by Rick Shelley
Lon shook his head and looked into the sky. The air fight was moving north again. West's fighters had to go
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back to their bases to rearm. The DMC's Shrikes that were still on station were pursuing.
CIC had not sent all its Shrikes at once this time, but was staggering the missions to keep some air cover around most of the time.
A brilliant explosion on the ground brought Lon's attention back down. The blast was inside Hope. Must have been a secondary explosion, Lon thought. Ammunition or explosives going up. For perhaps three minutes, flames rose sharply, but the blaze died down quickly, leaving only thick smoke to mark the location. Lon went back to scanning the enemy positions, trying to decide what sort of tactics might work best in the situation—as if the de-cision might fall to him.
"Nolan?" This time Orlis's voice was softer, less stressed than before. He sounded almost tired.
"Yes, Captain?"
"We're about ready. Maybe ten minutes. I'm going to leave first platoon inside the firebase to guard the medics and wounded. First because they got chewed up before." That choice was unremarkable. First platoon was the most shorthanded. "The colonel's headquarters staff will remain in the firebase as well. Charlie is going to leave one platoon in their digs.
The rest of us will act in concert, heading toward Hope. We are not, repeat not, planning on going into the town. We slay outside and work to keep West in a crossfire. I'll be with second platoon. This is still pretty much by ear. How West reacts determines our next moves. For
the time being, Bravo and Delta will remain in their firebases and do what they can from there."
"Ten minutes. We'll be ready, Captain," Lon said.
"Travel light. Field packs stay behind," Orlis said. "We plan to come back here." He did not have to add, if we can.
"Are we going forward in a straight skirmish line, Captain?"
"Not all the way. Unless West makes significant changes in their deployment before we jump off, we'll head toward that concentration about ten degrees to your 228
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left. We start out moving as quickly as we can, until West reacts and we get too close to stay on our feet. Then it'll be down on stomachs, working closer as we can. I don't expect us to get closer than three hundred yards, maybe two-fifty. That's subject to change."
"Yes, sir."
Lon passed along the orders and stripped off his own field pack. That lightened the load he had to carry by twenty-five pounds. / can carry a couple of extra magazines for my rifle, Lon decided, although he had already added several above the "standard load."
"Pick up some extra magazines," he told the squad leaders. "But let's not get so loaded down we can't move."
Then it was time to wait. Again.
When the advance started, the skirmish line was not a straight rank, as if the men were drawn up on parade. The lines were staggered, the distances between individuals irregular.
Each platoon put three squads in front, forming the primary skirmish line, and one squad forty yards back. Lon took his position with the trailing squads, the proper place for a platoon leader in this type of maneuver. He looked to right and left, checking everything, a routine and almost unconscious series of actions. Captain Orlis was with second platoon, on the left. Third platoon was in the center, fourth on the right. Much farther right, Lon could see Charlie Company moving as well.
The men moved forward in a semicrouch, rifles at the ready, safeties off, fingers over trigger guards. Eyes squinted, trying to see the enemy, as if squinting would bring them into clearer focus at such a distance.
Although he was sweating freely, Lon no longer thought about the hundred-plus-degree temperature, or the sun that seemed to be baking his head in his helmet. He was too tightly focused on what he and his men had to do. His eyes scanned the distant enemy and, more infrequently, the ground directly in front of him. He was not overly concerned about the chance that the enemy had planted land mines or booby traps. They had been under constant observation. There was the crackle of dry grain stalks underfoot, a faint aroma of new mown hay, a smell that tried to trigger memories of childhood on Earth for Lon. He fought it by trying to calculate the distances ahead and behind. We 've come fifty yards.
Hope is two
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miles off. The enemy only four hundred yards less than that.
Until the skirmish line had covered more than half the distance, the danger from enemy rifles would be minimal. West had shown no use of beamers. A marksman might, with considerable luck, bring down a moving target at a mile or more, but most ammunition expended at that range would be wasted. The danger from rifles would not be appreciable until they were within six hundred yards, even in such completely open terrain as this.
