by Rick Shelley
The fight was over in less than ten minutes. There was no slaughter. The rebels did not attempt to fight to the last man. They withdrew under order, retreating down the eastern slope, supported by more troops who had been waiting beyond, on the other hills in the area. Only a few small groups of rebels were unable to escape the fight on the ridge. Those fought until they died or were too badly wounded to continue. Not one rebel surrendered.
“It wasn’t as horrible as I thought,” Lon told Arlan Taiters once the last close combat on the ridge had ended. He was still breathing hard, and his face remained flushed with excitement and effort. The two squads from third platoon had not suffered any deaths or serious wounds; only a few men had picked up even minor scratches. The men in the other two squads—still on the west side of Anderson’s Creek—had suffered no casualties at all.
“Captain Molroney might disagree,” Taiters said, gesturing at the militia leader who was going from one platoon to the next, trying to get a casualty count. “And it’s not over. We’re up here, but we’re not going anywhere anytime soon. I don’t think we faced a fourth of the enemy force getting this far.”
“Any idea just how long we’re going to have to hold here?”
“Well into the night, at least,” Taiters said, looking up. Sunset was three hours away, but the sky was clouding up again. It looked as if there might actually be rain, even though Molroney had said it was too early for anything “really bothersome.” The rainy season was still two months away. “ ’Bout all we get this time of year,” Molroney had told the Dirigenters, “is just about enough drizzle to steam the day up even more.”
“I’m going to have third and fourth squads wait until dark before they try to join us,” Taiters said. “There’s a chance that the rebels will encircle us before then.” He paused. “A damn good chance, I suppose, but even if they do, the squads should be able to infiltrate after dark. If the clouds don’t break. If it doesn’t look as if they can get through safely, I’ll send them to meet the rest of the battalion.”
I wish I could see all the pieces of the puzzle, Lon thought. See where all the different forces are, which way they’re moving. If they had been fighting an enemy equipped with the same sophisticated electronics system the DMC had, that would have been possible—in theory at least.
“As long as they don’t work themselves up to an all-out charge too soon,” Taiters said, whispering now. “If they’ve got enough men out there willing to die to do it, they could run us over in no time flat.”
If they’re Divinists, they’ve got men willing to die, Lon thought. He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting the wave of fear that came over him. His paternal grandparents had lost relatives in the early stages of the Divinist Uprising on Earth, before the North American Union’s army had a chance to mobilize to meet the threat
The mercenaries and militiamen were forced to stay down. The rebels did not mount a full-scale offensive before sunset, but they did apply pressure, staging small raids partway up one section of the hill or another to test the defenses occasionally, and sniping from the neighboring summits constantly. Those were near enough the same height as the one Lon was on that there was danger to anyone who was at all incautious about staying low. Defenses were improved. Rocks were moved. Soil was scraped away for slit trenches, the dirt piled up in front, or packed in as mortar between stones.
Molroney and his men cared for their wounded as best they could without trauma tubes. Most could be stabilized, but two men died of their wounds before sunset. Their bodies were placed with the other militia dead on top of the hill. Those who had fallen in the creek or during the ascent had been left behind. The dead were relieved of ammunition and other supplies that might be useful to the living. Even the weapons and ammunition of the dead rebels had been collected for possible use.
As soon as darkness settled in, the amount of incoming fire decreased by two thirds. Only a fraction of the rebel rifles were equipped with nightscopes, and the night was unrelieved by any glint of starlight. The cloud cover was too thick, and lowering. Captain Molroney predicted fog during the night. “It can get so thick in these hills that you can hardly see your hand at arm’s length,” he told Taiters and Nolan. “And cap all the noise as well. Best damned sound insulation you ever saw. Them rebels could walk on up without us hearing or seeing them.”
