by Rick Shelley
"What about the time it takes them to cross the river?" Lon asked. "They'll be sitting ducks if the New Spartans are watching, and they probably will be."
"Three minutes, maybe four for the crossing," Jensen said. "They blow across at best speed and get out of the open before the New Spartans have time to target them and get rockets to the river."
Lon hesitated, for perhaps as long as thirty seconds. He closed his eyes. It would be a terrible gamble, but… "Set it up, Fal. We'll give it a try. Maybe it's just crazy enough to work. But keep me informed. If it goes bad, we may have to pull them back in a hurry." If there's time, he thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was 0100 hours. The battle for what Lon had started to think of as "Spartan Ridge" had been going on for three hours. The New Spartans had been in position long enough to dig in. The Dirigenters had to scoop out what defensive positions they could under fire. At least the ground was wet enough to make that relatively easy, but not so muddy as to make the resulting trenches swampy. The earlier showers had, mostly, stopped. A few minutes of drizzle, now and then, were all that was left from the cold front that had crossed the area.
The shooting had progressed by fits and starts as the Dirigenters probed for weak spots in the enemy line. The battle had never been general, all along the New Spartan perimeter simultaneously. There were also occasional skirmishes away from that perimeter, patrol meeting patrol. And the New Spartans coming up from the river were met, ambushed, and stopped short of rendezvous with their main force on the ridge. Part of 15th Regiment was involved with that, and the EDF troops had been diverted to help. The radio reports Lon heard suggested that the Elysians were doing their best to exact revenge for the New Spartan invasion.
The New Spartan rocket artillery was no longer firing so heavily at the Dirigenters. They had used so many missiles in the early stages of the fight that they had to be running short of ammunition again. Just before 0100 hours, the Dirigenter tanks had crossed the Styx. Two of those tanks, near the end of the lines, had been hit by rockets. The wreckage stood in the river, still smoking. No one from the crews had made it out—six men dead. But the rest of the tanks were now on the south shore of the Styx, racing toward the New Spartan rocket artillery… which was moving farther away from the engagement, just what Lon and Fal Jensen had hoped. Soon, if everything went well, the New Spartan rocket launchers would be too far away to continue striking Dirigenter infantry at all. Lon tried not to think of the cost to the tank companies.
Half of Lon's 2nd Battalion had moved across the ridgeline and were sliding into position behind the New Spartans, forcing them to worry about their entire perimeter and not just the western and southwestern sections of it. Fal Jensen was attempting to edge a company and a half of his 3rd Battalion around the southern flank.
"If we can box them in, we've about got the issue settled," Jensen said when he and Lon conferred—just before the tanks crossed the Styx. "Pop 'em from all sides until their lines start leaking, then close in and finish 'em off."
"I hope it's that simple," Lon said. But I still can't make myself believe it will be.
It was now 0125 hours. The fighting heated up on the reverse slope of the ridge, east, as the New Spartans moved to keep from being surrounded. A full battalion of them came out and turned north, to face the stronger of the two Dirigenter elements trying to close the noose around them. Ten minutes later, a second battalion wheeled toward the south, engaging six platoons from 15th Regiment on that end. The rest of the New Spartans started moving uphill, to the ridge, to secondary positions that apparently also had been prepared in advance.
"Are they just taking new positions, or ready to try a breakout?" Lon asked. "I need information, fast." He was on a channel that connected him to CIC, Fal Jensen, and each of the battalion commanders. He left that channel open for replies, but switched to another channel to connect to Phip Steesen.
"We're moving in closer," Lon said. "Saddle 'em up and let's go." As soon as Phip acknowledged, Lon went back to the other channel. "I'm moving my CP closer to the ridge, between 7th''s 1st and 3rd Battalions. If the New Spartans are trying to get away, I've got to be near enough to react." This time he did not wait for acknowledgments. His security detachment was up and ready to move, spread around their commander. Lon used hand signals to indicate the direction.
