by Rick Shelley
A more businesslike way to run a contract, even if we do end up with one hell of a pitched battle, Lon thought after that briefing. No do-or-die heroics, no taking impossible orders from the contracting government.
Twenty hours before the scheduled move from the battalion's second camp, it started to rain. For the first few hours it came as a series of isolated showers. Then the rain became constant, and heavier, pushed by a thirty-mile-per-hour wind. Before the rain, the daytime highs had been in me upper seventies. The day of the rain, the temperature never got above fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit, and by sunset, when the battalion broke camp, the temperature had fallen to forty-eight.
"So much for your 'another tropical paradise,' Phip," Lon mentioned while the folded tents were being stacked.
"I don't mind the chill," Phip replied, wiping water from the faceplate of his helmet, "but I could sure do without the ice water. How long is this stuff supposed to keep coming?"
"At least through the night," Lon said. "Maybe through tomorrow morning, too."
"Great. Just great." Phip moved away, shaking his head.
Nothing wrong with a little rain, Lon thought, grinning behind the cover of his visor. Until you have to sleep in three inches of water and mud.
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The battalion formed up by company and used darkness and the high forest to cover their movement from any spy satellites that might still be operational. Colonel Black set a hard pace. His goal was for the battalion to cover fifteen miles—most of it severely uphill—by dawn. Ten-minute breaks each hour were all he permitted. The rain continued, with only a few short halts. In the morning, the battalion made camp in the rain, the men taking what care they could to stretch tarps above them when they settled in to try to sleep for a few hours.
"Give us tents when it's nice and sunny, then take them away when the weather gets rotten,"
Girana said as he got ready to settle in himself for three hours. Either he or Weil Jorgen would be awake, on duty, at all times. The men would stand watch one hour in three, even though the enemy was—supposedly—still more than twenty miles away.
"Just to let us know this isn't a lark," Lon replied. "There are good trees overhead to keep off the worst of it, and to hide us. Try to keep the men from frolicking out in the open, in case there's anyone watching."
"I've already told them to keep their heads down. You sound like you enjoy this," Tebba accused.
"It could be worse, Tebba. This could be snow and sleet and the temperature sixty degrees colder. Or it could be as steamy as New Bali." Lon could not give himself the "pleasure" of trying to sleep yet. There was a battalion officers' call first. Colonel Black wanted to share
the latest information.
"We'll stay put today," he said after congratulating his officers on the distance they had covered. ' 'Move another eight miles after dark, then set up and wait for East. The good news is that the rain should end before noon. The bad news is that it doesn't look as if the temperature's going to get any warmer. 'Unseasonably cool' is how the meteorologist put it.
Maybe forty for the low tonight. We can deal with that even though we can't have any open fires." The thermal insulation of DMC battledress would hold in body heat. Helmet faceplates would keep any
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breeze from faces. Gloves. "After your men have had their first round of sleep, put them to cleaning weapons. We're getting close enough that the chance of the enemy pulling a surprise can't be ruled out, no matter how good we think our intelligence is."
The colonel paused before he added, "The way things look now, we could be seeing combat not much more than twenty-four hours from now. I want us as ready as possible."
Despite his earlier show of cheerfulness, Lon did not manage any sleep while the rain continued. It eased off by midmorning and was over before noon, but the ground remained wet, water continued to drip from the tree he had his bedroll under, and the sky remained threatening well into the afternoon. He did manage to doze, off and on, but never anything that was satisfying or restful. He was almost relieved when it was time to pack his bedroll and get ready for the evening's march.
The battalion did not make as good time the second night. The pace was slower and the breaks longer. Colonel Black did not push his men. It helped that they had little more than half as far to go. The sky started to clear after sunset, too late for there to be any hint of the air show to the west. / don't think even that would have picked me up tonight, Lon conceded.
When they finally reached their destination, a self-heating meal was welcome more for the warmth of the food than for its taste. The battalion ate before it started preparing defensive positions and planting electronic snoops and land mines farther out, before scouting patrols were sent off to get a better view of the land than they could get simply from photographs taken from orbit.
"We'll be on half-and-half watches," Lon told his platoon sergeants. ' 'With a little luck everyone might get two hours of sleep before trouble reaches us." And before anyone could try to get that minimal ration of sleep, foxholes had to be dug, other defensive preparations taken.
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"Don't let anyone slack off just because we haven't heard a shot yet."
Lon cleaned his own rifle and pistol for the second time in sixteen hours. Then, once his men had their emplacements ready, Lon finally allowed himself a chance to rest. To wait. Sleep came, but it was not particularly restful.
Colonel Flowers and the commander of the Aldrin West forces had chosen their positions carefully—a bucket into which East's invading army was expected to funnel. Flowers' 2nd Battalion lined the bottom of the bucket, with one battalion of Wester soldiers on their right.
