“What about the wounded?” Destry asked.
“Leave them here in a clearly marked hospital tent,” Allenson replied. “We are not facing Riders, gentlemen. The Terrans are not barbarians.”
* * *
Neither Mansingh nor Allenson proved to be absolutely correct. Given the choice of pushing on, retreating or making a mass attack on the Militia base, the Terran commander found a fourth option. Most of the Terran convoy stayed grounded, but three trains with two supply vehicles lifted in tight formation escorted by every gunship the Terrans could muster. The assault force travelled laboriously up the chasm.
Allenson recognized the logic of the Terran plan. They couldn’t get enough men into the gunships alone to guarantee success in a ground attack on the Militia base, but adding three train troop transports gave the assault force a strength of around four thousand men. Allenson was down to about six hundred, perhaps eight if he added the walking wounded and battle-shocked. The gunships should be able to mount a close protection on just three trains. Meanwhile, the bulk of the convoy was perfectly safe on the ground behind its automated defenses.
The Terrans had come up with a perfectly workable plan but Allenson felt a surge of excitement. The enemy had split his command in the face of the enemy, apparently known for some reason to the regulars as “doing a Custer”, just as Chernokovsky had done at the second battle of Larissa. He had a chance to defeat the Terrans in detail. The slow speed of the Terran assault force gave him time, time to reorganize and plan an ambush.
* * *
There were no stones, flat or otherwise on Slimeball, but Allenson spun a crust of syncrete that had flaked off the edge of the landing apron. It bounced once on the slimy surface of the sea before submarining with a plop. The viscous surface quickly damped down the resulting ripples.
“Do you have a plan yet?” Hawthorn asked, from behind him.
“Hallo, Hawthorn, I didn’t hear you arrive,” Allenson replied.
“That’s because I did not want to disrupt the Colonel’s mighty thought processes,” Hawthorn said.
“A plan—well—I intend to attack,” Allenson said.
“I assumed that,” Hawthorn replied. “The question is how.”
“I considered a surprise attack on the assault force’s base,” Allenson said.
“Bloody suicide,” Hawthorn interrupted him.
“And rejected it as impractical,” Allenson said, ignoring the interruption.
“Damn right,” Hawthorn said. “An attack on a base that undoubtedly has automatic defenses, while outnumbered four or five to one. Please, we’re good, but no one’s that good.”
“So we hit them in the chasm, but not pinprick attacks this time. There are too many escorts for just three trains for that strategy to work. I intend to hit them in regiment strength in two separated waves. The first will go for the trains.”
“Why the trains, surely the escorts should be the first target?” Hawthorn asked.
“No there are too many. We lighten all the frames and the first wave goes in against the trains in independent squadrons. I want an endless hit and run. Keep dragging the gunships after you. Make the bastards sweat. Exhaust the crews, and drain the batteries. It would be a positive advantage if you can kill some of the troops on the trains, but it is not your primary goal. Withdraw when your men tire. We can’t afford too many casualties.”
“So, I am to command the first wave,” Hawthorn said, with satisfaction.
“Unless you can think of someone better?” Allenson asked.
“No,” Hawthorn replied, succinctly.
Hawthorn had many vices but they did not include false modesty.
“I will lead the second wave. We will go after the escorts and kill the bastard. They will be tired and low on power and ammo, while we will be fresh. The escorts are the key to this, not the troop trains. Without escorts the trains are near helpless.”
“What a disgustingly evil plan,” Hawthorn said.
Allenson flushed. “If you think it stains our honor not to fight fairly . . .”
“Bugger our honor,” Hawthorn replied, cutting in. “I like to win, and it’s a welcome bonus if I have a reasonable chance of survival while doing so. Fair fights are for the mentally retarded.”
* * *
Allenson gave the combat companies another day’s rest while the reserve evacuated the camp. By that time the Terran assault force had set up base camp on a nearby world for their supply vehicles. This meant the tired Militiamen had short transit times to the combat zone. He launched the attack when his scouts reported that the assault force had entered the chasm.
