by Rick Shelley
“Thank you, sir,” Taiters said. “Just doing our jobs.”
“Yes, and doing them better than anyone has a right to demand,” Flowers said. “It’s regrettable that the price was so heavy, but … it does happen.” Flowers turned to face Lon then. “I’ll be glad to welcome you as an officer in the battalion when we get home to Dirigent, Nolan. You’ve shown your worth. I think you have an excellent future ahead of you in the Corps.” He smiled more broadly. “If it were in my power, I’d pin the red and gold pips on your shoulders now, but Corps regs say that can’t happen until we get home.”
“When we get back to Dirigent is soon enough for me, sir,” Lon said. “I’m learning not to rush things.”
Flowers nodded as he turned again, including both of them in his gaze. “The other reason I wanted to see you is that I want to pick your brains. I want you to tell me about that engagement you had, just how it went, and what sort of impression you got of the rebels you were facing. The more I can get inside the heads of these rebels, the better things will be for us.”
The colonel kept them for an hour, questioning every detail of their memories of the engagement. Drinks were brought for Lon and Arlan, the same fruit ade that the colonel was drinking. Long before the inquisition was over, Lon found himself sweating profusely. It was not just the temperature and humidity. Although both were above eighty, the men were seated in the shade, with a moderate breeze. Remembering what had happened, going back through every minute of the fight and the events leading up to it, brought back some of Lon’s fear and tension, and that brought on the perspiration. He started looking around, as if he were concerned that those same rebels might be sneaking up on him again. The only relief that Lon found was that Arlan Taiters seemed to be affected almost as much by the questioning.
“Sir, may I ask a question?” Taiters asked once Flowers indicated that he was finished. The colonel nodded. “It’s obvious that the rebels have managed to get military weapons in from someplace, either directly from Hanau or through some third party, and I got the impression that the rebels must also have had at least minimal training by professionals,” Arlan said by way of preface. “Do you think that they might have a cadre of mercenaries on-planet, professionals we might come up against ourselves?”
Medwin Flowers’ brows curled into a look of concentration, almost a frown. He was slow to answer. “I agree with your assessment about the weapons and training. I’ve asked myself the same question you asked. We have no evidence of mercenaries operating on behalf of the rebels. There was no indication of that before we came. There is no sign of any other shipping in the system or military aircraft operating, or we would have had opposition to our shuttles. And we have not detected any sophisticated electronics.” He paused, shaking his head slowly. “We can’t rule out the possibility that there might be a few professionals providing training and advice for the rebels, but there can’t be any significant number, perhaps no more than a squad or two. It’s more likely that the rebels have a few of their own people who have served as mercenaries somewhere and then come home. That might also explain the weaponry. Those hypothetical veterans might have had the contacts to expedite procurement of military weapons. Either way, it shouldn’t impact our operations any more than it already has.”
Arlan nodded once, slowly, an unconscious gesture. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I was just wondering.”
“We’re monitoring this as closely as we can,” Flowers said. “We’re not taking anything for granted.”
“Yes, sir. I guess we should be heading out now. The men we came down with are waiting, and we need to get back to the company.” Taiters stood, as did Lon.
“I’ve never gone through a grilling like that before,” Lon said once he and the lieutenant were well away from the battalion commander. “Not even back at The Springs.”
“I’m sure the colonel is concerned,” Arlan replied. “We’re obviously up against fanatics, people who aren’t deterred by taking heavy casualties. I imagine he’s got people trying to find out everything possible about the animosity between the two groups of settlers here. This feels like something more than mere political squabbling. When a conflict gets this bloody, this intense, it’s more likely to be over religion, or basic philosophies. If there was rational leadership, the rebels would be looking for peace talks by now, some sort of compromise.”
“Are you saying that the fight might go on until there’s no one left to fight on one side or the other?”
“It’s possible. If neither side is willing to accept anything less than total victory. But I hope we’re not stuck in it that long. Our job is to break the armed rebellion and train the government militia. Then we can go home.”
“But what happens after we leave?”
“I don’t know. The colonel might try to sell the rebels on the idea of a contract to guarantee the safety of non-combatants against reprisals, but if this is really a deep ideological fight, they probably wouldn’t accept any offer from us.”
“Even if it means they risk being butchered?”
Arlan cracked a grin. “They have one thing going for them. It may be a good thing that we had to get the weapons and ammunition to the government forces early, before the revolt was put down. They might use most of that ammunition up, not have enough left to do serious damage to the rebel civilians. Especially after we finish training the militia. And I’m sure that the colonel will be in no hurry to put through a contract for more ammunition. We can’t guarantee peace here forever, but that would buy the rebels time to think about getting outside protection—from someone else if they won’t trust us—or time to recover from the fighting and replenish their own supplies.”
On the rest of the walk through Norbank City, Lon stared at the civilians intensely, as if his gaze might penetrate their masks to discover what they were thinking. They gave no indication of being religious or political zealots. They appeared no different from people he had seen elsewhere, on Earth or Dirigent, or Over-Galapagos—if anything, they were more rustic than people he had seen anywhere else.