The rest of the Wester battalions committed to this battle were along the south side of the bucket, with two of the other DMC battalions on the north. The final mercenary battalion, 4th, was behind the lines as a reserve. The Dirigenter ships were placed to give the best possible intelligence of the anticipated battlefield from above, with two shuttles providing closer coverage—staying thirty thousand feet up and ten miles away laterally.
"I've just come from battalion," Captain Orlis told his lieutenants. "The enemy shows no sign that they suspect we're here. They are moving cautiously, but that's to be expected, since West has been harassing them since they reached the continental divide six weeks ago.
"They're moving down this ravine toward us, one platoon in front, most of a company two hundred yards back, and the bulk of their force another two hundred yards behind them.
They have a series of patrols out on either side, from squad to platoon in strength. Five miles behind the main force they have a supply train—some small floaters, more pack animals—guarded by a battalion of infantry. The total force is between eight and ten thousand—according to the intelligence we have."
"Pack animals?" Carl Hoper asked, incredulous.
Orlis nodded. "Makes a certain kind of sense. I'm sur-79
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prised they've been able to get any floaters at all across the mountains. There are no roads, no improved stretches of ground. Shows that they did their preparatory work well, mapping out a route that would let them use at least a few trucks."
"If they've got good dispersal, scouts, and flankers, then we're not going to have tactical surprise against the main force, are we?" Lon asked.
"Probably not," Orlis agreed. "We're going to try to neutralize the flankers silently, but that would be iffy even if our people were doing it on both sides, but with West handling things on the south, I can't see it happening. There's almost certain to be an alarm. But there may be a certain amount of confusion on East's side of the action. They've had alarms enough. We hope they'll think it's just another harassing raid and keep coming. We let the point come all the way down the funnel, until we can spit in their faces if necessary, holding off any action until the battalions o
n either side take the enemy main force under fire."
"There's no place between here and there where that force could detour to one side or the other, right?" Hoper asked.
"Not and take their vehicles along," Orlis said.
Lon shrugged. We'd abandon vehicles if we had to, without a second thought. But they 've brought them this far. It might not be an easy decision to make. "The pack animals they're using—native or from Earth?"
"I don't know," Orlis said. "The reports say they're equine in appearance, but whether that means horses, mules, burros, or something similar that developed here is anybody's guess."
"It could make a difference." Lon thought he had heard something approaching exasperation in Orlis's voice. "Horses, mules, and burros have different capabilities, and might react differently to the, ah, stress of a firefight. The training and treatment they've had would influence that too, of course."
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"You mean stampede the supply animals to starve out the soldiers?'' Hoper asked.
Lon shrugged. "I hadn't thought it that far through. It might be possible, add a little confusion if nothing else."
Orlis stared at Lon, then said, "I'll pass your thoughts up the line, just in case. I guess there have been more farfetched ideas that proved useful, but I can't think of any offhand."
I'm not used to sitting still and waiting for an enemy to walk up, Lon thought a couple of hours later. We always try to be mobile, to spring up on the enemy where they don't expect us. Not this. Waiting with an outward show of calmness was not easy. The act required concentration. But he knew the importance of showing his men that he was unflappable.
I'm not used to pitched battles involving fifteen thousand men either, he conceded with a half grin. It was rare for the DMC, rare anywhere. Even Earth had not seen a battle that large in centuries. He felt a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. He had studied many large battles in his almost four years at The Springs—battles fought with spears and swords, lances or muzzleloading rifles, or machine guns and artillery. The weapons change more than the tactics, Lon thought with almost cavalier abandon. It was not a proposition he would have to ' 'prove'' in class.
East's army stopped shortly after sunrise. There was some discussion on the officers'
channels about the possibility that the enemy might make camp short of the waiting defenders. It did appear that this was more than just a ten-minute break. DMC scouts reported that many of the enemy soldiers were preparing meals or eating. Sentries were being posted. Patrols were sent out to either side.
"Wait to see if they're just relieving the flankers," Colonel Black told the scouts. "We'd rotate that and the point units as well. Watch for anything that looks like they're digging in for an extended stay." East had not been set-82
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ting up camp until late morning during the time the DMC fleet had been watching from space. Then they had settled in for six to eight hours before starting out again.
Twenty minutes passed before the scouts nearest the enemy main force reported that it did look as if the flankers were simply being relieved. Patrols were coming back in. No trenches were being dug. The scouts saw no sign of snoopers or mines being planted.
Just a meal stop, Lon thought. Maybe an hour altogether, give or take a few minutes. He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating. They've been out on this march for two months. They might take more time, maybe even two hours.
He tried to imagine what soldiers would feel like after two months of marching through rugged terrain, up one side of a mountain chain and starting back down the other—cold, wet, hungry, and sore. Unless they've got one hell of a lot of motivation, they must be having morale problems by now. Then he shook his head. There had been precious little in the database concerning public support in East for this war. They want more room, more space to live, and they think they can only get it at the expense of West. Is that enough? It was not until the word Le-bensrawn came to mind, along with its historical connotations of twentieth century Nazi expansionism and Earth's most violent war up to that time, that Lon decided that, just maybe, it would be.