There was already a noticeable slope to the ground, climbing toward the east. The land rose at a gentle angle, no more than ten degrees. The tree cover started to get sparser, and within a few minutes Lon started to see the damage that the fighting had caused—trees felled or shattered by artillery; trunks scarred by bullets; a few small, smoldering fires and the ashes of others. The trees and grass were too wet to burn easily.
He also saw bodies on the ground, Dirigenters who had fought their last fight. Lon counted eight, within not too great a space. All were lying on their backs, with indications that each had been checked by one of the med-techs. Lon gritted his teeth and tried not to think how many more dead there already were, how many more might fall before the fight came to an end.
Ten minutes on the move: Lon and his security detachment stopped, taking what cover they could. The sounds of fighting were noticeably closer in the east, but the battle still was a thousand yards away. Lon asked for news, any indication that the New Spartans had tipped their hand: Were they taking new positions or trying to escape? There still was no answer.
What's it going to take to get them to quit? Lon asked himself as he got up and started moving east again. How can we convince them they can't hold out until their reinforcements land? The New Spartans were mercenaries, professionals. Surely they wouldn't make a futile "last stand." That was bad for business, worse than accepting an inevitable defeat and rebuilding, living to fight another day, on some other world.
We would never push it that far, Lon thought, though units of the Corps had in the past—at least on one regrettable contract. An entire regiment had been wiped out on a world known as Wellman, and the second regiment sent in also had been defeated. He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant as he knelt next to a tree. If we can't finish this batch off, at least seriously degrade their strength before the new fleet reaches attack orbit, we may have to concede defeat ourselves. That thought hurt, but Lon would not let his command be totally wiped out if there was no chance of success—or hope of holding out until another regiment and more ships could arrive from Dirigent. And that would take another four weeks, absolute minimum.
Lon took a deep breath. Come up with something brilliant so you don't have to worry about that, he told himself. Find a way to end this in the next forty hours. That would give him half a day to get ready for the incoming fleet. Convince the New Spartans to surrender. Lon snorted softly and shook his head. Brilliant ideas seem to be in short supply. And the New Spartans aren't making any major mistakes.
A call from Vel Osterman took him out of his thoughts. "I'm on the north flank," Osterman said. "Near the ridge, with a clear view down into the area the New Spartans were originally defending. I think they're pulling out completely, probably aiming to withdraw to the next ridgeline, five miles farther east. They're showing good discipline, an orderly move, covering their asses. Once they get clear of this ridge—in maybe ten minutes—the entire western slope will be wide open."
"Except for whatever mines and booby traps they're leaving behind," Lon said. "And maybe the occasional patrol or sniper."
"That's why I called, Lon," Osterman said. "I haven't seen any preparations of that sort, and I'm in good position to. It might be nothing more than creeping paranoia on my part, but I think they want us to chase them straight over the hill, that maybe they've got more than the usual presents waiting for us, something they set up before we got here."
"You mean some kind of trap," Lon said.
"That's what I'm thinking. I could be all wrong, but this gives me an itch I can't scratch. If they wanted to, they could probably hold this ridge long enough for thei
r reinforcements to land, and moving exposes them to dangers they can't be sure of accurately gauging. Unless…" He let that hang.
Lon hesitated a moment before he replied. "I wouldn't put it past them, but if we detour completely around we're going to lose a couple of hours, give them that much more chance to put distance between us and settle themselves in somewhere new." Another hesitation. "I think we have to take our chances, Vel, but I'll put several squads out to cover the ground before the rest of us move through. Thanks for the warning."
Lon switched channels to call the commanders of his 1st and 3rd Battalions, Ted Syscy and Benjamin Dark. "Get your best scouts out to look for traps in the area the New Spartans have just vacated. Tell mem to be especially careful. I know they always are, but even more than usual. There's a damned good chance the enemy has left something extra behind to catch us with our pants down."
