but the rest overlapped each other so thoroughly that it was impossible to guess how many rounds had been fired.

  When the barrage ended, there was only an instant of silence before the rifle fire resumed. Lon heard Junior say, "Come on. Let's finish this before they pull their heads outta their asses." Stifling a laugh was almost painful for Lon. He shook his head. Colorful, he thought, but at least he communicates effectively. For many young officers, that was the hardest skill to acquire.

  Lon blinked several times and looked around. The march had not stopped, but Lon had allowed his vigilance to flag ever so slightly while he concentrated on the problems of his son's company. He continued to listen as Junior's platoon closed with the remnants of the New Spartan ambush, but he forced himself to pay more attention to his own surroundings. Briefly, he switched channels to tell all of his commanders about the ambush on the rear guard, and to urge greater vigilance in case there were other attacks along the flanks or against the point. Then he returned to monitoring his son's channel.

  "We've got them all, Captain," Junior reported to Jaz Taiters. "Two of them still alive, but in extremely bad shape. I don't know if either will last long enough to reach a tube."

  A few seconds later, Taiters called Lon to give the same report. "One of the company's medtechs is already with them," Taiters said. "He said there doesn't seem to be much purpose in hurrying trauma tubes, that they're not likely to make it."

  "I'm sending them anyway, Jaz," Lon said. "We make the effort whenever possible."

  "Yes, sir, that's what I told the medtech."

  "We're setting up a temporary hospital near where I am now," Lon said. The SMO, Major Norman, was handling the details, and positioning the two platoons of line soldiers who would provide security for the medical personnel and wounded—and move the temporary facility to new locations as that became necessary. It would not be left too far from the bulk of 7th Regiment. "Bring the casualties here. We'll treat those we can and make arrangements to evacuate anyone hurt too badly to return to duty after a few hours in a tube. When we can."

  When we can might not be anytime soon. After Taiters acknowledged the message, Lon dropped out of the line of march and went to where Major Norman was setting up the field hospital.

  "You've got four men coming in from Delta of the 1st, two in tubes," Lon told him. "Maybe one or two New Spartans in tubes as well, if they survive until we get tubes to them."

  "I know about them," Norman said, nodding. "You have any idea when we'll be able to evacuate casualties?"

  "Not a clue. The situation up top is… uncertain just now. The two fleets are dancing around trying to stay out of each other's way. That keeps the New Spartans out of our way, but it limits what we can do. My hope right now is that we won't have anyone hurt badly enough to need evacuation in a hurry, until… well, until things are a little clearer."

  "From the reports I've had from the medtechs on the scene, Delta's wounded are all going to be able to return to duty after they do a few hours in the tubes. If the two New Spartans make it, they might both need additional treatment. If we get that far, stable and out of danger, perhaps we can arrange to transfer them back to their own people." Norman hesitated just a beat before he added, "Since we're dealing with professionals."

  "One step at a time," Lon said. "The situation might not arise, from what I heard. The medtech on the scene doesn't think they'll last until we get trauma tubes to them."

  Norman shrugged. "If the fighting picks up, there might be others. I'd rather stabilize enemy casualties and get them off my hands than tie down resources we need for our own people."

  "Transfer any who are hurt too badly to be able to pick up a rifle and rejoin the fight after four hours in a trauma tube," Lon said. "We don't want to have to put the same people down twice," He turned and walked away before the SMO could reply to that.

  Sunset. It had been nearly fifteen hours since the initial landings. Lon had stopped the two battalions with him an hour before, after making contact with two companies of the Elysian defense force on the outskirts of University City. The nearest residential district started half a mile from the point of contact, past a thickly wooded strip of ground that sloped gently toward the Styx. The men had dug in, defending an oval area a mile long and about a third of a mile wide at the broadest section. On the south and southeast, there was a creek in front of the Dirigenter line. Electronic snoops and mines had been planted out beyond the perimeter, around the entire oval. Patrols, generally single-squad in strength, would start scouting around farther out once dusk gave way to dark.

  Inside the perimeter, everyone had eaten. Once the defensive positions were prepared, Lon gave the word for each unit to go on half-and-half watches—50 percent on watch, the other 50 percent sleeping, or trying to. Lon was sitting in a trench that was covered by a camouflage tarp that also s
erved as a thermal insulator—another layer of camouflage in the dark to defeat enemy infrared night-vision systems. He had loosened the closures on his boots but had not taken them off. He had eaten, mechanically, more because of training to eat whenever possible in the field than because he had been hungry.

  The afternoon had ended up relatively calm. Neither side had been able to bring in fighters for effective missions against the enemy, because when one side launched fighters, so did the other, and they either fought plane-to-plane or had to take up defensive positions around their ships.

  On the ground, most of the New Spartan forces continued trying to put distance between themselves and the Dirigenters. The rocket artillery that had been north of the landings, now estimated at half a battalion in strength, was moving farther north. They were very nearly out of range of any Dirigenters except the ones who were pursuing them on the ground. The other New Spartan rocket artillery, what remained of the batteries that had first taken 15th Regiment under fire—perhaps only a single battery of four or five launchers—had moved east with the New Spartan main force, which was now nearly fifteen miles away from Lon's headquarters, still pursued by 15th Regiment.

  The New Spartan infantry units that had been on the southeastern section of their initial encirclement of University City had moved almost to the River Styx before turning east, also withdrawing as rapidly as they could. The only enemy force that had not been able to pull away from the Elysian capital was now trapped in and around the aerospaceport. That was where Lon expected the only heavy fighting in the next few hours. Parker Watson's battalion and two companies of Elysians, supported by 7th Regiment's tanks and artillery, were going to attack at 2200 hours—ten o'clock that night—little more than an hour away.