by Rick Shelley
Captain McAuliffe’s orders had been simple, and vague. “Get behind them and do your thing. Keep their minds occupied as best you can without getting tied down and chewed up. Keep moving.”
“Why don’t we just blow up their shuttles, sir?” Tory had asked. “Make them wish they’d left more blokes to protect them.”
McAuliffe had smiled. “That was my first thought too, but if they want to leave, let them. Let them try.”
“Aye, sir. I get your meaning.”
“What we want most right now is to keep them away from the civilians, stop them doing any more burning. And the more of them you put down hard, the fewer we’ll have to worry about.”
So, with only a few minutes to rest and grab a quick drink and an energy bar from a meal pack, Tory led his men out again. They moved east first, into the woods, then south. Tory planned to make a wide circle to get behind the Feddies who were already beginning their attack against the section of Commonwealth line being held by Alpha and Delta companies. The I&R men moved at the best pace theycould manage through the forest, stopping only once, when they had to cross the road. If the Feddies had left anyone to watch that, the crossing could be difficult.
Tory sent scouts in both directions to look for any ambush. The rest of the platoon used the time to rest—four minutes, maybe five. The scouts reported that they had seen nothing. They would stay where they were to cover the rest as they crossed the road. When that was done, the I&R platoon was closer to the enemy shuttles than to any of the enemy infantry, except for the few men who had been left with the crews to guard the landers.
Once west of the road, Tory paused and looked south. He could see the upper rear corner of one of the shuttles. It was tempting: attack the shuttles, make the Feddies either send more men to guard them, or make the crews take off—if any of the landers survived the attack. Tory shook his head and moved on. Maybe later, he thought. The captain might change his mind.
The platoon stopped again ten minutes later. Tory took time to confer with his noncoms. “We’ll hit them first right near the south end of their line, from behind. Then we’ll move north and hit them again, as close to the far end as we can. If we can force them into a full defensive perimeter, the rest of our blokes can close them in proper, put them in the tin.”
Alfie crawled carefully into position, his rifle across his arms as he snaked along on his belly. He only lifted his head to look occasionally, keeping his visor almost in the dirt the rest of the time. The nearest Federation troops were eighty yards off, unless they had sentries hidden in the woods behind their main formation, and Alfie had seen nothing to suggest that that might be the case. Feddies were often a little careless about defensive measures. Their focus had always been on the attack.
But Alfie never took that carelessness for granted. I’ve got to keep my head firmly planted on my shoulders, he thought. What would Tory do without me? He did not bother to smile at his joke. Once he had taken his position, Alfielooked to each side to make sure that his fire team was with him, and ready. Then he reported to Tory.
“Hang on,” Tory replied. “Another few seconds. Will hasn’t got his people set yet.”
We should have brought more ammo, Alfie thought. If we get pinned down we could run short in a hurry. “Don’t get too wild with your ammo,” he warned his fire team. “Use what you need to, but don’t waste it.”
Tory’s few seconds stretched to a minute before he gave the order, “Ready … fire!” The entire platoon opened up at once.
The Feddies did not need long to realize that they were now under attack from behind. At first, there was only scattered return fire. Then the Feddies got more organized. Two squads turned to cover their rear.
“Put in a volley of grenades,” Tory said. “Withdraw as soon as they go off.”
The platoon had six grenade launchers left. Each grenadier had a clip of grenades in his launcher. The rounds went out almost simultaneously, ripping through leaves and snapping small branches on their trajectories, giving warning to the Feddies that they were coming.
As soon as the series of explosions sounded, the I&R platoon started withdrawing, moving more rapidly than they had coming in, using the few seconds they had before the Feddies could recover from the grenades and take them under fire again. After that it was fire and maneuver, a squad at a time moving, pulling back, west. It was not until they had broken contact with the Feddies that Tory turned them north and picked up the pace. They ran.
Geoffrey Dayle had forgotten his exhaustion. He felt exhilaration now, even running much too fast for the tangled terrain. Branches caught at his sleeves and roots threatened to trip him and bring him down. That didn’t matter. Neither did the difficulty he was having sucking in enough air to maintain his progress. This is the payoff, he told himself. This is where we take them all down.
Dayle had moved out in front of the others. He even passed Alfie Edwards, whose fire team had been farthestnorth when they started the first attack. Twice, Tory Kepner told Dayle to slow down, but the admonitions never took for more than a few seconds.
“Far enough!” Tory finally said, on to the entire platoon. “Here’s where we move in again.” Switching from the platoon channel to his private link with Dayle, Tory said, “You slow down, damn it. This is no one-man crusade. You stick with me the way you’re supposed to.”
Dayle didn’t speak. He couldn’t have managed the air to do more than grunt. But he turned toward Tory and nodded, shallowly. Slowing down seemed like a good idea—at least until he got his wind back.
Again the platoon started to work its way cautiously toward the east, toward the enemy. At first, they stayed on their feet, crouched over, presenting the least possible exposure, and staying behind the cover of trees and bushes as much as they could as they moved in. Even in thick forest there was little chance that they would be able to get as close this time without being seen. After their first strike, the Feddies would certainly have sentries watching their rear. No commander could be so incompetent as to miss doing that after one warning.