What drives you? he wondered whenever the eyes of one of the civilians met his. And what drives your rebels?
19
Long Snake’s attack shuttles operated in relays. The landers remained above ten thousand feet—high enough to give them time to evade surface-to-air missiles—but kept up an assault on the main rebel positions. Beginning as soon as they had the cover of full darkness and continuing on into the night, the aircraft sent rockets into the hilly region where the rebels were congregating, softening up the enemy for the men of the Second Battalion and the Norbanker militia.
On the ground, at a distance, the explosions sounded like thunder. Rashes of light preceded each thunderclap, completing the analogy. Each group of four to six blasts was separated by ten to fifteen minutes from the next series as one shuttle after another made the descent, two attack runs, and then climbed back into space to rendezvous with Long Snake. The timing was never precise, to avoid allowing the rebels to predict with any certainty when the next strike would come. Occasionally, longer hiatuses were left to increase the uncertainty.
Lon Nolan took a cold pleasure from the explosions. Hit ‘em hard, he urged. The more you take care of, the fewer there’ll be for us to face. He did not deceive himself that the air attack could obliterate the enemy, or even reduce his numbers enough to make the coming land fight inconsequential. There would be rebel casualties, but equally important were the less tangible effects that the bombardment was certain to have. Men would not be able to sleep through it, and that would have to augment the attack’s effect on morale.
The mercenaries and militiamen had started to move two hours before dark, using the last hours of light and the short twilight to get the Norbankers as close as possible to where they needed to be before darkness slowed the advance. Three of the militia companies hiked with the Dirigenters. The fourth new company had been held back by the government to help protect the capital, an
d to help ensure that more produce and livestock made it into town from the western farming area before the rebels could try to reestablish their siege. The government also had civilians strengthening the city’s defenses, which showed no great confidence in their militia or in the mercenaries.
Each militia company was paired with a mercenary company. They moved parallel to each other. A few mercenaries marched with the militia, to make sure that the local leaders were not totally without communications. Only the point company, A Company this time, was not saddled with militiamen.
That’s one headache I’m as glad not to have, Lon thought during one short rest period. Lieutenant Taiters still kept him close, and Lon listened in on everything that the lieutenant said or heard on the radio or in person. Third and fourth platoons were back together, fourth showing the gaps of men lost in their last fight. Lon found his opinions solicited now, his suggestions listened to—if not necessarily adopted.
I guess I have been accepted, Lon thought. He found no elation in that, no sense of accomplishment. It was more a weight on his back. He felt the need to weigh his words, his thoughts, more carefully before issuing them. He knew the names of the men who had died the first time one of his suggestions had been accepted. If he closed his eyes, he could see some of their faces. Despite the assurances of the lieutenant and the colonel—and the others who had spoken to him—Lon was not ready to grant himself complete absolution for that.
Lon concentrated on what he was doing. The slightest sound or movement, real or imagined, could make him turn his head, his rifle ready if needed. He recognized his heightened nervousness and tried to combat it, but with little success. Telling himself I’m too damn jumpy was not enough. There was always I don’t want to get anyone else killed, to counter it.
It was just after sunset that third platoon rotated to the front, to take the point. “You stay with first and second squads,” Taiters told Lon. “I’ll stay with the others. Anything happens, get on to me immediately.” Maintaining an open link would be impractical while they were operating separately.
It’s not leadership, but it’s close, Lon decided. And it was one more mark of the new trust that Taiters and the colonel were showing in him. Just don’t screw it up, he told himself.
The battalion, with its accompanying militia, moved in three columns. One platoon could not hope to scout all three routes, but split in halves, they could cover much of the ground. One squad moved out in front, split into its two fire teams, staying thirty yards or more apart, each team single file, ranging left and right in a zigzag pattern. Behind them, the other squad moved in a skirmish line across the middle, as the terrain permitted. The two squads spelled each other every fifteen or twenty minutes. Lon stayed with the rear squad. The two squad leaders reported to Platoon Sergeant Dendrow, but Lon was included in all of those conversations.
Level ground became a rarity. At times the battalion had to move through three different valleys, cut off from each other by hills that ranged between fifty and two hundred feet in height. Much of the terrain was rough, not merely because of the topology but also because of scrub growth that clogged the land. This was not the tall forest that the mercenaries had originally operated in, but a more mixed growth—trees, grasses, bushes, and vines. The terrain provided excellent locations for ambush at almost every turn. Small groups of enemy soldiers might be anywhere along the slopes of the hills or in the valleys, ready to pick off the scouts.
Like the night before last, Lon reminded himself. Although he trusted the men in front of him to do their jobs, he kept scanning himself, looking for any hint of trouble.
The explosions in and around the rebel positions gradually sounded louder. I hope they save something for later, in case they have to bail us out, Lon thought when he realized how long the bombardment had been under way. Scores of missiles had been sent against the rebels.
It was only minutes later that a call from Captain Orlis came. “Hold the point. We’re all stopping. The last shuttles in reported that the rebels might have moved.”
No wonder they moved, Lon decided. Too much hell coming at them. The men of first and second squads moved into a defensive alignment, across the narrow valley they had been following to the northeast and along the slopes above it. No order to dig in was given, but most of the men scraped away a little soil and vegetation to give themselves some cover. Just in case.
