by Rick Shelley
Spencer moved from tree to tree in a low crouch, heading for a point fifty yards from the line of march. He was still in the tended wooded area, not the wild woodland that half of I&R platoon had entered. He moved carefully, stopping to look around, scanning, still asking himself what he had seen, or what he thought he had seen. Something that didn’t belong, was as close as he could come. It was instinct, a feeling that there was something in these woods that shouldn’t be—or something missing that should have been present. He trusted his instincts.
David put the rest of the company, and the main mission, out of mind and focused totally on what he was doing. All he wanted was an answer to a nagging question, assurance that all was right with the area, or some tag so that he would know what was wrong.
By the time he reached the point he had been working toward, David’s thinking had progressed to, It can’t be something on the ground. That was too open. Anything out of the ordinary on the ground would have stuck out like a twelve-inch thumb. So he concentrated on searching the foliage overhead. David was no botanist, but he could see that there were two primary types of tree in the grove. The evergreens would give little cover to anyone attempting to hide in them. Some of the deciduous trees might, even though most of those were in the process of shedding their leaves for the winter.
A sniper? That was the obvious guess, but it did not feel right. Why would the Feddies have a sniper sitting up in atree, well away from the rest of them? Supposedly, they hadn’t had time to make any preparations. But what else could it be? David shook his head, a minimal gesture that scarcely moved his helmet. I’ll know whenever I find whatever it was I saw.
He scanned the lower reaches of the canopy around him, letting his gaze move from the tree trunks out along the major branches, looking for anything that did not seem appropriate. Although he took pains to be thorough, he still scanned quickly, letting “normal” things pass almost without notice.
He was no more than eight yards away, laterally, when he finally spotted the anomaly that had caught his subconscious attention. The object was fifteen feet up in a tree, wedged between the lowest branch and the trunk, a camouflaged lump about a foot in diameter, almost a cube. The camouflage pattern did not quite fit the surroundings. David stopped where he was still mostly sheltered by another tree trunk, and stared at the object, wondering what it might be and why it was there.
“Captain?” he whispered. The radio circuits were sensitive enough that McAuliffe would have heard even a subvocal call.
“What?” McAuliffe asked.
David described what he had found. “It’s far too large to be a snoop, and if it’s a mine, it’s like none I’ve ever seen, wrapped in a camouflage cloth.”
McAuliffe scarcely hesitated. “Tag the location so we can find it later, and get back here at the double. As long as it’s nothing that threatens what we’re doing now.”
“I don’t see how it could.”
Another building imploded as it burned. Three others followed in quick succession. None appeared to be single-family dwellings, but they were small buildings. One had a sign on the front that indicated that it had been a pub. There were no civilians in sight of the I&R platoon.
Tory Kepner listened to a flurry of conversation that included McAuliffe and Spencer. They were talking aboutother conversations, so Tory and the other platoon sergeants could only follow part of it. Delta had spotted a couple of dozen civilians, farther down the road, beyond the burned out stretch. They were being guarded by a squad of Feddies, but were far enough off that those soldiers should not be a factor in the fight.
“Apart from that squad, the rough count we have shows ninety-seven Feddies,” McAuliffe continued. “Maybe a dozen doing the burning, the rest in defensive positions.”
Tory frowned. That was new. In each of the other instances, there had been no protective perimeter. I guess they’re finally learning, he thought. But the number was much lower than the estimate they had been given coming in.
Switching to his platoon channel, he said, “Wait for the command. Don’t get antsy.”
He started to track a target, the muzzle of his rifle moving just enough to keep the Feddie in the crosshairs of his sights. Tory kept his breathing even and shallow. It was too easy to let combat, or the anticipation of combat, screw up the body’s rhythms. Adrenaline was necessary, but it could get out of hand, reach a level where it did more harm than good. Even a veteran could get carried away.
“Commence firing.”
Tory pulled the trigger before the last syllable was out of Captain McAuliffe’s mouth, and saw his target pitch forward. That was the only easy mark though. The rest of the Feddies were quick to take cover, almost as quick to return fire.
The I&R platoon had about thirty seconds in which it was the only Commonwealth unit engaging the enemy. Then the rest of H&S Company, as well as Alpha and Delta, joined in. The Federation unit had little chance of holding out, and none of escaping. They weren’t dug in, and few of the Feddies had cover on every side. In each of the last few engagements, the Feddies had needed very little time to realize their plight and surrender.
This time was different.
The I&R platoon did not realize that new fire had enteredthe fight at first. With the rest of their company behind them, they weren’t directly taking fire from behind. Both Alpha and Delta found themselves in cross fires, though, with the preponderance coming from their rear. Within minutes, all three companies knew that they were being attacked from the rear. Some platoons took heavy casualties, caught with no cover on what they had thought was the safe side.
“Tory!” Spencer’s call was almost a shout in Kepner’s ear. “You concentrate on our original target. The other companies are each leaving one platoon to help you. The rest of us have our hands full.”
“Any idea how many of them there are?”
