by Rick Shelley
Flowers paused, then said, “So, maybe two thousand in these two forces, another thousand or more still holding the siege of Norbank City. My own suspicion is that the rebels must have at least another thousand men under arms, either guarding their primary settlement area or elsewhere, undetected. That number could be extremely conservative as well. It behooves us to keep those various forces from consolidating, or getting us in a position where they can all hit us at once.
“For now, that means dealing with the force that Charlie has been in contact with as quickly as possible. When we started this march, I hoped to have complete tactical surprise, but now we have to assume that the enemy knows that we’re in the vicinity. Since none of our scouts has reported any contacts with rebel patrols, they shouldn’t know exactly where we are, but the commander of that force has become more reticent to follow Charlie’s lead over the last hour or so. I think they’re looking for a chance to move back toward Norbank City. So we’re going to let them, and we’re going to get in position here and here.” He indicated the crests of two low ridges that paralleled each other. “Then we’ll let Charlie funnel them in for us. It should be full dark before we make contact, which gives us the edge.
“I want our militia company here, at the right end of the northern ridge. Alpha will be to their left. Bravo and Delta will take the southern ridge and put two platoons down at this end of the valley, to cork the bottle. I want those platoons favoring the sides of the valley, not a line straight across. That could involve us in friendly-fire difficulties, with Charlie moving in behind. As soon as we’ve got this force accounted for, we’ll move to intercept the force behind us, try to give them the same sort of surprise. We’ll go into the details of that later, after we deal with our first task.
“If the rebels in the first force don’t walk into the trap, we’ll make adjustments. Holding both ridges, we’ll be able to adapt no matter which way they go. But that could complicate moving to meet the second force on favorable ground. Questions?” He waited, and when none of the officers on the hookup spoke, Colonel Flowers said, “I want everyone ready to move in five minutes. Bravo and Delta will lead the way since they’ve got the farthest distance to travel.”
Even in the dark, the Norbanker militiamen moved with some assurance now. They were armed and had been given a couple of hours of training, enough to make them think that maybe they were not quite hopeless. They were not quite as limited in vision this night because there was more open sky, some illumination from the stars. They were also aware that a fight was near, that they would have part of it, and that they would have the advantage of numbers—for the first time in their civil war.
A Company brought up the rear. Fourth platoon lagged behind, planting electronic snoops and land mines to slow up the rebel force behind them. As long as those rebels continued to follow the battalion’s trail directly, they would run straight into trouble. And that would alert the battalion, give them the exact position of the second rebel force.
Lieutenant Taiters, with Lon at his side, stayed with fourth platoon while they were planting the mines and bugs, taking an active part in deciding where they would go. “Any left over after the fighting,” he explained to Lon, “we’ll retrieve before we leave. If we can. If not, and if we don’t have a chance to teach the locals how to deactivate them, the explosives will degrade in thirty days, making them harmless.”
As soon as the work was finished, fourth platoon hurried to catch up with the rest of the company. The battalion and the Norbanker militia were moving into position, ready for the rebels. Taiters looked over the deployment of his platoons, then conferred with the platoon sergeants before he and Lon took their own positions—just behind the line and between third and fourth platoons. There was no digging of foxholes this time. There was too little soil covering the rocky ridge. Where it was possible, men moved the smaller stones around to give them some cover, but they would have the high ground; the ridges were sixty to seventy feet above the floor of the valley between them.
The gunfire drew closer, but there was never anything like a constant exchange. From reports that were being passed to all of the officers, Lon knew that C Company was maintaining contact with the rebel force, striking and withdrawing, sniping, working the rebels toward the rest of the battalion.
Then there was a more urgent call. “Everyone down and quiet. A rebel patrol is entering the valley.”
I hope the militia doesn’t screw up now, Lon thought. There were a few mercenaries with them to make sure they received any orders—or warnings. Just keep down and keep quiet, Lon thought, as if his mental projections might make a difference. Patience.
Lieutenant Taiters edged closer to the line, and raised up enough to give him a glimpse of the valley floor. Lon stayed where he was. I’m not going to be the one to screw up, he thought. The lieutenant knows what he’s doing.
“Their point isn’t very far in front of the main body,” Arlan whispered on his link to Lon. “It looks like no more than twenty yards between the last man in the point squad and the rest of them.” The lieutenant moved back from his observation point. “They’re moving fast too, despite the dark.”
“No flankers on these ridges?” Lon asked, also whispering.
“Apparently not. They’re moving right into the trap.”
It’ll be slaughter, Lon thought. Fish in a barrel. Taking part in what seemed certain to be butchery did not appeal to him—but neither was he deluded enough to think that the battalion should somehow offer a “fair” fight. It’s them or us, and there are still a lot more of them than there are of us.
“The colonel wants to wait until that point squad gets to the other end, right in the face of the men we’ve got plugging it,” Taiters told Lon. “That might not put the whole rebel force between the ridges, but most of them will be, and Charlie Company will make sure that the rest can’t bolt.”