“Not a chance,” Taiters replied. “We’ll see them. Fog won’t affect our night-vision gear. It would even make it a little easier to see anyone coming in. Greater temperature difference between the environment and the hot bodies. The one thing fog would do is make it easier for me to bring the rest of my men in from the other side of the creek.”
Molroney nodded slowly. “You do bring ’em in, make sure my people know where and when. I’d hate for any of your men to get shot by us by mistake.”
The two mercenary squads already on the hilltop were spread around the perimeter, two men together so that one could watch while the other slept—or tried to. Taiters and Nolan stood the same watches, as did the Norbanker militia.
It was ten minutes before midnight when the rebels staged their first serious assault. Fog had started to cling to the hillsides and flow into the valley, although the hilltop was still clear. The third and fourth squads from the mercenary platoon had just made it up the west slope at about eleven-thirty. They had moved into positions on the perimeter, giving the defenders more eyes—more night eyes.
The rebels came silently, more than two hundred of them, crawling up the slopes on the east and southeast. Behind them there was no change to the tempo of the sniping. A few rebels got within forty yards of the summit before one of the men in Girana’s squad spotted them. A quick radio call alerted the rest of the mercenaries, and they alerted the militia, almost as silently as the men crawling toward the crest.
It took the mercenaries a couple of minutes to be certain that they had marked how far around on each side the rebels extended. By then the leaders were no more than fifteen yards below the crest, forty yards away laterally. One whole mercenary squad moved into position over the rebels. Lieutenant Taiters signaled Captain Molroney, gesturing, then raised his hand. When Taiters brought the hand back down, quickly, Molroney whistled softly. The militiamen over the rebels started firing down the slopes, unable to see targets until the rebels shot back, but knowing approximately where the enemy was. The mercenaries could see their targets, and fired more effectively. They made the difference. No rebels made it to the crest. Forty died. Most of the rest retreated down the slope, continuing to shoot at the summit as they did.
The second wave came from the north, more men than in the previous attack. This group started its climb while the first was still engaged. They were not spotted as quickly, and there were fewer mercenaries in position above them. As soon as the first shots were fired their way, these rebels got up and charged toward the top of the hill. A series of flares were fired into the air, illuminating everything in a harsh white light.
Molroney ran toward the new attack with a squad of his men. Lon Nolan stayed with them. By the time they reached the north end of the crest, there was hand-to-hand fighting. More than two dozen rebels had already made it to the top, and more were pressing up from below. The few mercenaries who were there found themselves targeted by groups of rebels. The uniforms and helmets of the Dirigenters set them apart.
It was difficult for Lon to tell friend from foe. He was not certain that he knew all of the militiamen by sight, not under these conditions. At first he concentrated on firing at men coming up onto the hilltop. Then he went to the aid of one of his comrades from third platoon. Anyone attacking a mercenary had to be one of the rebels.
Bayonets and rifle butts, feet and fists. The Norbankers, from both sides, were rough-and-tumble fighters, but few if any had any real training at unarmed combat. The Dirigenters were more than able to hold their own, and with the aid of the loyalist militiamen, eventually pushed the rebels off the crest.
They had to do it
on their own, with just the few extra men that Molroney had brought along at the start of the attack, because another foray up the hill had begun, coming over the same ground the first attackers had climbed. And then another probe was launched up the western flank of the hill.
Each small battle was a chaotic realm, independent. The men in one fight could not worry about the others. For the most part they were not even aware of them. Even the Dirigenters with radio links were too hard-pressed to pay attention to anything but the most immediate warnings they heard. A fight fifty yards away might as well have been on a different planet.
Once into the mêlée, Lon discovered that he did not have to worry about being able to identify a Norbanker as friend or foe. Rebels attacked. Militiamen did not.
Hundreds of hours of drill in bayonet and unarmed combat techniques paid off for Lon. Reaction had to be automatic, reflexive, immediate. There was no time to consciously choose and choreograph movements and blows. The trap was that the Norbanker rebels did not have the same sort of training. They were as likely to come up with an unexpected sequence of moves as with one that cadets at The Springs or recruits in DMC training came up against regularly. But they were even more likely to come in with no thought of skilled bayonetplay at all, charging blindly toward a target, screaming, trying to skewer an enemy before he could react.