“Not a clue. So many red blips came on close together that we can’t get a good count. You concentrate on what’s in front of you. Move in as you can and put the heat to them.”
Tory could not put the new threat out of mind, but he did not let that persistent itch detract from the job. It wasn’t possible for his men to move much closer without going into the open where they would be easy targets, but he did move those men who could get even a few feet closer.
“Pick up the fire,” he told his men. “We’ve got to sweat these birds out fast.”
Farther back, Spencer had gotten his clerks, cooks, and others turned to face the new threat. “Come on, lads. It’s time to play the hero. Fire and maneuver.” He had identified two concentrations of enemy electronics two hundred yards behind the company and a hundred yards apart. The idea was for H&S to move close enough that the Feddies wouldn’t be able to link up, without getting so close that the company would be in a cross fire.
One platoon stayed put. The others started to move, one squad from each platoon rushing to the next cover while the rest laid down covering fire. After that first move, the rest was crawling. Getting any higher off of the ground would have been suicidal. David moved with his clerks. Even after all of the training he had put them through, most were still awkward at this business. For some of them, it was the firsttime that they had been at serious risk. But they gave it everything they had. And once they were in position, the volume of fire they put out—if not their accuracy—would have done credit to any line platoon.
“We just need to keep them pinned,” Spencer told his men. “If we can hold these, Alpha and Delta can do the real work.”
The Federation soldiers showed no inclination to move forward, or to try to link up, merely holding position. Nor were they putting out any great volume of fire at H&S Company. David frowned. What’s the point? It’s as if they’re just trying to hold us in position too.
“Captain, can we get one of the Spacehawks to do a low flyby? I’ve got the feeling there’s more to this than we’ve seen. These Feddies are playing it too cozy. There must be something else hanging over us
.”
“Hold on. I’ll check.” McAuliffe talked to the other company commanders first, then called CIC. He did not get a chance to make his request though. Before he could do more than identify himself, the radio talker had news.
“A Feddie fleet has just popped out of Q-space, in close. You’ll have to hang on until we get this under control.” Then the link was broken as Sheffield jumped into Q-space.
McAuliffe started to switch back to his link with Spencer, but before he did, the package that David had spotted—and four similar packages that had not been seen—exploded. They were incendiary devices that spewed shards of white-hot shrapnel and white phosphorus out in a circle around them, reaching as much as fifty yards away directly and setting scores of trees on fire.
14
The attack showed remarkable coordination between the Federation fleet and the troops on the ground. The two could not have communicated before the fleet emerged from Q-space over Coventry, and there was scarcely time for any extended planning between that event and the sequel. On the ground, Commonwealth forces in a half dozen different locations were attacked virtually simultaneously. At the same time, eight frigates appeared in near space, racing in on attack headings, managing to bring all of the Commonwealth ships under fire within thirty seconds.
There was nothing that Admiral Greene could do but order his fleet to make a tactical withdrawal through Q-space to a planned rendezvous while CIC sorted through the new data and came up with a more aggressive response. There wasn’t even time for Sheffield and Hull to retrieve the fighters they had out on reconnaissance and ground support missions. Those Spacehawks that did not have fuel to wait for their ships to return had to land—near Commonwealth Marines, if they had a choice. And, while the fleet was gone, the Marines were on their own.
The movement of First Battalion’s H&S Company was hardly a retreat. There were Feddies in front and in back of them. But David Spencer’s men had to move—those who were still alive. The fires started by the incendiary devices in the trees gave them no other option. Those who were unharmed, or only slightly injured, helped those who were hurt more seriously. When possible, even the dead were dragged clear of the flames. The Royal Marines did not like to abandon any of their men. They moved in the least dangerous direction, toward the I&R platoon. That had not been affected by the fire bombs. While his men scrambled away from the flames, Spencer struggled to keep some sense of organization and tried to tote up the losses. It was hard to get full reports in the first minutes, and Spencer could hardly take time to examine each man’s vitals on his visor display—not while he was dragging one of his clerks to medical help.
It took time before David even realized exactly what had happened. I knew there was something wrong about that packet in the tree, was a bitter thought. Leave it till later, the captain had said. It’s no threat now. Hah. Then they had moved almost directly under the devices without taking notice.
“Remind me to trust your hunches after this,” McAuliffe said when he and Spencer came face-to-face. “They had the place booby-trapped.”
“It’s easy to look smart after the fact, sir,” David said. “Truth is, I wasn’t thinking hard enough back then.”
“First things first. Let’s see to our wounded, find out how many dead we’ve got, then get reorganized.”
“Aye, sir. I know we’ve got at least three dead, men right under one of the bombs.”
“What about you? How’s that arm and shoulder?”
David looked where the captain was pointing. The left sleeve of his battledress was burned through, and the field skin under showed the marks of being seared. It was starting to curl in, a sure sign that the organisms of the skin were dying. Field skins were one of the high points of molecular engineering. Fitting like a body stocking, a field skin was a colony animal that covered everything but face and hands—an artificial symbiont, drawing nourishment from its wearer’s wastes, providing insulation and even some help in minimizing injuries.
