“From orbit?” Fletcher looked sharply over at Wilcox, then met the faces of the other soldiers from the fort.
“That’s right,” Wilcox said, his concern at this change of demeanor mirroring Christine’s own. “And thanks to you soldiers locking the enemy out, there’s nothing the fort can do about it.”
Fletcher shook his head. “Sir, the Verdun can’t attack. She’ll be destroyed.”
Wilcox shifted uncomfortably. “The captain’s confident she can handle the ships in orbit. And as for the fort, like I already said—”
“No,” Fletcher shook his head emphatically. “You don’t understand.”
Dread washed through Christine as it came to her. “Private,” she said, pulling Gosse with her as she stepped to face Fletcher. “Where is the colonel?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tom paced back and forth across the command center’s pitted floor, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Something about this wasn’t right. He stopped in his tracks, his eyes moving over the small holes gouged out of the room’s walls by bullets and grenade shrapnel, past the blood spatters still visible on the concrete walls, the barricade that his warriors had installed at the blasted-out doorway. He’d seen these battle scars every day since the fort had fallen to his forces, and yet they’d never bothered him before. Now they seemed to press in on him from all sides, whispering of desperate fighting and fierce violence.
Something was definitely not right.
“Has the most recent patrol come back yet?” Tom turned on his heel to look at Eugene, who was sitting at the radio operator’s console, fiddling his thumbs.
The fort’s radio had finally been repaired along with its computer, though the set’s decryption functions were gone for good.
The young man looked up, clearly bored with his job. “Yes, about ten minutes ago.”
“And they didn’t encounter anything?”
“Not a thing.” Eugene grinned. “I think maybe our enemies have found a hole to hide in.”
Tom wanted to roll his eyes at the young man’s bravado, but chose instead to look over at the technicians hunched over the silo command console. They were down to the last mechanical components of the silo lockout now. Just a few more hours, and they’d be in business — none too soon for Tom’s tastes.
Ever since the fort had fallen, fully half of the patrols he’d sent to locate the remaining military forces in the area had been systematically wiped out, their attackers vanishing into thick woods and leaving no survivors. Tom had watched helplessly as patrol after patrol had failed to return, steadily whittling down his garrison. The certainty of death for any man or woman who went on patrol had seemed so great that Tom had feared his people would start refusing to leave the fort.
Then suddenly the ambushes had stopped. Not a single patrol had been attacked the entire day. Not that Tom minded that. He was glad to not lose any more of his people. Still, something about it bothered him. It made no sense for the enemy to abandon tactics that had been working for him.
They were up to something. The situation had changed somehow, and their enemy was choosing a new way to fight.
“Don’t let this lack of fighting trick you,” Tom said, crossing his arms. “Until every Alliance soldier on the planet is killed or captured, they’re still dangerous.”
Eugene looked back down at the radio console, his expression that of a scolded child.
Tom thought for a moment, then took a step closer to Eugene, his mind made up. “Call all remaining patrols into the fort. Cancel any further searches.”
“What?” Eugene spun back around.
Tom felt the eyes of everyone in the command center turn toward him.
“Shouldn’t we continue searching for the Alliance forces?” The Supervisor’s voice carried over from near the door. “Surely you aren’t giving up on finding them. That would hardly serve our movement.”
Tom turned, saw the Supervisor standing with his arms crossed, his face a smiling mask. Ever since their confrontation, the man had been polite and submissive, though the veiled aggression in his words told Tom that Smith was, as usual, not displaying his true self.
“I think they are coming for us.” Tom lifted his chin. “The only reasons they could have ceased their ambushes are to either run away or to launch some other kind of attack. They have nowhere to run, so they must be planning an assault. I won’t make the same mistake as the previous occupants of this fort and leave it undefended.”
“Speculation.” The Supervisor’s smile broadened, his eyes glittering in the dim light.