Lon went to Corporal Girana. “Let me see your map-board, Tebba,” he said as he got down next to him. Girana rolled onto his side to get the unit out of its pocket on his trouser leg.
“Be careful of the glow,” Girana said softly.
Lon nodded as he unfolded the mapboard. He fiddled with the controls until the area he was looking at was centered on the last known position of the rebel force. With infrared images overlaid on the basic chart, Lon could see the hot spots of fires and blast damage from the missile strikes. There was no clear heat signature from the soldiers who had been present before.
They might still be there, Lon decided, masked by the heat of the battle damage. He was not certain how fine the resolution of the shuttle imaging systems was from ten thousand feet.
The screen was updated by CIC aboard Long Snake while Lon was looking at it. He thought that one shuttle must have risked coming in much lower than ten thousand feet, looking for the rebels. Running a reconnaissance mission, a shuttle could come in slow and quiet, and—at night—it would be invisible to unaided human eyes on the ground. The resolution of the overlay improved considerably, but it was still impossible to be certain whether the rebels were still where they had been.
The colonel’s either going to have to risk a shuttle almost at treetop level or send men in on the ground, Lon thought. That’s the only way to be sure. As long as we’re not the ones who have to go in and find them. He spent a couple of minutes longer studying the mapboard, the battalion’s location, their original destination, and possible places for the rebels to have moved—memorizing as much as he could. They can’t move as fast at night as we could. That limits how far from the original position they can be.
That still left plenty of areas the rebels might have moved to. Every ridge, slope, and valley provided its own opportunities. And there are supposed to be caves in these hills, Lon remembered. He called Lieutenant Taiters and mentioned that. “We haven’t been looking for caves,” he added. “I sure don’t recall seeing any. And caves would make ambushes harder to spot.”
“I forgot about the caves too,” Arlan admitted. “Hang on.” The lieutenant kept Lon on the line while he called Captain Orlis to mention caves and to ask if anyone had been looking for them.
“Not specifically,” Orlis said. “I guess it’s something we’d better start doing. I’ll pass the word back to battalion, so that the rest know there may be gaps we haven’t checked. You’d better make sure all your men know about them now, and put men along the slopes to look for openings.”
“Sir, I think we ought to actively check this area where we’re at,” Lon said. “It won’t do much good to watch a perimeter if we’ve got enemy inside it.”
“You’re right, Nolan,” the captain said. “Arlan, get your people busy. Make sure there aren’t any snakepits inside your perimeter, then check out about fifty yards around you. Tell the men to be damned careful. The opening might be just big enough for a man to get through, and if the enemy has got men stashed, they’ll probably have those openings camouflaged.”
Taiters assigned half of his men to look for caves while the rest stayed on the perimeter. Lon went with Girana’s squad while they quartered the area.
“I messed around in caves a little back on Earth,” Lon told the corporal. “There were a lot of them around the part of North Carolina where I grew up. The one thing that might give away an opening is that the temperature in it should be quite a bit cooler than outside.”
Tebba passed the tip on to the rest of the squad. He put his men in line, little more than an arm’s length apart. They went
back and forth over the area inside the perimeter the two platoons had set up, then started along the slopes of the hills on either side, beyond the perimeter.
The only holes they found were too small to harbor enemy soldiers. The largest that Lon saw was wide enough for a human for only the first two feet. “A good place to duck if shooting starts,” he told Tebba.
“As long as there aren’t any nasty creepy-crawlies in there first,” Tebba replied.
“Norbank have anything like that?” Lon asked as the squad moved back inside the circle of guns.
“Don’t know. None have tried to crawl into my pants yet anyhow,” Tebba said. “That’s the way I want to keep it.”
Before Lon could say anything more, several shots sounded from the next valley east. Lon and the rest dove to the ground immediately, not waiting to discover what the shooting was about.
“I think maybe somebody found an occupied cave,” Tebba said when no additional gunfire sounded.
‘Or somebody just got too nervous,” Lon suggested.
Over the next fifteen minutes, there were two additional series of shots, in different locations. Word came down that a few snipers had been found in caves. And disposed of. Then there were orders to get up and start moving again.
The rebels had moved—exactly where was not yet certain.
20
“We’ve got more than six thousand years of military experience and innovation behind us as a species, and here we are operating much as the earliest soldiers did—sending a few men out ahead to try to find the enemy.” Arlan Taiters had the faceplate of his helmet halfway up, giving him room to rub his face with the fingers of both hands. His two platoons were together. He was sitting with his back against a tree, his position hidden from three sides by the trunk and by a thicket. Lon Nolan sat next to the lieutenant.
“Some things may never change completely,” Lon replied. “At The Springs, they taught us about battles that happened thousands of years ago, and tactics that have been obsolete for millennia. We studied phalanxes and Roman battle squares. We read Caesar and Thucydides, and dozens of other ancient authors. We re-created famous battles on 3-D chart tables, with infantry and horse cavalry charging and wheeling. Swords and spears. Most of us thought it was a horrible waste of time.”