Into the Hinterlands-ARC
Page 28
“I don’t see how,” Allenson replied. “The problem is a rising water table.”
“Well, it’s too late to relocate,” Hawthorn said. “We would be slaughtered if the Terrans caught us out in the open.”
“Yes,” Allenson replied. “We shall just have to put up with it. It shouldn’t be for long. If the Terrans come at all, it will be soon.”
“I have been thinking. I could move a platoon out of the base, as a mobile unit to harass Terran supply lines if they try to besiege the base,” Hawthorn suggested.
“I can see the tactical advantage, indeed, it also occurred to me,” Allenson replied. “I discussed it with Broch this morning. He gave his opinion that a ’Stream unit would desert to a man if separated from the main body.”
“Cheeky sod,” Hawthorn said.
“Yes, but is he right?” Allenson asked.
Hawthorn sighed, “Probably. He’s still a cheeky sod, though.”
* * *
Allenson picked his way across the mud from his morning perimeter inspection. The morning mist had not entirely dissipated, so the air was cold and clammy. Mansingh, in his role as weapons officer, occupied an ammunition store and bunker in the center of the base, which doubled as their workshop. He sat on the edge of the roof smoking a pipe, synthetic legs dangling. When Allenson passed, he jumped down throwing an immaculate salute. It was not the salute used by the ’Stream militia but it was immaculate.
Marks head popped out of the bunker, greeting Allenson with a friendly wave. The man had attached himself to Mansingh as his technical assistant. The two were the next best thing to an engineering squad that Allenson possessed.
The sirens wailed.
Allenson dropped to one knee, arming his lasercarbine. His conscious mind noticeably lagged behind his subconscious in registering and reacting to the stimulus. A large dark shape phased into appearance in the mist overhead. Allenson triggered three burst from his carbine in the general direction of the shape, the laser pulses punching visible trails through the wet air. He had no expectation of hits, but the tracer would point out the enemy.
“’Streamer platoons with even numbers support the Isfahans with air defense, odd numbers watch the perimeter. Repeat, odd numbered platoons to watch the perimeter. Do not get sucked into the battle,” Allenson said using the loudspeakers, and the command group communication.
“Copy that, Colonel,” Rutchett replied on the command group.
The flat crack of coil rifles complemented the zip of laserifles.
Both were drowned out by the shriek of high-energy laser bursts fired upward in quick succession. The pulses carved tunnels of exploding steam through the mist.
“What the hell.” Allenson followed the burst back to their source. The roof of Mansingh’s bunker lay discarded on the ground. It was just a thin veneer of wood. The long barrel of a lasercannon on a high anti-air mount projected out of the resulting fire pit. Mansingh swung the gun, blasting the phasing Terran transport with laser bolts until its fields sparkled and flared. The power overload earthed to ground as a lightning bolt. The transport dropped back into the Continuum. Allenson hoped it was crippled.
Without warning, the world grew bright and exploded. Allenson felt a deep whump in his chest. The explosion tumbled him across the ground. Something slapped him hard between the shoulder blades. Mansingh’s gun stopped firing.
A second transport turned and dropped, fully phased into realspace. Its field was low, flaring with just power enough to hold it in the air. That meant the troops inside could fire out. The nose-mounted cannon discharged a second time. It targeted something well behind Allenson. Another flash was punctuated by the whoomph of displaced air. Men leaned out of the transport, firing laserifles at the militia on the ground.
The ’Streamers returned fire. Their shots penetrated the frame’s weak field striking little splashes of blue light. Laser bolt explosions, and sparklies from coil gun strikes, sprinkled along the transport’s hull. A wounded Terran dropped his rifle and slid out, falling head first to the ground. High above, two more dark shapes dropped through the mist, like whales coming up for air.
Mansingh’s cannon reopened fire. The Terran heavy gunners had failed to ensure it was permanently out of action, a novice’s error for which they would pay a heavy price. He walked the bolts down the transport frame. Its hull exploded in fire shooting out sprays of red-brown debris. The transport’s field flared up and it swung violently sideways, causing Mansingh’s next burst to miss. Not that it mattered. The transport rolled slowly over, shedding burning debris. Some of the debris thrashed as it fell.