“Perhaps. But I won’t take the risk.” For about the hundredth time, Tom wished that he and his people had been able to seize the command center before the enemy had managed to destroy the fort radio’s decryption computer. It would be so much easier to know what was going on if they could listen in on the Alliance channels and hear the enemy’s radio chatter. But radio or no, Tom trusted his instincts.
“As you wish.” The Supervisor’s smile became even wider, if that was possible.
Tom held the Supervisor’s gaze for a second before turning back to Eugene. “Call the patrols in.”
Eugene nodded, raised the handset to his mouth, and began to relay Tom’s orders. Tom ignored the prickling on the back of his neck that told him the Supervisor was still watching him.
He walked about the room, checking on the other consoles and the men and women behind them, making a show of not caring about the Supervisor’s gaze.
Let Smith glare if he wanted. The Alliance forces were coming — Tom was sure of it. And when they did, he would be ready for them, regardless of whether the Supervisor agreed or not.
“The Verdun is going to be destroyed. There’s no way around that if we stay here.” Wilcox leaned forward onto the table in the center of the bunker’s radio room, searching out the eyes of the gathered ranger and marine officers one by one.
Gordon met his gaze, saw the same veiled fear, the same desperation.
Their ship, their friends, were headed toward certain death.
They had spent the better part of the day caring for and debriefing the survivors from the fort’s command staff. They’d been in bad shape — hungry, dehydrated, and terrified. The wounded woman, a Corporal Cassas, probably wouldn’t have lasted much longer without treatment, according to Sergeant Curry, who’d rushed her to the infirmary immediately.
Wilcox had insisted on debriefing the survivors at once, and they’d finally learned the full, terrible truth about their situation.
“Yesterday, we heard fighting, and we saw one of the ranger units taking down a group of enemies,” Fletcher had explained, stopping frequently to gulp from a fresh water canteen.
“We figured we’d follow the unit — that’s how we found you.”
“That was good thinking.” Wilcox had put a hand on Fletcher’s shoulder. “But what about the colonel?”
Fletcher had almost turned red from anger, and the other gathered survivors had muttered insults under their breath that even Gordon, with all his years in the marines, had never heard.
“He wanted to head for the docks, to get off Kensington. We knew our duty and insisted we find you. He was behind us, and then…” Fletcher had taken another drink, then shook his head.
“He slipped away,” Private Gram had said, wincing as Captain Flores applied antiseptic to a cut on his arm, her new cornet rank pin on her collar. “We doubled back to find him and saw him being carried away by a group of enemies. The bastard couldn’t even desert without being captured.”
“Are you absolutely sure he’d give away the silo codes?” The urgency in Wilcox’s voice had matched Gordon’s rising fears.
“Are you kidding?” Flores had looked up from Gram’s arm, her face drawn into a grim frown. “If they do more than tickle him and insult his mama, he’ll cave.”
Flores and Wilcox had held each other’s gaze for a minute before Wilcox had nodded. Gordon had almost wanted to laugh. Co
nsidering how adversarial they had been at the start of this mess, they had become one hell of a team, relying closely on each other’s thoughts and opinions.
“Major?” Wilcox had turned to look at Gordon, who had understood his question without asking.
“I agree,” Gordon had said, raising his chin. “We have no other choice.”
Wilcox had nodded, then ordered Flores to gather the officers in the radio room for a briefing.
“Sir, you can’t give up on the Verdun.” Lieutenant Arnot’s voice brought Gordon back to the present. The young lieutenant shot up from his chair and leaned forward over the map on the table, which was now covered with red x-marks that showed where various enemy groups had been caught and destroyed. “She may still be able to fight through it. She’s a ship of the line and she—”
“Is outnumbered, outgunned, and still not back in one piece after our last engagement.” Gordon interrupted Arnot, shaking his head. As much as he wished the younger man were correct, there was just no way. “Even partially dismantled and without all its silos, the fort’s missiles pose a major risk.”
