by Rick Shelley
“That’s what I’m thinking. I could be all wrong, but this gives me an itch I can’t scratch. If they wanted to, they could probably hold this ridge long enough for their reinforcements to land, and moving exposes them to dangers they can’t be sure of accurately gauging. Unless ….” He let that hang.
Lon hesitated a moment before he replied. “I wouldn’t put it past them, but if we detour completely around we’re going to lose a couple of hours, give them that much more chance to put distance between us and settle themselves in somewhere new.” Another hesitation. “I think we have to take our chances, Vel, but I’ll put several squads out to cover the ground before the rest of us move through. Thanks for the warning.”
Lon switched channels to call the commanders of his 1st and 3rd Battalions, Ted Syscy and Benjamin Dark. “Get your best scouts out to look for traps in the area the New Spartans have just vacated. Tell them to be especially careful. I know they always are, but even more than usual. There’s a damned good chance the enemy has left something extra behind to catch us with our pants down.”
Both of the battalion commanders acknowledged the order. “It might be nothing more than that they’ve had time to register every rock and tree on that slope for their rocket artillery, with spotters to pass the word where we are,” Syscy added. Early in his career, before transferring to 1st Battalion, he had spent a year in the regiment’s heavy-weapons battalion. He considered himself an expert on artillery. “No way to tell how many of the big rockets they’ve got left to dump on us.”
“I hope there’s nothing more to it than that, Ted,” Lon said, “but we’ve just about got their rocket launchers out of range, unless they have even more they haven’t used, and that’s unlikely. They’ve already shown a lot more than they should have had. I’m guessing that it’s something more like a thick screen of command-detonated mines, concealed well enough that a casual patrol might go past without spotting them. Something on that order. Hard telling what they’ve dreamed up. Just tell your patrols to be alert for anything.”
“How much time do we have to get the scouts through?” Syscy asked.
“Not enough, I’m afraid. We can’t give the New Spartans a minute more than absolutely necessary. I can’t funnel enough men around the flanks fast enough to catch and hold them until the rest of us tiptoe across the ridge. I’m going to move everyone as close as we can, then … well, we’ll give your men a few minutes. Not many.”
“We’ll do what we can,” Syscy said. Dark clicked his transmitter to agree.
Lon had kept moving during this conference. As soon as it was over, he signaled Phip to change direction, angling southeast instead of north of east—to throw off any enemy response if they had been tracking the detachment. There were more orders to pass, and Lon had to apprise Fal Jensen of what 7th Regiment was going to do. Keep the pressure up on both sides. Make sure the New Spartans have to withdraw slowly, under fire. Don’t give them time for anything else. The New Spartans had come out to north and south to hold off the Dirigenters, letting the rest of their force withdraw through the gap. Then the flanks had closed in behind, withdrawing in orderly fashion.
They’re doing it awfully well, Lon thought with grudging admiration. An orderly withdrawal under heavy enemy pressure was one of the hardest maneuvers to accomplish, and it could be extremely costly in lost men, even if the withdrawal did not turn into a mindless rout. And Lon saw no indication that this was likely to degenerate into a mad retreat. That would be a major surprise, he thought.
He finally called a halt for his headquarters detachment, no more than three hundred yards from the van of 1st and 3rd Battalions, which was near the foot of the hill the New Spartans had evacuated less than an hour before. There had been considerably more destruction to the forest here. Few trees were still standing and unmarked by the fighting. There was a smell of smoke and gunpowder heavy on the air, clinging.
Lon sat in the crook between two trees that had fallen, one across the other. Snapped and bent branches, charred and wilted leaves formed something of a canopy over his head. He lifted the faceplate of his helmet, then took one of his canteens from his belt. He splashed a little water on his face and rubbed the water around. That helped more than the sip of water he actually drank. That had a slightly bitter metallic taste to it, the taste of gunpowder and burned wood that was already on his lips and in his mouth. The smell of fire was heavy on the air. Lon considered opening a meal pack for a couple of mouthfuls of food but decided against it. Food could wait a little longer.