Any minute now. Any second, Lon thought. The hair on his arms felt as if it were standing at attention. His right hand moved along the receiver of his rifle, checking to make sure that the safety was off. There was a full magazine in, and a round in the chamber. He glanced at the timeline on his visor: 2053 hours. Lon glanced left, toward where his friends were—forty yards away. That was too far for him to take any comfort. It would help to be surrounded by friends now, on the verge of battle. This isn’t like before, when the rebels hit us without warning. This time we’re doing the waiting.
“Ready!” The single word over the command channel startled Lon. He had become too preoccupied with his thoughts. “Fire!”
Along both ridgelines, the mercenaries opened fire, the muzzle flashes looking like strings of fiery Christmas lights blinking on and off. The sound might almost be mistaken for firecrackers going off on a Federation Day holiday back on Earth. The mercenaries fired short bursts, three or four rounds at a time, looking for targets, not just firing wildly into the valley. For the first ten seconds, the gunfire was all one-way. It took that long before the rebels even started to respond—other than to dive for whatever cover they could find among the rocks and stunted trees on the valley floor.
Taiters and Nolan moved forward, into the line, ready to make their own contribution. Lon got his first look at the killing ground as he brought his rifle up and scanned for targets. They were not difficult to find. He watched for movement, for muzzle flashes, and each time he sprayed a few rounds that way. Those were the most certain indicators of live targets. With men down all over the valley floor, it was impossible to be certain which were dead and which were alive, even with the infrared assistance of helmet night-vision systems; bodies needed time to cool.
Those rebels who could return fire did so, but it was uncoordinated, hardly effective. There was some cover in the valley, but little that could shelter anyone from fire coming in from both ridgelines, or from the scores of grenades that were tossed and fired. The rebels tried grenades as well, but they proved ineffective. They had only hand grenades, not grenade launcher
rounds like those the mercenaries had. Several rockets were fired by the rebels, though, blasting gaps along the ridges.
Even though they were at an impossible disadvantage, the rebels in the valley fought on. There was no hint of surrender or flight. After several minutes they even showed some signs of trying to regroup, crawling to the best cover available, consolidating, directing their fire first toward one section of the ridges, then to another.
It was not quite a surprise when some of the Norbanker militiamen on the ridge started shooting at the rebels below. Even without orders, they wanted to make certain that they got in on the fight. At first that fire was sporadic, but before long it seemed to be almost general.
Lon’s mind had gone almost numb by then. He was focused entirely on doing his job, firing and then reloading, looking through his sights, trying to avoid any broader picture of the scene below. There were only targets on the other end, not human beings. Aim carefully, then pull the trigger. The smell of gunpowder made his nose itch, and the acrid fumes dried out his mouth. His eyes burned, but there was no way to rub them, and Lon knew that rubbing would only make it worse.
His radio remained silent. There was no need for orders now. The only call would be if someone in the two platoons was hit and needed help, and—so far—there had been no casualties in A Company’s third and fourth platoons.
The sound of two explosions, close together, behind him, startled Lon badly. He needed several seconds to realize that they had come from the mines that fourth platoon had planted.
“You heard that?” he asked Taiters.
“I heard. Hang on.” Lon listened while the lieutenant reported the explosions, and their location, to Captain Orlis, and then to Colonel Flowers.
That means the second force is only four hundred yards behind us, Lon thought. They could have us in range in less than two minutes. Alpha had very little cover against attack from the north, from behind. Lon glanced at his helmet timeline: 2101 hours. That startled him almost as much as the explosions had. Less than eight minutes had passed since the start of the firefight. He shook his head. He would have sworn that it had been going on for an hour.
“We’re turning around and moving down the slope about ten yards,” Captain Orlis said on the channel that connected him to his lieutenants and platoon sergeants. “Except first platoon. They’ll stay in place to anchor the left end of the line on the ridge. The militia will move across to take our positions. Give them a hand, but hurry them up.” After those orders were acknowledged, Orlis said, “Get your men in whatever cover they can find. We’ll let the second rebel force close to within two hundred yards, then open up, try to pin them down too far out for any return fire to be fully effective.”
Third and fourth platoons each left one squad to help the Norbankers move into position while the rest moved back down the hill toward the north. The slope was gentle, but that still left many of the men in awkward firing positions—prone with their feet above their heads. They wiggled around, getting as comfortable as they could in the time they had. A little cover in front, if no more than a couple of small rocks, was more important than comfort.
Lon and the lieutenant stayed near the ridge until nearly three quarters of the militiamen had filed past and started to settle into the line that A Company had vacated. Then Taiters pulled his last two squads back, sent them down the slope to get ready. Only then did he and Nolan follow. Lon had scarcely got down on his stomach before the second rebel force opened fire—before A Company could start the exchange.
These rebels did not come straight in along the track that Second Battalion had taken. They came in separate groups, from the northeast and the northwest, angling in toward the ridge. The rebels were 180 yards away when they opened fire, well inside the distance that Captain Orlis had hoped to hold them at. They had taken advantage of what cover there was, infiltrating, moving intelligently.