Arnot glared, despair turning into anger. Gordon could understand that. How he wished that he could physically rip apart every damn hostile on the planet with his bare hands rather than let them take a shot at the Verdun.
“If it were just the enemy fleet, that would be one thing.” Wilcox’s calm, collected voice filled the room. “But it will be facing a fleet and a planetary defense system. Either one of those would be a challenge for a fully operational ship. But together…”
“There has to be a way to warn them.” It was Lieutenant Perez who stood up now, squaring his shoulders with Wilcox.
Flores shook her head, looking across the table at Perez. “This bunker’s radio won’t reach much past orbit. By then it would be too late.”
“But we can’t just give up.” Lieutenant Squires held out his hands in exasperation, looking around at the other officers. “I think I can vouch for all of us, rangers included, that we aren’t going to let the bastards get your ship.”
Gordon smiled, saw Wilcox do the same. “We’re glad to hear it, Mr. Squires, because you’re going to get your chance.”
Wilcox took a long, steady breath. “We’re assaulting the fort.”
Murmurs rippled around the room as the officers looked at one another, their faces expressing fear, disbelief.
“Me and my big mouth,” Squires muttered.
Wilcox met Gordon’s eyes again. “Major.”
Gordon stepped to the map table and drew his bayonet from his belt, remembering the plan that he and Wilcox had hammered out. “We’re going to split our force into two sections. The first will consist of Lieutenant Ames’ pack howitzers and Mahoney’s heavy weapons platoon, plus two ranger rifle platoons. This group, under my command, will feint a frontal attack from the ravine to the north of the fort, then retire three miles to the rear, letting the enemy stay close enough behind them to keep them interested.” Gordon traced the bayonet tip from the greenish splotch that represented the wooded ravine toward a set of hills above a clearing. “Our goal is to draw the fort garrison out and keep them tied up in this rough terrain to the northwest, where our howitzers and heavy weapons will be in a prepared position waiting to tear them up. As soon as they enter this clearing, we light them up.”
Gordon drew the bayonet over to the southwest, then tapped lightly against another green splotch of forest. “The other group — that’s two ranger rifle platoons and our three marine platoons — will attack from here, forcing the front gate. We figure they’ll expect us to try the counterscarp bunkers, since we know that’s how they got in.”
Gordon looked up, saw the skeptical stares of the officers in front of him. He didn’t blame them. It was a risky plan, and there were a hundred reasons it could fail. But what choice did they have?
“Those machine gun turrets on the fort’s superstructure can put out a shit ton of fire.” Flores put her pointer finger on the grey block that represented the fort. “We’d be mowed down before we could make it across.”
Lieutenant Arnot massaged his temple, clearly trying to control his temper. “Why not attack the silos directly?”
Flores straightened up. “They’re built directly into the sheer wall of the mountainside, and well under the fort’s guns. You can’t hit those silos with the fort intact.”
Wilcox shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but we have no other choice. If the Verdun is destroyed, we’re stranded here indefinitely and the enemy will be able to consolidate their position here before any Alliance reinforcements arrive. We can’t hide forever. The way I see it, we only have one choice. Be hunted down eventually or—”
“Or go down in a blaze of glory.” Flores grinned ruefully. “I suppose I know which one we’d all prefer.”
“We’re not going down, Captain.” Gordon fiddled with the bayonet in his hands. “Our hope is that the distracting force will draw enough fire to allow the main attack to cross much of the distance to the main gate without receiving fire. When they send out their garrison and start seeing their friends shelled, I think their attention will be divided. Their training and discipline is poor.” Gordon tried to put all the confidence he had into his voice, tried to conceal his own doubts about the plan.
There was silence for a minute as the other officers considered Gordon’s words and rejected them, though they did a good job of pretending to agree.
Flores pursed her lips. “All right then. We’ll give it the best damn try we can.”
“Shells,” Wilcox said.
Everyone looked at him.