“I hadn’t felt it,” David said. “Still don’t. I guess the field skin kept the fire off.”
“You’ll need a new one as soon as we get the chance.”
“Aye, sir. Too bad they couldn’t save everyone.”
“There’s a limit. Come on. Let’s get busy. We’ve got to get back in this fight.”
Tory Kepner had no objection to being called the most cautious man in I&R. Caution was important to him. He did what he had to do, but tried to maximize his chances of getting home to his wife and son. Still there were times when a Marine had to make choices, and sometimes the properly cautious method was not a real option.
“We can’t take all day. There’s big trouble behind us,” he told his squad and fire team leaders. “The rest of the company walked into some sort of trap. They’re trying to sort things out now. We’ve got to finish here and get back to help.”
He took a moment more to think. Lieutenant Nuchol had been less helpful than usual. “You’ve had more combat experience than I have,” Nuchol had told him. “I trust your judgment.” There were times when that response was appropriate. This was not one of them. Tory forced himself to step through the situation in his head. There were two buildings close enough to shelter Feddies, and most of the rest of the enemy had gotten into better cover than they had had before, at the edge of the next area of trees. Anything the platoon could do was going to be risky.
“Get the grenade launchers busy,” was his first decision. “Keep popping them in until I say different.” Each squad had one launcher, two other men carrying extra clips of rocket-propelled grenades for it. But the supply was limited. A full load for a squad was only six five-grenade clips.
“Fix bayonets,” was Tory’s next order, followed by, “I want maximum covering fire when we move. One team moving, three teams supporting, on each side. Spread out on the move, and let’s set some speed records. At my order.”
The lieutenant said nothing to contradict or amend Tory’s orders. Kepner waited, giving the grenadiers time to lay in three more shots apiece before he gave the order to move. Tory took his fire team out first, angling to the left, stopping at the last vestige of cover from the trees. Alfie’s fire teamwas next, then the teams from second squad, one at a time, each moving a little farther out. After the first move, there was no cover but short grass. The men angled themselves toward the enemy, hiding behind their helmets as much as they could.
Over to the right, third and fourth squads moved in the same fashion. For a time, they had a little more cover, but then they too moved out into the open.
Lieutenant Nuchol moved with fourth squad, keeping his rifle busy. For the moment, an extra gun was more important than trying to exercise any leadership but that of example. He recognized fear in himself, a thumping heart and a tightness in his face, but there was no time for it. Fire and move. Cover the other teams. Move with your own. Keep shooting—short bursts. Six days of minor skirmishes had not made him an expert, or that much of a combat veteran, but Frank Nuchol knew all of the moves, and he didn’t forget any of them.
The grenade that bounced ten feet in front of Nuchol killed two privates from fourth squad instantly. The lieutenant felt an instant of intense pain before he lost consciousness.
“Hey, Kep!” Will Cordamon, third squad’s sergeant, shouted over the noncoms’ channel. “The lieutenant’s down, and two men from fourth squad. I think all three of them have had it.”
Tory could only spare a brief glance in that direction. Sorting out casualties would have to wait until after the fight.
Get up and run, firing almost blindly. Drop to the ground and fire with more precision, but worry more about volume of fire than accuracy. Make the other fellow duck, spoil his aim, give your mates a chance to get closer.
Only one man in I&R was not satisfied with suppressing enemy fire. Geoffrey Dayle tried to make every shot count. The Feddies were on his world, burning out his people. It wasn’t enough to keep their head down. Dayle wanted to take the
m off.
A few Feddies tried to run as the I&R platoon closed inon them, but they had no place to go except into the sights of other Commonwealth Marines. Most of the Feddies held their positions and continued to fire. It looked as if the fight would end in hand-to-hand combat, with the Feddies still holding a slight advantage in numbers. But they were surrounded, and all the Commonwealth Marines really needed to do was continue to pare down the numbers of the Feddies. Finally, the Feddies dropped their weapons and raised their hands. A few started to stand.
Tory was a little slow ordering his men to stop firing. Geoffrey Dayle shot two more Federation soldiers as they stood with raised hands. Kepner shouted at Dayle to stop.
“What the hell are you doing? They’re surrendering.”
Dayle brought his rifle down slowly, his hands gripping it so tightly that his knuckles shone white. “They ain’t proper soldiers. They’re murderers, arsonists,” he said.
“Proper or not, you’re out of line. Back off!” Tory moved toward Dayle quickly. This had to be stopped in a hurry, before it could get further out of hand … and before the wrong person saw what was happening.
Dayle took a single step back but did not turn his attention away from the Federation soldiers. Some forty were on their feet. Another dozen were on the ground, wounded. Most of them watched the Marine who had continued shooting after the surrender. Dayle stared back, his frown changing into a look of deep concentration. Something’s not right here, he thought, but it took time for it to surface through the intense emotions that were battering his head.