The burning transport dropped like a brick, crashing somewhere outside the base. Black smoke rolled upwards, twisting in convection loops. Mansingh fired again into the mist. Allenson was not sure what he was firing at, as the other transports had disappeared.
“Attackers on the perimeter,” Rutchett informed Allenson through the datapad. “Repeat, we are being attacked at the perimeter.”
“All ’Stream troops move to perimeter to repel borders. Keep your men on sky watch, if you please, Captain Broch, but stand by as a reserve,” Allenson said.
The flat crack of coil guns sounder again. An incoming laserifle shot reflected off the top of a bunker. Allenson sprinted for the perimeter trench line. Laser shots carved streaks through the wet air around him. He jumped into a trench held by second platoon. “Where’s Mr Padget?”
“That way, sir,” a soldier pointed.
Men squeezed back to allow him through. He located Padget, who tried to stand to attention and salute. Allenson dragged him back down.
“I would rather you did not involve me if you wish to set yourself up as a target, Mr Padget,” Allenson said.
“Sorry, sir.”
Allenson stuck his head out to see what was going on. The Terran troops were shockingly close to the base, emerging like shadows out of the mist. They hesitated when they came under fire, halting to fire back. A few crouched down, but most stayed on their feet. Officers urged them on and the advance restarted.
Allenson had no hope that his men would withstand close combat with a superior force. There was nowhere to run, but that would not stop them routing in panic. His only hope was to break the morale of the attackers by inflicting more casualties than they were prepared to accept. He doubted if the Terran colonial force were elite shock troops. If they were, Allenson and his whole command were dead whatever he did, so there was no point planning for that eventuality.
Some of the ’Streamers were firing but not nearly enough. Too many of his men were frozen in combat shock, not running, but not fighting either. He had to change that. He only knew one way. He vaulted onto an ammunition box that served as an observation point, and scrambled to the top of the trench in full view. He needed his men to see him. That meant that the enemy could see him, of course, but he was dead anyway if his ploy failed.
“Pour it into the bastards. They couldn’t hit a barn let alone a man in a trench.” Allenson said, underlining the point by firing long bursts from his carbine.
His men cheered and the flat crack of coil guns merged into a continuous crackle. Most of it was probably unaimed, but Terrans fell anyway. Laser bolts hissed around Allenson. He gave the Terrans one more burst before jumping back into cover. A one-eyed soldier in the trench caught him when he stumbled.
The Terrans wouldn’t advance into the storm of pellets. Some dropped to one knee, to fire aimed shots, but the ’Streamers in trenches presented a difficult target. Others backed away slowly, firing more or less randomly from the hip. One turned and ran. He made only a few steps before a shot from an ion pistol took him between the shoulder blades. The victim dived forward into the mist, dropping his rifle.
A Terran captain screamed exhortations, waving his discharged pistol. Terrans stopped retreating and began to reform a skirmishing line. The ’Streamers weren’t safe yet.
A single laserifle shot from behind Allenson blew out the back of the
captain’s head. Terrans ran, a trickle at first, that swiftly became a torrent like water from a collapsing damn, until the enemy were in full rout. ’Streamers continued to spray fire into the mist even when there were no visible targets left.
“Cease fire, cease fire, stop wasting ammunition,” Allenson said over the datapad to the command group. He doubted anyone would hear the loudspeakers. The firing died away raggedly as the order was passed down the command chain.
Allenson looked for the one-eyed soldier to thank him, but he was on the bottom of the trench. He had no eyes, now.
A low moan sounded beyond the camp. It rose and fell like a distant lament, as if a squadron of giant bees were moving from bloom to bloom.
“What is that noise?” Padget asked. The young man looked unnerved.
“It’s the Terran wounded,” Allenson replied.
The information did not make Padget look any happier.