The first volley from the rebels was wildly inaccurate. Some went low, but most went high—not just over the heads of the men of A Company, but also over the Norbanker militia, above and behind them. But as soon as the mercenaries started to return fire, the rebels’ aim improved. They had muzzle flashes to target. There were hits. Lon heard one call for help from someone in fourth platoon, and then a squad leader saying he had the man and that his wound was minor.
Lon had no qualms about this fight. It was as near to even terms as the rebels were ever likely to manage against trained professionals. They had odds of three to one or more—counting only A Company as their opposition—and they were not boxed into a closed killing zone, like the valley on the other side of the ridge. These rebels came on with the same determination as their doomed comrades, using fire and maneuver tactics to minimize their casualties as they moved closer.
“Charlie’s sending two platoons around on our right flank,” Captain Orlis informed his leaders. “They’re going to hit these rebels from the side. Delta will be moving around on the other flank as soon as they can. It’s going to take them longer, though. They’ve got farther to travel and they need to disengage first.” Almost as an afterthought, Orlis added, “The first rebel force has about had it. There can’t be more than a hundred of them still fighting.”
One hundred left out of six hundred to eight hundred? Lon blinked, surprised despite what he had seen. How can they keep going? Why not surrender? Are they going to make us slaughter them to the last man? Lon turned his face to the side for a second, fighting down a surge of bile. He blinked several times, squeezed his eyes shut briefly, then turned his attention back to the enemy coming at him. It was only chance that he noticed the time: 2110 hours.
The new fight would not be ended as quickly, or as decisively, as the other. The rebel force coming in from the north had not been caught unawares and, for the moment, held on the initiative, pushing in on their diagonals, hitting the ends of the Dirigent line.
“They’ve had some training,” Lieutenant Taiters observed on his link with Nolan. “And I think we underestimated the number.”
Lon tried to scan the breadth of the battlefield, noting the two concentrations of rebel soldiers moving in. There was more gunfire coming from farther back, in the center—from well past the two-hundred-yard mark. And that more distant gunfire seemed to be more accurate as well.
“They’ve concentrated marksmen with nightscopes in the middle,” Lon said. “Maybe two hundred and fifty yards out.”
“Where?” Arlan asked, but before Lon could point them out, the lieutenant said, “I see. Hang on while I pass this on to the captain.” Lon listened to the exchange—a twenty-word report and a two-word acknowledgment.
“Good work, Nolan,” Taiters said then. “You were the first to spot that.” He called third platoon’s first squad and told them to concentrate on the snipers before talking to Lon again. “You might as well take a hand at this too, Nolan. Your baby.”
Lon adjusted his sights, then switched his rifle’s selector to single shots. Each time he spotted a muzzle flash, he put one round just below it—at least, that was how he aimed. The squad that was targeting the snipers would be firing the same way. It did not take long before there were no more muzzle flashes to aim at.
Dead or moved, Lon thought. At least we “stopped them. He watched the area for another minute, head above his gunsights, waiting for the sniping to resume. When it did not, he switched his rifle back to automatic and targeted the rebels moving in toward the hill, almost missing the “Well done” that the lieutenant gave him and the squad from third platoon.
The firefight expanded as first C Company and then D Company came in on the flanks. Their sequential appearance stopped the rebel advance—which had reached the bottom of the slope. Many of the rebels had to turn to face the new threats, which decreased the amount of gunfire coming toward Alpha. It was only then that Lon noticed that many of the militiamen were firing over the heads of the mercenaries at their estranged compatriots.
“What the hell?” escaped from his mo
uth.
“What?” Lieutenant Taiters asked quickly.
“Behind us. The militia’s shooting over us.”
“No help for that,” Taiters said. “Just keep your head down.” He passed that information to the rest of the company.
Then Captain Orlis came on-line. “Resistance has ended in the valley behind us. The colonel is moving the rest of the battalion around to get in on this fight. We’ve got two shuttles on the way down to give us close air support. Four minutes until they arrive.”
Lon looked at the time again. It was 2124 hours. The fight so far had lasted only a half hour.
14
Before the shuttles arrived to add their firepower, the fight was over. The rebels from the second force withdrew into the woods under good discipline, fighting as they retreated, taking as many of their wounded as they could with them.
“It’s the kind of thing we would do if we had to,” Tebba Girana told Lon—an offer of grudging respect for the enemy.
The shuttles circled at ten thousand feet—high enough to ensure that they could escape any rockets fired from the ground, in case there was more fighting close, but their guns and rockets were not needed, and they climbed back toward Long Snake when their short tour was finished.
Few rebels managed to escape from the earlier ambush.
After clearing his action with Lieutenant Taiters, Lon climbed back to the ridge and looked down into the valley. Switching his faceplate to magnify the view, he scanned the length of that battleground. The rebel dead were everywhere. The loyalist militia was on its way down the southern slope, going in to retrieve rifles and ammunition. Several squads of Dirigenters also went into the valley, partly to verify a body count, but mostly to prevent any butchering of surviving rebels.