Both of the battalion commanders acknowledged the order. "It might be nothing more than that they've had time to register every rock and tree on that slope for their rocket artillery, with spotters to pass the word where we are," Syscy added. Early in his career, before transferring to 1st Battalion, he had spent a year in the regiment's heavy-weapons battalion. He considered himself an expert on artillery. "No way to tell how many of the big rockets they've got left to dump on us."
"I hope there's nothing more to it than that, Ted," Lon said, "but we've just about got their rocket launchers out of range, unless they have even more they haven't used, and that's unlikely. They've already shown a lot more than they should have had. I'm guessing that it's something more like a thick screen of command-detonated mines, concealed well enough that a casual patrol might go past without spotting them. Something on that order. Hard telling what they've dreamed up. Just tell your patrols to be alert for anything."
"How much time do we have to get the scouts through?" Syscy asked.
"Not enough, I'm afraid. We can't give the New Spartans a minute more than absolutely necessary. I can't funnel enough men around the flanks fast enough to catch and hold them until the rest of us tiptoe across the ridge. I'm going to move everyone as close as we can, then… well, we'll give your men a few minutes. Not many."
"We'll do what we can," Syscy said. Dark clicked his transmitter to agree.
Lon had kept moving during this conference. As soon as it was over, he signaled Phip to change direction, angling southeast instead of north of east—to throw off any enemy response if they had been tracking the detachment. There were more orders to pass, and Lon had to apprise Fal Jensen of what 7th Regiment was going to do. Keep the pressure up on both sides. Make sure the New Spartans have to withdraw slowly, under fire. Don't give them time for anything else. The New Spartans had come out to north and south to hold off the Dirigenters, letting the rest of their force withdraw through the gap. Then the flanks had closed in behind, withdrawing in orderly fashion.
They're doing it awfully well, Lon thought with grudging admiration. An orderly withdrawal under heavy enemy pressure was one of the hardest maneuvers to accomplish, and it could be extremely costly in lost men, even if the withdrawal did not turn into a mindless rout. And Lon saw no indication that this was likely to degenerate into a mad retreat. That would be a major surprise, he thought.
He finally called a halt for his headquarters detachment, no more than three hundred yards from the van of 1st and 3rd Battalions, which was near the foot of the hill the New Spartans had evacuated less than an hour before. There had been considerably more destruction to the forest here. Few trees were still standing and unmarked by the fighting. There was a smell of smoke and gunpowder heavy on the air, clinging.
Lon sat in the crook between two trees that had fallen, one across the other. Snapped and bent branches, charred and wilted leaves formed something of a canopy over his head. He lifted the faceplate of his helmet, then took one of his canteens from his belt. He splashed a little water on his face and rubbed the water around. That helped more than the sip of water he actually drank. That had a slightly bitter metallic taste to it, the taste of gunpowder and burned wood that was already on his lips and in his mouth. The smell of fire was heavy on the air. Lon considered opening a meal pack for a couple of mouthfuls of food but decided against it. Food could wait a little longer.
The scouting patrols from 1st and 3rd Battalions were halfway to the ridge, near the second line of slit trenches that had been dug by the New Spartans. So far the patrols had not found anything unexpected. In fact, there was a dearth of land mines, booby traps, and electronic snoops—the very items that a well-equipped enemy would be most likely to leave behind to slow pursuit. Either they've run out of everything or they are very anxious to have us follow as quickly as possible, Lon thought, recalling Vel Osterman's warning. And we can't assume that they're out of anything.
He stared up the slope, squinting, as if that might help him spot an answer from a distance when the men walking the ground had not found anything. Something. He shook his head, which was becoming all too frequent a gesture for comfort. If we can't find whatever they have in mind,
maybe we can trick them into tipping their hand a little too soon.