Given the motivation of an approaching enemy, a trained soldier can erect quite a nest for himself in five hours, a trench buttressed and camouflaged, and as comfortable as conditions permit. He can map out zones of fire and commit salient points and distances to memory. The veteran does it automatically. The rookie needs to think through every step—and perhaps be reminded by his squad leader, and overseen to make sure he does it right. Lon's trench was typical. He had excavated it himself, digging down ten inches, piling die dirt up around the edges. Most of the hole was covered by a camouflage tarp bolstered by
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shrubbery. He had found a few loose rocks and added them to the front of the hole, then gone out in front to inspect his emplacement as well as those of his men, to make certain that none of the defenses would be readily apparent from a distance.
No one got much sleep, but each man rested as best he could—once the essentials were taken care of. Last among the essentials was food. Nearly everyone ate at least one complete meal pack. Some ate two.
Information was passed along the line of command. Matt Orlis received updates from battalion and passed them on to his lieutenants. Lon briefed his noncoms, and me squad leaders informed their men of anything they needed to know. How close is the enemy? How soon will they be here? When does the shooting start? The invading army remained in one spot for ninety minutes before resuming its march west, toward the positions held by the DMC and the regiment of Wester soldiers.
It was 1124 hours when Lon heard the first gunshots.
The gunfire was not close or extensive. One of the flanking patrols on the south must have run into West's people, Lon decided quickly, since he expected the first contact to come there and since that was the direction the noise appeared to emanate from. For a few minutes there were exchanges of automatic weapons fire—long bursts, short bursts.
Lon listened to the intelligence channel, getting secondhand information. The DMC
communication system was not directly linked to the system in the helmets the Westers used. There were only liaisons, DMC men with each Wester unit, and junior officers from West's army with each DMC battalion headquarters. It was five minutes before Lon received clear confirmation that his guess had been right. By that time the fighting had spread farther along the right flank.
Then there was a briefer firefight on the north flank, the one held by the DMC. That lasted no more than thirty seconds.
"The enemy main force has stopped, taken cover where 84
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they are," Captain Orlis reported a few seconds later. "Looks like their commanders are trying to figure out what's up. I want everyone down. Don't give any of your rookies a chance to foul things off by shooting early."
Lon passed that warning to his squad leaders. "Sit on them if you have to," he added.
"There's no enemy in sight, and even if there were, we wait for the order to fire."
East dispatched more men to help the flanking patrol that was in action. Two minutes later, East's point started west again—much more slowly than before, wary, looking for the earliest hint of another ambush.
Lon cranked the magnification to full on his helmet faceplate, carefully scanning the draw in front of him, knowing that the nearest enemy troops had to be within five hundred yards. He breathed shallowly, when he remembered to breathe at all. He felt tension, the edge of fear that no sane man could face combat without. He recognized the signs and understood them, used them to keep him alert.
"Steady ..." Captain Orlis droned the word, drawing out the last syllable. Lon focused on the draw, out at the limit of his visibility, knowing that the first enemy soldier would have to step into view within seconds.
"Let them keep coming, right into our laps if necessary," Orlis said, and Lon briefly changed channels to pass that remind
er on to his men. "Wait for the order. We want the main force engaged first, if possible," Orlis added.
"Wait for the order," Lon echoed on his all-hands channel.
Lon saw, or thought he saw, a hint of movement in the distance, something more than a wind-blown branch. But it was several more seconds before he saw it again and was certain. A man in camouflaged battledress. A rifle. The blank panel of a nonreflective faceplate. The enemy.
Lon moved his rifle until it was aimed at the distant figure. He linked the weapon's sights to his faceplate as he tracked the enemy soldier. Then he had an instant of CAPTAIN
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distraction. He thought of Sara, and that brought a knot to his solar plexus and a ludicrous twinge of guilt that it had been "so long" since he had last thought of her.
Not now! Lon told himself. Keep your mind on right now, right here. He blinked, swallowed, took a deep breath, and worked to concentrate on the approaching enemy.
There were more of the enemy visible now, moving cautiously, alert, not worrying about speed, just doing the job that point men were supposed to do—watching for any hint of the enemy.
Then everything started to happen at once—but not directly in front of Lon and 2nd Battalion.
He heard over the radio what was going on. The enemy's main force had turned to its left and advanced against the Wester soldiers waiting along that flank.
At first the reports being relayed to the mercenary officers were fragmented, barely coherent at times, passed through the liaisons with the West units, then being re-broadcast on the DMC net. It took fifteen minutes before intelligence from CIC started to bring some coherence. The Eastmen moved in good order, disciplined, going straight into an all-out
frontal attack so quickly that West had little time to prepare to meet it. East left behind just enough troops to delay any attack by the DMC units on their other flank. The point company, the unit nearest Lon, went to ground, ready to help repel any attack on what was now the right flank of their main force.
Do we go or not? Lon wondered. He did not ask. He had been an officer long enough not to bother his commander with useless questions. Either the order would come or it would not.