Allenson called Hawthorn on their private circuit. “Was it you who took out the Terran captain?”
“You know of someone else here with a hunting rifle?” Hawthorn asked, rhetorically.
“Well done, you may have just saved the camp.”
“Naw, it was the idiot cavorting around on top of the trench who did that,” Hawthorn said.
Allenson decided to ignore that particular remark.
“Could you lead some volunteers out beyond the camp while it is still misty?” Allenson asked.
“Sure, I will select some men to volunteer,” Hawthorn replied.
“Pick up anything useful to bring back, especially search the leaders for datapads. It would help if we knew what we were up against. The next priority for recovery are laserifles.
“What about the Terran wounded?” Hawthorn asked.
Allenson hesitated, until decency trumped common sense.
“Bring back for treatment those that have any hope at all of survival.”
“And the others?” Hawthorn asked.
“Give them an overdose of painkiller, to ease them on their way,” Allenson said.
“We may need that painkiller,” Hawthorn said. “Why not just cut their throats. It has the same effect.”
“No,” Allenson replied. “We can’t do that. Don’t ask me to explain because I can’t, but an overdose is treatment, a cut throat cut is a war crime. Logic doesn’t come into it.”
When the mist lifted, it revealed a battlefield empty of all but the dead. Allenson walked back across the camp, carbine over his shoulder. He stopped off at the weapon bunker. A deep rut, surrounded by glass fragments and frozen splashes of liquidized soil, showed how close the cannon hit had come. Mansingh and Marks fussed over the lasercannon like female relatives preparing the bride.
“You know, I really do not remember ordering that weapon, Mister Mansingh” Allenson said.
“Indeed, not, you couldn’t possibly have afforded it, colonel,” Mansingh said, wiping the barrel lovingly with a soft cloth. “It belongs to my company. It’s a display sample. Never have been able to make a sale; nobody can afford it. I thought I would bring it along and test it out.”
“Glad you did, Mister Mansingh. Glad you did,” Allenson said.
* * *
“I think we owe a vote of thanks to Mr Mansingh,” Allenson said, nodding towards the weapons consultant. “His little toy probably made the difference.”
A chorus of hear, hear sounded around the command bunker.
“Unfortunately, I opened fire too soon, sir” Mansingh said, shaking his head at what he considered as his own incompetence. “I should have waited until that first transport fully phased. I would have got it then.”
“No doubt as a para, you were more used to being on the receiving end,” Allenson said.
“I think you underrate your own contribution, sir,” Rutchett said. “Your example stiffened the men’s morale at the critical moment.”
Murmurs of agreement sounded until Rutchett held up a hand for silence.
“However, correct as your decision was at the time, I must counsel you not to repeat such a dangerous gesture. You are neither laser proof nor expendable,” Rutchett said.
Allenson flushed and searched for some reply. Hawthorn came to his aid by changing the subject.
“The Terrans have only pulled back to the hills on the edge of the crystal tree line. They intend to besiege us and we may suffer more attacks.”
“I doubt that they will try another assault any time soon,” Allenson said. “That surprise attack was their best shot and it failed. Mister Mansingh will confirm is that it is very difficult to coordinate simultaneous attacks from the Continuum and realspace. Their commander was too overconfident.”
Mansingh nodded.
“The delay between the air and land assault permitted us to destroy them in detail.” Allenson had looked up the expression “destroy in detail”, after Avery used it. It described a smaller army destroying a larger but disconnected force by attacking each of its components in turn, establishing local numerical superiority in each encounter.
“However, it is clear from the intelligence that Captain Hawthorn acquired from the dead officer that the Terrans still heavily outnumber us despite their casualties,” Allenson said. “I expect them to try to starve us out. They won’t succeed, gentlemen. We can easily hang on until reinforced. Any other business?”
He looked from face to face.
“In that case the council is over.”
Allenson walked the men to the sheeting that doubled as a door to the bunker. The exit faced a wall of sandbags for blast protection. When he pulled aside the sheet, the wind pushed stale air into the room.