Tory stopped his platoon while they were still more than 120 yards from where he expected to find the enemy. The woods were thicker here, the lowest branches of many of the trees almost brushing the ground. At 120 yards, it would take luck to see anything. Tory was not about to discount luck, good or bad.
“Alfie, slide your team in until you can see them, then let me know where they are,” Tory said. “The rest of us will wait here.”
Alfie clicked his transmitter on and off to tell Tory that he had heard and would comply. Then he used hand signals to get his fire team moving forward again. A flat palm gesturing downward told the others to stay flat. An index finger poked forward told them what direction they were going in. Alfie stayed in front of the others. While they watched for the enemy, they would also give a little attention to watching Alfie for more signals.
If Alfie had moved slowly the first time, now he managed to crab along at an even slower pace, being careful to avoid disturbing branches or leaves that might give a sharp-eyed enemy a clue to his presence. Tory had not needed to warn him that the Feddies would be more alert this time. Alfie had almost as much time in the platoon as its sergeant. And he always did his best to anticipate what the enemy might do, what he would do if the situation were reversed.
After he had crawled thirty yards, taking fifteen minutes to do so, Alfie gestured for his companions to stop. Then he cranked the pickups for his earphones to their maximum gain and listened for sounds in front of him. The gunfire was a distraction, but it was far enough away that it didn’t threaten his hearing.
That’s way too far off, he realized after a moment. He cranked the volume down and called Tory. “That shooting is all way over to our right. I think we’ve moved right past the end of the Feddie line.”
“Try angling a little to the southeast then,” Tory said. “We still have to know where they are.”
Alfie clicked his transmitter, then started movi
ng again, changing direction slowly. He picked up his pace a little as well. If they had gone past the end of the enemy line, this might be the one angle they would not be expected to come from. But Alfie slowed down again after just a couple of minutes. Caution overruled his assumption. He stopped and took a breath. Carefully, he stretched each arm and leg in turn to keep from cramping up. Then he started forward again, at a pace that a snail would have little trouble exceeding. There was a particularly dense tangle of undergrowth in front of him, apparently growing out of a low knob of soil. He had to move several yards to the side, east, to get around it. There was no chance of getting through it without causing more motion in the greenery than he dared to chance.
He was not all of the way around the end of the thicket when he came to a dead stop again. He had almost crawled right into the middle of the enemy. Three Federation soldierswere sheltered on the other side of the thicket, not ten feet away from him.
Alfie froze. For once, it was not just training or instinct. There was a distinct element of fear added in. It seemed impossible that he had gotten so close to the enemy in daylight without being seen, and it seemed even less likely that he would be able to withdraw without being noticed. This near the enemy, he did not even dare use the radio to warn his companions that they were almost in Feddie drawers. The slightest whisper might be heard.
He wanted to close his eyes, but he could not—dared not. If any of the Feddies started to make a move, he needed to be quick to respond. With his rifle across his arms for crawling, he might not be able to get it into position in time to get off a single shot.
Alfie could hear his heart beating, ticking off the seconds—perhaps his final seconds of life. He expected to hear one of his companions on the radio, asking what was keeping him, a sound that might be loud enough to reach the Feddies, draw their eyes his way. A fraction of an inch at a time, Alfie started to move his arms, trying to get into a position that would let him get his rifle up and into action. He had little room to maneuver, though, and there was the constant fear that even his very slow, very slight movements might be enough to draw the attention of one of the Feddies.
No one ever said you’d live forever in the RM, Alfie thought. He wished he had a hand grenade that he could pop over the hump of dirt, but he didn’t. He had an urge to simply grab for the trigger and foreguard of his rifle, start shooting as he lurched forward, hoping to be enough of a surprise to survive the encounter. That sort of show was common enough in the action vids that he had watched growing up on Buckingham, but his years as a Marine had given him a more realistic opinion of the consequences that type of reckless gesture was likely to bring.
One of the enemy helmets turned a little, almost directly toward Alfie. There were no eyes visible. The visor of the Feddie helmet was tinted the same way that Commonwealth helmets were, presenting a totally nonreflective surface. Alfiefroze again, and did not resume his slow shifting around until the helmet turned away again.
This is no good, Alfie decided. It’d take me thirty minutes this way. And even thirty seconds might be too long. But he kept inching around, pulling one hand back and moving the other arm a little to the side, trying to give himself the best chance of getting his rifle into action, while he desperately tried to think of a better alternative.
When a single shot sounded, fifty yards to Alfie’s right and behind him, he was so startled that he almost jumped up involuntarily. Then there was a flurry of shooting, and one voice screaming almost incomprehensible epithets at the Feddies.
That’s Dayle, Alfie thought. But he was already moving. The three Feddies he could see had turned their attention to the side and had started to shoot back. Alfie got his rifle in position and lurched up to his knees, almost falling forward as he spread a quick burst of rifle fire among the Feddies who had held him motionless for so long.
Then there was more incoming fire, but not from so close. Alfie dove in among the bodies of the three men he had just killed, and called Tory.