There was no running, just a methodical, slow walk. Time seemed suspended. The sounds of fighting ahead were constant, the volume increasing too gradually to notice. Lon could not tell when the enemy spotted their advance. They did not rush into any panicked redeployment or start taking wild shots at the mercenaries. West's troops were also
professionals, though few could be veterans of combat aside from the fighting that had taken place since the Dirigenters'had come to Aldrin.
They 've got to move one way or the other, Lon thought, insisted. They have to see us, have to do something to avoid getting trapped between us and Hope.
It would be difficult to arrange positions so there was no risk of friendly fire between the allies. The mercenaries would stay low, and the garrison of Hope had physical barriers for cover. But there was no guarantee that only the enemy would be hit by gunfire.
A mile. Half the distance. The Dirigenters had taken eighteen minutes to cover it. Almost unconsciously, the pace slowed. There were occasional shots coming toward them. Most hit well in front, raising tiny clouds of dust at impact.
"Let's spread the line out more," Captain Orlis said. "We could come under mortar fire any second."
Lon passed along the order, and used his arms to indicate when he thought the greater separation between men was sufficient to minimize the casualties a mortar bomb might cause. His rangefinder showed the skirmish
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line fifteen hundred yards from the enemy when he heard the whine of a mortar round.
"Incoming! Take cover!" Almost as one, the men of Alpha Company dropped to the ground, landing in firing position, even though they were still well out of effective rifle range. The first mortar round hit fifty yards behind the trailing squad. Shrapnel and debris flew up and arced over, falling harmlessly.
"Up and move!" Captain Orlis ordered.
The three platoons traveled another thirty yards before the next mortar round arrived. Again Alpha went to cover. This time the round fell short, but within thirty yards.
After the two ranging rounds, the Wester mortarmen found their rhythm, sending out their bombs quickly. The Dirigenters ran forward to close the range, forcing the enemy to adjust for each round, slowing the cadence, diving to the ground only when an incoming bomb was near, getting up as soon as the debris settled. There were only two mortars targeted against the mercenaries, and they could not put up enough volume of fire to saturate a front spread across three hundred yards. Several Dirigenters were wounded, but in the first minutes of the mortar assault no one was hit so badly that he could not continue moving forward.
A thousand yards from the enemy, Captain Orlis finally told his company to get down and crawl forward. The men with the energy rifles were put to work sniping, pausing in their advance to take several shots at the enemy before doing a hurried crab crawl to regain their places in the skirmish line. The best marksmen with slug throwers took occasional shots now, but with less hope of hitting anything but dirt. They fired single shots, not bursts, just enough to perhaps interfere with the enemy's aim ... and peace of mind.
"Enemy fighters coming in f
rom the north," Dav Grott fCteamed into his radio.
v-'Get the SAMs out!" Lon ordered. Two men in each platoon carried surface-to-air missile launchers. Those
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men turned and brought the antiaircraft weapons to their shoulders.
"Careful with those," Captain Orlis said, breaking into the channel. "There are Shrikes coming from the west to intercept. Make sure of your targets."
Lon turned, looking for the aircraft. There was little chance of a mistake immediately. West's two fighters were almost close enough to begin their rocket and strafing runs. The Shrikes were considerably farther out and much higher.
"Quickly," Lon said, "before our fly-guys get close."
Six missiles streaked into the sky, three aimed at each enemy fighter—which launched rockets of their own before taking evasive action. Lon almost cheered when one fighter exploded. The other pilot evaded the missiles aimed at him, but his gyrations ended with
him climbing directly toward the Shrikes.
The three high-explosive rockets launched by the Wester fighters exploded well short of the Dirigenters. The remaining enemy aircraft ran into a missile from one of the Shrikes and exploded in a blinding orange and gray fireball.