“What is that bloody awful stench?” Allenson asked.
“The river has risen higher in the night and the “bogs” are overflowing back into the camp,” Hawthorn said.
Allenson was about to ask what idiot had ordered the latrines sited down by the river when he remembered that he was the fool in question. It had seemed logical at the time.
“Get new ones dug, if you please, Mister Rutchett,” Allenson said.
“I intend to,” Rutchett replied, “but it seemed sensible to wait until the river stopped rising, so I know how high up the meadow they need to be.”
Allenson nodded, annoyed at himself for interfering. Rutchett was perfectly competent and would only resent micromanagement.
After the meeting, he went outside and looked up the meadow towards the tree-line. He had not given much thought as to why the regions along the rivers were free of silicon forest. Unpleasant possibilities presented themselves but he dismissed them. He had plenty of real problems without inventing things to worry about.
* * *
Allenson walked briskly from his bunker to a forward trench. Laserifle pulses struck inside the base, raising puffs of steam that exploded in the mud with a curious hiss. Allenson could see the flash when a Terran fired. They occupied positions among the spongy trees in the low hills a few miles away at the edge of the meadowland. Allenson had not realized what a tactical advantage height would give a besieger.
A man ran past, zigzagging to throw off the Terrans aim. Allenson could see little point in adopting that course. The Terrans could not possibly target individuals at such ranges. Their intention was to harass the defenders with area fire. You were no more likely to get hit walking than running. Of course, every so often the Terrans got lucky. Thank the Lord they hadn’t any heavy weapons or it would all be over by now. The Terrans had night sights so the dark brought no respite.
He slid into a perimeter trench knee deep in fetid water. Allenson barely noticed the stink; he was so used to it. The men were disinclined to move far from their trenches for all but essential purposes. For many of them, visiting the new latrines did not come under that category. Inevitably, the floodwater in the defenses was contaminated, with the inevitable result of food poisoning and diarrhea, causing a vicious spiral of deterioration.
The mud sucked at his feet, slowing him down. He
had not slept properly since the siege started and he was tiring. Hawthorn was in the trench, sniping on the Terran position. He had his long hunting rifle on the lip of the trench and was squinting down the site. Hawthorn adjusted his aim fractionally and fired.
“Did you get him,” Allenson asked.
“Who knows?” Hawthorn replied, rhetorically. “Probably not, they fire a few quick shots and then change position. I am shooting blind.”
“Can’t we suppress the Terran fire, somehow?” Allenson asked. “The men are tired, dirty and hungry. They haven’t had a hot meal since this harassment started.”
“No.” Hawthorn replied, succinctly.
“How about using Mansingh’s cannon?” Allenson asked.
“Daren’t risk it,” Hawthorn replied. It’s the only weapon that keeps the Terran transports grounded. We are finished if they get into the air. They would shoot us to pieces with their bow cannon. Fortunately, they don’t seem able to dismount them. Mansingh’s cannon is doing its job just by continuing to exist.”
“Surely the risk to the cannon from laserrifle fire is minimal?” Allenson asked, unsure why Hawthorn was so uncharacteristically timid.
“Our lasercannon is a big fat target. We’d have to mount it right out in the open to hit the Terrans. One lucky shot is all it would take,” Hawthorn said. “You want to take the risk?”
The question was rhetorical and did not require an answer.
“The Terrans have a new tactic?” Hawthorn said, cryptically.
He checked a time counter.
“That should be long enough. Give us a hand, trooper,” Hawthorn said. “And keep your bloody head down.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hawthorn reached down into the mud and pulled a body up by the scruff of the neck. A soldier helped him shove the corpse upwards, until it projected out of the trench almost to the waist.
“Come one, little fishy, take the bait,” Hawthorn said.
The corpse exploded with a large orange flash. Its upper chest disappeared in a spray of burnt flesh. The head dropped down into the trench. Allenson automatically caught it. The eyes looked surprised. Allenson threw the head away into no man’s land.