Battlegroup Allenson gave Battlegroup Hawthorn an hour’s start before phasing into the Continuum. They entered the chasm and pedalled down the main channel, encountering the Terran assault force barely an hour later. The three trains were linked into a single structure moving slowly along the eddy back currents near the chasm wall. The long line of cars snaked and rotated around a constantly changing center joint of mass, buffeted by turbulence.
Hawthorn’s squadrons weaved in and around the cars, sniping at the crews. They used the chasm wall like a smokescreen, retreating through it when pressed only to reappear unexpectedly further along. Gunships chased up and down the line, trying to seal off each new incursion. From a distance the battle looked like wasps around a hive.
The first wave squadrons disengaged and withdrew when they spotted Allenson’s force. Instead of retreating out of the chasm, they withdrew up the eddy channels, pursued by the bolder gunship crews. Some of the gunship crews spotted Allenson’s frames and fled but others kept going, fixated on their apparently fleeing foe.
Allenson lead his frames down the center of the chasm until they were alongside the pursuit. In a single skirmish line, his squadrons turned and sliced into the outnumbered gunships, who broke and fled in all directions.
A gunship attacked the element on his left. It immediately turned right, leading the enemy across Allenson’s front. He slid left crossing its rear, firing all his pistols into the hull, then he dropped back to reload while his wingman shot up the vehicle. The gunship tried to evade by breaking hard and turning in to his wingman, who backed off from the lethal heavy gun on the bow. This presented the gunship’s rear to the original element, who took full advantage of the opportunity. The gunship’s turn degenerated into a spiral and it spun out of control into the chasm wall.
* * *
Allenson’s flight reformed into a finger four and pulled back into the center of the chasm to reload. He checked the area for hostiles but the flight was alone. That was something that happened in Continuum combat. One minute you were surrounded by other frames, both friendly and enemy and the next, there was nothing. Rearmed he led the flight down-chasm to reengage.
Elements and flights ducked and weaved around the gunships in defensive circles. Some of Hawthorn’s force had reengaged, ignoring orders. No doubt they had followed Hawthorn’s example.
Ahead, six gunships formed a tight wheel that was rotating just fast enough to maintain steerage way and hold formation. The wheel turned clockwise so the gunners were on the outside, giving the maximum field of fire for their main weapon. A militia element inserted itself into the wheel behind a gunship shooting into the backs of the pedallers. The next gunship in the line closed up and fired the multiple shot heavy spring gun into the wingman in a single burst. The frames field collapsed and it dropped out of the Continuum. Allenson hoped the pilot had been killed by a bolt. He would have an unpleasant death if still alive when he appeared unprotected in realspace.
Allenson slid below the plane of the wheel and made a right angled attack on a gunship aiming for the gunner, who stood up to return fire. Allenson’s frame-field flared when a bolt passed through, clanging off the side of a storage unit without causing critical damage. He carried on into the center of the wheel, out of the field of fire. He checked behind. His wingman and another element followed him.
He
pedalled across the diameter of the circle and turned anticlockwise, running around the inside of the wheel firing at the pilots as he passed each gunship. By the time he reached the third in line the wheel disintegrated, gunships breaking in all directions. Militia frames pounced.
Allenson’s attack would have been suicidal if all the Terran pilots had kept their nerve, and rotated to bring their guns to bear inside the wheel, but he gambled on someone panicking and breaking formation. When they did, it was every man for himself, conditions that favored the manoeuvrable Militia frames.
’Streamer flights and elements piled in, harassing gunships from multiple sides, attriting the crews. Gunships fled for the illusory safety of the triple train formation. Frames followed all the way, weaving and ducking. The train crews fired into the melee, more likely to hit their own gunships than the ’Streamers.