It was while Lon was distracted by the fight in the air that the enemy infantry started to move from their precarious position between two opposing forces. Most headed east, across the front. Only the westernmost detachment moved in the other direction.
"Pivot around second platoon," Orlis told Lon. "We keep going straight for them."
Lon gave the orders, and the skirmishers changed directions. With the enemy mortars silent again, the mercenaries were on their feet, moving at a walking pace. The enemy was trotting.
"Looks like they've decided to merge with their troops over on that side," Orlis said.
"Bravo's too heavily engaged to head them off, but the troops inside Hope are going to try a sortie to slow them down. We've got to let the ones on the other end get away for now. We don't have anyone close enough to get to them."
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For the moment the danger had lifted, but not far enough for the flow of adrenaline to stop.
The enemy might turn and fight at any minute. There might be more enemy fighters coming in. Lon did not let his focus slip.
"Captain, we need to take a minute to patch up the few wounded we've got," Lon said. "No one's hurt bad enough to need medics, but we've got bleeding wounds that need med patches."
"Right, Nolan. Good thinking. We're not in a race here," Orlis said. "I've got two men who need patching as well."
The pause was not much longer than a minute. Alpha started to move again, adjusting its vector to keep the skirmish line moving toward the withdrawing enemy troops. The Westers were nearly opposite the northeastern corner of Hope, four hundred yards from the town's outer defensives—close enough to take casualties from riflemen on the barricades. The Westers increased their pace rather than take cover, hurrying to get out of range, pulling farther away from Alpha in the process.
"You'd think they were late for a hot date," Sergeant Girana suggested on his link to Lon.
"Maybe they are, Tebba, but keep your eyes peeled. They could turn to face us anytime at all."
"They've got to be getting awfully hot moving like that, Lieutenant," Tebba said. "It's got to weaken them eventually. They'll have to stop, or get strung out all over the place."
"Maybe not all that soon, Tebba. Even if they're not used to the climate, they've got a lot of reasons to keep moving until they drop. Us and the people in Hope. They've got to have a little fear pushing them along, no matter what. And they don't have a lot farther to go to get to friends."
"At least we're not running after them. Time enough for fighting when we get there, and best after dark at that."
Lon smiled. Darkness, still the friend of the infantryman, in spite of centuries of night-vision systems. There
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was more than fancy to the feeling of being cloaked that the night gave. Even the best night-vision systems did not give sight quite equal to daylight.
After another five minutes Alpha was still losing ground to the fleeing Wester force. "Hold the advance," Captain Orlis ordered, and Lon repeated the order for his noncoms. "Battalion says to call off the chase," Orlis added once all of his men were on the ground.
"Back to camp?" Lon asked.
"No," Orlis said. "Have your men dig in, a full defensive perimeter. We let the Wester forces
rendezvous, then plan our next measures. My guess is that we're not likely to do much before sundown, but that's all it is, a guess. Get 'em dug in and a chance to rest. I'll have a squad from first platoon bring out food."
We might as well have stayed where we were, Lon thought at about midafternoon. He was lying in a slit trench, face down, resting his head on his arms. Been more comfortable and saved energy. He had eaten a meal and drunk enough water to keep his body hydrated. But the sun beat down relentlessly, and there was nothing to keep it off, nothing to do but sweat.
And think.
The fight on the ground had ended, except for occasional sniping on both sides—too far away to affect Alpha Company. Of the mercenary units on the ground, only Bravo was still directly engaged with the enemy, and that fighting was minimal. Hope was still under attack on the south, but that was also little more than sniping. Even the fight in the air had ended.
There hadn't been a fighter in the air near Hope in three hours. Nor had West attempted to bring any additional troops in. The latest estimate, agreed on by Colonel Black's staff and fleet CIC, was that West had perhaps two thousand men on the ground around Hope, giving them a three-to-two advantage over the combined forces of 2nd Battalion, Hope's army garrison, and the civilian militia.