Maybe. Lon signaled for Phip to come to him. "Listen closely," Lon said after both men had raised their faceplates. "I want to try something a little unusual." He spent two minutes explaining exactly what he wanted done, going back over everything a second time; then he made Phip repeat the instructions back to him, to make certain there was no confusion. "I don't know that this is going to do us any good, but I think we need to do something."
"Okay, I see your point," Phip said. "I think it's probably a crazy waste of time, but we're better off with that than maybe walking into something that'll kill any chance we have of finishing this job the way we want to. I'll grab Dorcetti and get started." Then he hurried off to implement Lon's instructions, hardly hearing the softly sardonic "Glad you approve" Lon sent after him.
Lon pulled his faceplate down and checked the time. We've been on this world less than seventy-two hours, he thought with amazement. It seemed far longer. All he could do now was wait to see if his ruse would work… if there was anything up there. Ten minutes. Phip would need that much time to get started, and the scouts high on the slope would need that much time to reach the ridge and take cover. Lon settled himself more comfortably behind the two tree trunks. Maybe it is crazy, he conceded, but if it isn't, maybe this will save some lives as well as time.
He took another drink of water, a little more, than before. The taste hadn't improved. His mouth and throat remained dry. If this doesn't turn anything, we're going to have to just go ahead and move forward. We can't take the time to move most of a regiment around on either side. And there's no guarantee the New Spartans didn't leave deadly surprises for us there.
He glanced at the timeline on his visor display again. The seconds seemed to be marching in place instead of moving forward the way they should. Time: In perhaps as little as fifty-five hours, the New Spartans would have another regiment on the ground, or landing. There's no way we can face what they have on the ground now and what's coming at the same time. They'll run all over us. Lon closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath, as deep as he could, holding it before expelling it just as slowly, tried to ignore the bitter odor on the air. Even that spent less than a minute of the waiting time. Phip hadn't even had time yet to tell everyone what they were going to do.
I should have saved some of the work for myself, split it with Phip. That would have kept my mind busy and made the waiting shorter, Lon thought, but it was too late to change that. All he could do was suffer through the waiting. Another seven minutes to go, at least. Phip would give the signal to the chosen men once everyone had been told what to do. I'll give the order for everyone else to get down and stay put once I see the blips light up for the guinea pigs. Or sacrificial goats.
Lon looked around, pulling his faceplate down to take advantage of its dual night-vision systems. Phip was barely visible eight
y yards away, off to the right, zigging his way through the trees—both standing and felled. On the other side, Sergeant Dorcetti was moving in similar fashion, carrying instructions to others. Dorcetti had been the first man Phip had talked to. They were splitting the notification. Altogether, Lon hoped to have fifty men taking part in the deception. Limit the risk, but use enough men to make it believable.
He switched channels to listen to the feed from CIC, the running commentary provided from what the ships could see through its own cameras and other sensors and through the cameras mounted in the helmets of officers and noncoms, and hear on the many radio channels available to the troops about the engagements on the ground. The fight on the other side of the hill had slackened off. The New Spartans were on the slope leading up to the next ridgeline, across an almost dry creekbed. The Dirigenters on both flanks were moving east as well, staying off to the sides, trying to pick up a little distance to give them a chance to eventually get behind the enemy. The fight against the smaller group of New Spartans, the men who had crossed the Styx earlier, also was continuing, moving gradually to the east as well, but 15th Regiment was making certain that those companies could not move north, closer to rendezvous with their main force.
One more sip of water. Lon quickly pulled his faceplate back down and glanced at his timeline. Two minutes were left of the ten he had estimated for preparations. He adjusted his position, getting farther down into the cover offered by the two fallen tree trunks. I wonder where Junior is? Lon wondered, glancing toward the north. Junior would be with 1st Battalion. Or is he with one of the patrols up near the ridge? Lon had not asked who was leading those. It would have been… not quite proper. I hope he knows to get his head and butt down at the right time. Lon swallowed hard.