Allenson drew back to assess the situation. The remaining gunships, and there were not that many, hung close in to the troop trains for protection, in a reversal of roles. ’Streamers engaged the train crews, firing into the galleries. A militiaman sneaked in close and tossed a Molotov in through a gallery window. Allenson recognized Hawthorn’s distinctive field streamers.
This was turning into a battle of attrition with the troopers on the train, something Allenson wanted to avoid. He had no replacements and couldn’t take heavy casualties without destroying what remained of his own combat capability. He blipped his frame, signaling withdrawal. Squadron and flight leaders repeated the signal and the ’Streamers withdrew up the chasm. The demoralized crews of the surviving gunships let them go unmolested.
They exited the chasm near their old base. Destry had scouts waiting to guide them through the Continuum to their temporary base. Most of Hawthorn’s squadrons had already grounded when they arrived. The base was on a rocky crag projecting out of a swampy rainforest. It was hardly ideal, there was no water for one thing, but at least they could not be overlooked or surprised.
The air around Fort Crag, as the troops christened it, was heavy with the smell of mould and fungal spores. Destry insisted that they were harmless but Allenson was not so sure. However, he anticipated a short stay. It’s not as if they intended to live there. Nevertheless, they were still on Fort Crag two days later and nothing had happened.
* * *
“Any word from the scouts?” Allenson asked.
“No,” Hawthorn replied. “The Terrans are just sitting there on Slimeball.”
The Terrans had captured Slimeball unopposed. As far as Allenson was concerned, they were welcome to it.
“Why don’t they come after us?” Destry asked. “They still outnumber us considerably and our men are exhausted. We are also running out of bolts, just to add to our problems. It would be touch and go whether we could force the troop transports down again.”
“Yes, but they don’t know that,” Mansingh replied. “The enemy is always ten feet tall. They are probably judging our combat capability on earlier battles. They must have lost two thirds of their gunships so they probably think they risk annihilation if they lift.”
“Whereas we risk destruction if we attack their camp at Slimeball. They not only outnumber us but they have automatics on point defense. You may recall, gentleman, that we chose to put the base on Slimeball because it offered no convenient landing and assembly point for an attacker,” Destry said.
Allenson felt numb. His brain refused to work. He listened to the discussion without comment, letting it slide over him like a gentle breeze.
Rutchett moved and winced. A bolt broke his left arm in the last battle. It was rigged up in a healing pod with pain suppressors but you could not remove all sensation. A patient could do real damage to a limb that way. The pod allowed him to move at the elbow and shoulder to keep the joints from seizing so some degree of discomfort was inevitable.
“So we have a standoff, which suits us just fine” Rutchett said. “Our job was to stop the Terrans reaching Fort Revenge before Levitt, not destroy them.”
“True,” Mansingh said, “And I doubt the Terran main force will proceed until they receive word that we have been destroyed. They have no gunships at all. The Terran commander is probably having nightmare visions of running into a massed frame attack without any escorts to protect his transports.”
“So we sit and wait it out,” Rutchett said. He moved his arm around until the pod rested on a side table.
“That might work,” Mansingh said, doubtfully.
“You sound unconvinced,” Rutchett said.
“Well, it occurs to me that if we are no longer attacking, the Terrans on Slimeball might conclude that they have us treed, and send a messenger to tell the main force that they can resume down chasm to Larissa,” Mansingh said.
There was a long silence
Allenson ran his hand through his hair. He was sick of the arguments. He was sick of the war. The thought that the enemy had them pinned and that it had all been for nothing was intolerable. He wanted an end, one way or the other, right now.
Hawthorn put his hands behind his head and tilted his chair back. He gave a shark-like grin.
“I dunnow, all great military strategists and none of you play Cheat,” He said, referring to a popular bar game. “I must invite you to a little game sometime. Bring plenty of cash as I don’t take IOUs.”
They gave him a blank look.
“Look,” Hawthorn said. “In Cheat what matters is not what cards you have in your hand, but what cards you can psych your opponent in believing you have. We need to convince the Terrans that we are still a major threat—yes?”