Lon faced two of those. They were easy to deal with and impossible to forget. Block the rebel’s rifle to the side, let the man’s momentum carry him past, wheel, and either club him with a rifle butt or stick the bayonet into his rib cage. Then make sure that the man would not be able to get up again and resume the fight after your attention had turned elsewhere. And the only way to do that was to make certain that the man was dead.
As the fight continued at the north end of the hill, the Dirigenters gravitated toward each other. As a team they were more than the sum of their individual skills. Lon felt stronger, more confident, with men he knew at his side. The more of them got together, the better he felt. Together, the mercenaries pushed forward, trying to force the rebels off of the hilltop.
The rebels gave ground slowly, reluctantly. Many refused to retreat and fell as the attack lost its momentum. Finally, there were no more rebels left on their feet at the north end of the hill. Lon turned to scan the rest of the crest and spotted the other two areas where fighting was still going on.
“Lieutenant? Should we stay here or move to help?” Lon asked.
“Stay put,” was all that Taiters said.
Tebba Girana touched Lon’s arm, then pointed toward the northwest section of the hilltop. Several Norbanker militiamen were firing down the slope. “Looks like another batch of rebels coming,” Girana said. He detailed three men to stay put and keep watch, then took the rest of the Dirigenters at the north end over to help repel the latest assault.
Eight mercenaries took up positions and fired down into the new rebel force, concentrating on the nearest men, sweeping the upper reaches clear. This time no rebels made it to the top. But there were others coming, in other sections. The rebels appeared to be increasing the frequency of their assaults.
It’s not going to take much more to overwhelm us, Lon thought as he followed Girana and Captain Molroney toward the next location, on the east. We’re not going to last till morning. Where the hell is the rest of the battalion?
25
Two o’clock in the morning. For the first time in more than two hours, the men defending the top of the hill east of Anderson’s Creek had a chance to rest and catch their breath—for a few minutes. Nine separate assaults on the ridge had been repelled … or destroyed. At last the defenders had a chance to regroup, to take care of their wounded and count the dead. Three mercenaries had died; seven others had been wounded, but only two of those were incapacitated by their injuries; anyone who could still move and hold a weapon would have to fight if more attacks came. Ammunition was checked—and scavenged from the dead and those who were too badly wounded to use what they had.
“It’s not good,” Lieutenant Taiters said. Sergeant Dendrow, Captain Molroney, and Cadet Nolan were with him, near the center of the hilltop. “They hit us many more times and we’re not going to have a bullet left.” Some of the militiamen were down to fewer than a half dozen rounds; few had more than twenty. If it were not for captured rebel weapons and ammunition, some of the loyalists would already be without. Among the mercenaries, the situation was not quite so desperate, but no one had a full magazine of rifle ammunition left. And the men with the beamers were all on their last power packs—that meant no more than about fifteen seconds of use.
“Where are the rest of our people?” Molroney asked. “Mine and yours?”
“Off where that gunfire is coming from,” Taiters said. That had been audible for the past twenty minutes, since the last fighting on the hill had ended. “A little more than a mile north of us. Half of our people are there. The rest are about the same distance away to the southwest. They plan to cross the creek at the lowest spot you said could be forded.”
“At best, it’ll take either group twenty minutes to get here, more likely a half hour or more, even without reckoning the opposition,” Platoon Sergeant Dendrow said. “Be more realistic to figure that it’s going to be an hour, minimum.”
“Has that batch to the south of us hit any opposition yet?” Molroney asked.
“Not that I’ve heard,” Taiters said. “Nothing more than a small patrol, anyhow. But the way the land lies, they’ll need longer to get to us than the others, even if the fight to the north ends right now and the group on the south doesn’t have to fight at all before they reach us.”