“They were waiting for us.”
25
The arrival of a new Commonwealth fleet had caused the Federation battle group to retreat to Q-space. No one in the combined Commonwealth task forces expected the retreat to be permanent, however. As soon as the enemy devised a plan to meet the new situation, they would almost certainly be back.
“We simply can’t give them any time,” Admiral Greene said on a link that included all of the ships’ captains and Rear Admiral Regina Osgood, who had her flag on HMS Cornwall, one of the two battlecruisers among the new arrivals. “The Feddies still have us outgunned. We have to get the Fourth on the ground fast, before the Feddies come back. We’ll use the battlecruisers for high cover. Let the frigates go as low as they can without skimming air, and use all of the fighters to cover the landings.”
“We’re ready to launch the Fourth,” Osgood replied. “I had the men in their shuttles when we came out of Q-space.”
It was only the work of another minute to get tactical dispositions to all of the captains. In eight minutes, all of the ships would be in position to launch the Marines of the Fourth Regiment and cover them on their way down. Most of the shuttles would remain on the ground afterward, at least temporarily, available to ferry men and supplies—as conditions permitted.
“I want to get the various scattered elements of the Second Regiment back together as quickly as we can,” Greene said, “subject to tactical considerations on the ground.”
It was during those eight minutes while the fleet was movinginto position that CIC received the first reports from the surface about the earlier Federation landings. CIC immediately relayed that news to Admiral Greene. “It looks as if their shuttles grounded half filled, as if they’re trying to pick up the men they already had on the ground and make a fighting withdrawal.”
Greene and Osgood, with their respective operations chiefs on line, discussed the possibilities over a holographic link.
“Do we let them withdraw?” Osgood asked. “If they abandon Coventry, we’ve won without risking anything more.”
Paul Greene could not reject the suggestion out of hand, although that was his inclination. Even with the arrival of Cornwall and the other ships accompanying HMS Charlotte, the Fourth’s transport, Greene’s force was still not equal to the Federation battle group. The presence of two dreadnoughts insured that. Contesting the withdrawal meant chancing serious losses, and the Commonwealth could scarcely afford to lose capital ships. Landing Marines under combat conditions, when the enemy might be able to launch fighters to hunt shuttles, could be costly as well.
“We take them,” Greene said after a moment’s reflection, to convince himself that his instinctive response was the correct one. “We’re talking about serious war crimes on the ground here, Regina. They have systematically attempted to destroy every foundation for human settlement on an entire world and run the entire population out into the wild. It’s been a thousand years since humans treated other humans that badly. We can’t let them walk away from it, certainly not on one of our core worlds.”
Osgood did not argue. “I had to make the suggestion, Paul, but I don’t like the idea of letting them walk either.” She hesitated. “I don’t think it would play well back on Buckingham either. The Admiralty left the decision to you, but there’s been publicity about what the Federation has done here, and public sentiment is very strong.”
Greene nodded. “Let’s get the Fourth ashore before the
Feddie ships come back. We’re ninety seconds from shuttle launch.”
People from a dozen homes along the east side of the road had joined in the rescue efforts started by Joseph Evans and the Bailey father and son. They hauled wounded civilians in from their backyards and the verge of the forest. Houses that had already been crowded with residents and other refugees overflowed now with the addition of casualties.
A few Marine medical orderlies had come to help treat the casualties, but there were too many wounded for any but the most seri
ously hurt to get immediate treatment. There were not nearly enough trauma tubes available, and the Marines could not abandon their own casualties completely. Even some individuals with life-threatening wounds had to wait and take their chances. The only good news was that no additional casualties were suffered by civilians during the rescue operation. The ground fighting was far enough away, and no Federation aircraft returned.
West of the homes, the fighting continued.
Alfie Edwards and his fire team had been unable to withdraw. They were pinned down; but with the rest of their platoon providing covering fire, the Feddies couldn’t get at them.
I wish I was a mole, Alfie thought. Twenty minutes of hearing bullets flying by too close for comfort had taken their effect on his nerves. Twice, grenades had exploded close by, but each time the fire team had been saved by all of the wood around them. They had crawled into the dense thicket that had occasioned their predicament in the first place. Only a grenade that dropped right in among them would be certain to cause serious damage, and the profusion of tree trunks made that prospect slight.
Just lie here and wait, Alfie reminded himself. He had told his companions the same thing, several times. It had been ten minutes since he had even dared try a shot at the Feddies who had them pinned down. The odds against weresimply too long. Let the other blokes handle the heroics this time. Just stay alive.
“Stalemate so far, Alfie-lad,” Tory said. “They can’t get at you. They can’t get at us.”
“But you can’t get to us either.”
“Soon enough, Alfie. It’s not just us. The rest of our lads are doing what they can. Alpha’s pushing in from your left, trying to force the Feddies south, and they’re sending a platoon around to reinforce us here. Just keep your head and arse down.”
I can’t get them down any farther unless somebody shovels dirt in my face, Alfie thought. That image caused a deep shiver. Getting dirt shoveled in his face was an all-too-likely prospect.