“That would be good,” Allenson replied, not without sarcasm.
“And we can’t attack their combat base because it is too well protected, yes?”
“Yes,” Allenson replied again, irritated at playing the straight man. He was on a very short fuse. “So?”
“So, why don’t we shoot up the assault forces supply depot? My scouts report that it is only lightly manned by troops, although it has air-defense automatics. Most of the people there are civilians and logistic troops.”
“But it’s not really a military target,” Mansingh said. “It’s . . .” He stopped.
“Helpless?” Hawthorn asked. He shook his head. “You bloody officers and gentlemen will be the death of me. Yes, it’s helpless. When attacked, they will send messengers to scream for help from the combat force on Slimeball and, if we are lucky, the Terran main force. Believe me, estimates of our numbers and ferocity will lose nothing in the telling.”
Hawthorn let his chair fall back on all fours with a thud and lit up a cigarette. He shut his eyes and blew smoke rings up to the roof of the tent.
Allenson gazed at Hawthorn in admiration. Lethargy and despair dropped from his shoulders. He felt revitalized.
“We can assemble about four hundred effectives for the raid. We will take only laserifles, chargers and combat rations. Hawthorn’s scouts will have to guide us into landing grounds that are close to the base, but outside of the point defense zone. Any questions?” Allenson asked.
“Yes,” Destry said. “One way or another, this is likely to be our last battle of the war, and I wish to participate. I suggest that Major Rutchett and I swap duties, as he is wounded. He commands the base and I command his company.”
“Now wait a minute,” Rutchett said, hotly. He half rose, winced, and sat down again.
“Major Destry’s right, and you know it, Pietr,” Allenson said, using Rutchett’s personal name to soften the blow.
“I suppose so, but you look after my company, Destry.”
“You have my word,” Destry replied.
* * *
Allenson lay on his stomach and surveyed the Terran camp though his datapad. The Terrans had chosen a flat prairie, presumably to give a free field of fire to the automatics. The only problem with that was that the autos had a minimum angle of depression that was well above the height of a man.
Two big supply transports sat on wide
skids sunk deep into the ground, with bunkers in a circle around them. Wheeled tractors and trailers lay destroyed around the camp. One still burned, greasy smoke curling into the air. Every so often, a malfunctioning automatic identified the smoke as an attacker and fired at it, laser bolts whipping the smoke on convection currents.
The Militia were concentrated one side of the camp where a slight incline gave them an angle of fire but was under the Terran autos field of fire. They shot up the base, killing anything that moved. After three days of laserifle bombardment, little did move. The Terrans were driven into their bunkers. The Militia shot up the tracking equipment on the autos. Allenson doubted that any of them were working properly but it would be foolish to ask someone to find out the hard way. They shot through the open hatches on the transports, trying to set them alight. Once or twice they got a fire going but it soon went out. Arson was not as easy as it appeared.
The Terrans abandoned the crew-served heavy weapons on top of the bunkers when the heavy rain of laser fire whittled down the crews, so the militia shot at the weapons instead. They were a difficult target but you were going to damage something if you fired enough rounds.
Conditions within the bunkers must be getting unpleasant. A handful of Terrans had fled into the prairie from the unguarded side. Allenson let them go. It would have suited him if the whole garrison ran away. There was nowhere for them to go. He did call massed fire onto anyone trying to leave by frame. It would have been disastrous if enemy reinforcements arrived prematurely. Escape attempts by frame stopped after half a dozen spectacular explosions. Maybe they had run out of frames. More likely, they had run out of men with guts.
Defensive fire had dwindled to the odd pot-shot.
Allenson was tired. He was so tired that his joints didn’t ache anymore from lying on the hard ground. He hadn’t slept properly for days. He was dirty and sweaty, and an aromatic oil in the vegetation had set off a rash on his face and arms that itched horribly. Scratching made it worse. He had had enough.
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 41