“Sir?” Flores raised an eyebrow.
“Shells,” Wilcox said again, a grin spreading over his face. “You said the fort’s turrets would be seeing their friends get shelled.”
Gordon stared back at Wilcox, perplexed. “Uh, yes, sir.”
“Why not shell the turrets themselves?” Wilcox looked at Flores. “Captain, what do those turrets do under fire?”
Flores’ eyebrows went higher. “You know this already. They’re designed to eclipse into the superstructure to protect them from enemy fire. The crew can raise them to fire, then drop them again to reload.”
Gordon had seen the process once when he’d been in field training near one of these old outpost forts. The garrison had been able to raise their artillery turret, fire, and lower it again within a span of six seconds.
“Exactly.” Wilcox straightened up, paced around, came back to the same place, seemingly oblivious to the looks he was getting from everyone around him. “And if they’re under sustained fire?”
“Then they’d leave them retracted. That’s what you do under orbital bombardment, anyway.”
“And they can’t shoot if they’re retracted.”
Gordon met Wilcox’s eyes as comprehension dawned in him. It was so damn simple! He felt a grin spread over his face.
“There’s a problem,” Flores continued, looking between Gordon and Wilcox. “Our pack howitzers throw a 75mm shell, and we only have three of them. They won’t dent one of those turrets, even in the raised position.”
“They don’t know that,” Wilcox said.
There was a pause, and then Flores was grinning as well.
“Okay, somebody explain what the hell is going on.” Squires snapped his fingers in front of Flores’ face.
Gordon pointed his bayonet back at the fort. “The garrison probably has little experience or education about these kinds of forts. They’ll have figured out by now that the turrets retract, but they won’t know the kind of fire they can take.”
“A seventy-five won’t punch through those turrets, but it makes a ton of noise,” Flores said, finishing Gordon’s thoughts.
“And we use this to our advantage how?” Squires turned to face Wilcox.
“When we make our distracting attack, we hit the fort directly with artillery fire.” Wilcox tapped his finger on the fort. While their
turrets are down, the main attack force rushes the gate unscathed. We can have the artillery take out their radio antenna as well, cut the garrison off from the fort, and keep them confused.”
The rest of the officers nodded, and the mood in the room lightened. This was not as impossible as it seemed.
“Timing and precision will be everything. This will be way closer than danger-close.” Wilcox looked over at Ames, who was staring at the map from where he was seated between Colion and Rankin. “You know your artillery crews best, Lieutenant. Can they do it?”
All eyes were on Ames as he examined the map in silence, his blue eyes slightly squinted. He looked up at Flores, then over to Wilcox. “Yes sir, they can.”
“Hell, yes, they can,” Flores said, a lopsided grin on her face.
“That’s what I like to hear.” Wilcox straightened up, the pride on his face obvious. Gordon had to admit that, despite everything that happened, this group of rangers and marines was one hell of a fighting force. As Wilcox continued speaking, he silently wished that they’d all survive to be rewarded for it.
“Captain Flores and Lieutenant Squires’ platoons will be with the marines,” Wilcox was saying. “We’ll need your knowledge of the fort when we’re inside. That leaves Lieutenants Rankin and Garrett and their platoons with Major Osterman.”
There was a chorus of “Yes sirs.”
Gordon couldn’t help but frown. He hated the idea of being separated from his marines, but given the need for strong leadership with the distracting force, it had made sense to put a command officer in charge.
“I don’t think I need to remind you that if there is fighting in the fort, it’ll be tight quarters, urban-style warfare.” Wilcox looked between the ranger officers, his brow slightly furrowed. “The marines will have more experience with that kind of fighting. Look to them if you need help.”
“You can count on us, sir,” Flores said.
Wilcox took a deep breath, let silence hang in the air for a second. “Alright then. Get your troops and equipment ready. The Verdun gets here tomorrow night, and we won’t take that fort on our asses.”
Outpost Page 24