“We’ve got a good chance yet,” Dendrow said. “Anyway, maybe we’ve blunted the rebels’ enthusiasm. We’ve had—what?—almost twenty-five minutes without any attacks now.”
“They’ll be back,” Molroney said. “They’ve had a taste of blood tonight. And as soon as they find out that we’ve got reinforcements close, they’ll want to finish us off before the odds go against them.”
“They’ve got to be able to hear that shooting, even if they haven’t had any messages get through,” Lon said, his voice as dulled as the others. There was no longer any hint of enthusiasm or excitement left in him. He was even too exhausted for fear.
“I expect you’re right, lad,” Molroney said, glancing toward the sound of the gunfire. “And I expect they’re getting into position for their next attack now. It won’t be long.”
• • •
Molroney and the others had scarcely returned to their positions along the perimeter when the first rebels of a new attack were spotted coming up the slope on the southeast. This time the rebels did not try to stagger their assaults, or overlap them as they had before. They came up both sides and ends of the hill at once.
Short on ammunition for their rifles, the mercenaries freely used their also-dwindling supply of grenades. Conditions were poor for grenade launchers. They were meant for longer range, not for firing downhill at men on a slope below them. The rocket-propelled grenades tended to go too far, or to ricochet away from their targets before exploding. But the Dirigenters used them for as long as possible, aiming them as close as practical. The few remaining hand grenades were husbanded, used when the attackers got to within twenty or twenty-five yards. It was against training to use them that close—the killing radius was nominally thirty yards—but the terrain made it possible.
Lon used his pistol first, saving what ammunition he had left for his rifle until the fight closed to bayonet range. Sometimes a blade would not come free and had to be blown loose with a bullet. He emptied the magazine in his pistol and reloaded—his last clip for the handgun. When that too was empty, Lon had no time to reholster the weapon. He merely dropped it in his hurry to get his right hand back on his rifle stock. The rebels were almost to the crest.
Lon’s mind had attained a sort of numbness, insulation against the havoc around him, the killing and dying, the odor of gunpowder and fear,
the sight of blood and gore. Conscious thought was virtually absent. His training carried him and his comrades—as it was meant to do.
At first he was not even aware of the slash he took across the left side of his body, a tear from the armpit to the bottom rib. A rebel had come at him with a bayonet, and Lon had been just a fraction of a second slow in his attempt to parry the thrust. Lon turned toward the man, bringing his rifle butt up and around, and clubbed him from behind as the rebel’s momentum carried him by. Then Lon took a step closer and brought his own bayonet down into the middle of the fallen man’s back, twisting the blade as it went in, then propping a foot on the man’s back as he pulled the blade back out, slicing, snapping a rib.
Someone else bumped into Lon, staggering him. He turned as he fought to regain his balance, and almost fell. The man who had bumped into him was on the ground, dead. It was a Dirigenter. Lon knelt and opened the helmet visor—Raphael Macken, from Girana’s squad.
Sorry, Mack, Lon thought. There was time for no more. He was already back on his feet, looking for the next man he would have to fight. Rebels were still coming up the slope.
It looks like this is it. Lon raised his rifle and fired at one man who was a clear target—ten feet away. That man tumbled backward, off of the crest. Lon saw movement to his left and turned, bringing his rifle around to parry another reckless bayonet charge.
But this rebel did not depend on the blade his rifle carried. Lon saw a muzzle flash and felt fiery pain in his shoulder as the bullet spun him halfway around. His return shot was a reflex. That it hit at all was absolute chance; that it destroyed the rebel’s face was incredible serendipity. Lon watched the man he had just shot stagger backward before he fell, dead three steps before he fell, unaware that he himself was falling, settling to the ground almost in slow motion. It was not until his buttocks hit rock and he fell backward that Lon realized what had happened to him.