Time to think. Too much time. No one from third or fourth platoons had been killed in this fighting, but Lon
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remembered that Carl Hoper and Esau O'Fallon were both dead. Carl had become a close friend over the past three years. And O'Fallon ... he had shown promise, even if he tended to be too combative in his arguments. Kept me on my toes, Lon thought, smiling over some of their more intense discussions. Death was a routine occupational hazard for a mercenary who needed warfare to earn his living. The Corps never tried to pretend otherwise. "Death is our business, both the giving and receiving," read a carved scroll just inside the entrance to the cemetery at the Corps' main base. The dead, those who could be retrieved, and the wounded were always the first to return home from a contract, carried in style at the head of the returning parade, past a formation of the regiments.
Lon's thoughts moved to Sara, although he could not take his usual joy in them. There was a certain pain to memories of Sara, and his love—longing—for her. Death was too much on his mind, and how desperately he wanted to get home to Dirigent, to Sara. Her image was blurred in his mind, as if behind a curtain of tears. Lon felt a catch in his chest, a subliminal pull toward tears of his own. He lifted his head enough to open the visor of his helmet and rub at his eyes. He would not cry, perhaps could not. Not now.
Distractions were few in the afternoon heat. From time to time Lon checked with his platoon sergeants and squad leaders, or listened for an update from Captain Orlis or battalion.
There was little news, though, and no decision on what the mercenaries would do next, or when. Only in the mountains, a thousand miles to the northeast, was any significant fighting taking place. Colonel Flowers was pressing the fight against the battalions of West's army that remained there, trying to force a decision—or disengagement sufficient to permit him to reinforce 2nd Battalion. The sun slid toward the western horizon with agonizing slowness through the hottest hours of the day. It beat at Lon's mind, a numbing impulse that did not numb the right things. It left his memory operating at full speed.
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Lon tried to concentrate on a series of stretching exercises, but his trench did not give him room to reach full extension. The effort simply reinforced the fet;ing of confinement. He lifted up to scan the horizon, another way to occupy a minute or so occasionally.
It was, by Lon's helmet timeline, 1652 hours when Captain Orlis called again. "I guess we're waiting for dark," Orlis said, his voice heavy, tired. "That might be what the enemy is waiting for as well. If they're going to get anything done, it has to happen tonight. Tomorrow night
we'll have 12th Regiment coming in, and that should be that. At least around Hope."
"Maybe we should do something before they get started, Captain," Lon said. "Disrupt their plans rather than wait to react to whatever they cook up." He closed his eyes at the reference to cooking, a reminder of how hot he felt.
"I know, but after dark our Shrikes can operate a lot more safely than in the light. They'll be damned near invisible to the enemy. CIC says we've lost five so far. They don't want to risk all of them. Colonel Flowers will want them to cover any movement of troops from the mountains down here, if they get enough clearance to bring in shuttles."
"It gets dark about an hour earlier there than here, doesn't it, Captain?" Lon asked.
"About that. By the time the sun sets here, it should be full dark in the mountains."
JUdrin's sun became a darker orange as it settled toward the horizon. There were none of the angry reds that Lon recalled of sunsets on Earth. Aidrin was nearly free of man-made pollution. With nothing more productive to occupy his time, Lon watched this sunset with an intensity he had rarely displayed for any natural phenomenon. He remembered staring at his last sunset, and last sunrise, on Earth with this sort of intensity, knowing they would be his last there and not wanting to forget the slightest detail.
Now he had seen to his men's needs, and his own. Everyone had eaten. Canteens had been refilled. The squad from first platoon had brought both water and food, making a couple of round-trips. The main order had been to get as much rest as possible; the night might be long and busy. No one moved from the slit trenches. Each man remained alone, separated from his nearest squadmates by as much as twenty-five feet. There had been no idle chatter over the squad radio channels either.