The scouting patrols from 1st and 3rd Battalions were halfway to the ridge, near the second line of slit trenches that had been dug by the New Spartans. So far the patrols had not found anything unexpected. In fact, there was a dearth of land mines, booby traps, and electronic snoops—the very items that a well-equipped enemy would be most likely to leave behind to slow pursuit. Either they’ve run out of everything or they are very anxious to have us follow as quickly as possible, Lon thought, recalling Vel Osterman’s warning. And we can’t assume that they’re out of anything.
He stared up the slope, squinting, as if that might help him spot an answer from a distance when the men walking the ground had not found anything. Something. He shook his head, which was becoming all too frequent a gesture for comfort. If we can’t find whatever they have in mind, maybe we can trick them into tipping their hand a little too soon.
Maybe. Lon signaled for Phip to come to him. “Listen closely,” Lon said after both men had raised their faceplates. “I want to try something a little unusual.” He spent two minutes explaining exactly what he wanted done, going back over everything a second time; then he made Phip repeat the instructions back to him, to make certain there was no confusion. “I don’t know that this is going to do us any good, but I think we need to do something.”
“Okay, I see your point,” Phip said. “I think it’s probably a crazy waste of time, but we’re better off with that than maybe walking into something that’ll kill any chance we have of finishing this job the way we want to. I’ll grab Dorcetti and get started.” Then he hurried off to implement Lon’s instructions, hardly hearing the softly sardonic “Glad you approve” Lon sent after him.
Lon pulled his faceplate down and checked the time. We’ve been on this world less than seventy-two hours, he thought with amazement. It seemed far longer. All he could do now was wait to see if his ruse would work … if there was anything up there. Ten minutes. Phip would need that much time to get started, and the scouts high on the slope would need that much time to reach the ridge and take cover. Lon settled himself more comfortably behind the two tree trunks. Maybe it is crazy, he conceded, but if it isn’t, maybe this will save some lives as well as time.
He took another drink of water, a little more than before. The taste hadn’t improved. His mouth and throat remained dry. If this doesn’t turn anything, we’re going to have to just go ahead and move forward. We can’t take the time to move most of a regiment around on either side. And there’s no guarantee the New Spartans didn’t leave deadly surprises for us there.
He glanced at the timeline on his visor display again. The seconds seemed to be marching in place instead of moving forward the way they should. Time: In perhaps as little as fifty-five hours, the New Spartans would have another regiment on the ground, or landing. There’s no way we can face what they have on the ground now and what’s coming at the same time. They’ll run all over us. Lon closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath, as deep as he could, holding it before expelling it just as slowly, tried to ignore the bitter odor on the air. Even that spent less than a minute of the waiting time. Phip hadn’t even had time yet to tell everyone what they were going to do.
I should have saved some of the work for myself, split it with Phip. That would have kept my mind busy and made the waiting shorter, Lon thought, but it was too late to change that. All he could do was suffer through the waiting. Another seven minutes to go, at least. Phip would give the signal to the chosen men on
ce everyone had been told what to do. I’ll give the order for everyone else to get down and stay put once I see the blips light up for the guinea pigs. Or sacrificial goats.
Lon looked around, pulling his faceplate down to take advantage of its dual night-vision systems. Phip was barely visible eighty yards away, off to the right, zigging his way through the trees—both standing and felled. On the other side, Sergeant Dorcetti was moving in similar fashion, carrying instructions to others. Dorcetti had been the first man Phip had talked to. They were splitting the notification. Altogether, Lon hoped to have fifty men taking part in the deception. Limit the risk, but use enough men to make it believable.
He switched channels to listen to the feed from CIC, the running commentary provided from what the ships could see through its own cameras and other sensors and through the cameras mounted in the helmets of officers and noncoms, and hear on the many radio channels available to the troops about the engagements on the ground. The fight on the other side of the hill had slackened off. The New Spartans were on the slope leading up to the next ridgeline, across an almost dry creekbed. The Dirigenters on both flanks were moving east as well, staying off to the sides, trying to pick up a little distance to give them a chance to eventually get behind the enemy. The fight against the smaller group of New Spartans, the men who had crossed the Styx earlier, also was continuing, moving gradually to the east as well, but 15th Regiment was making certain that those companies could not move north, closer to rendezvous with their main force.
One more sip of water. Lon quickly pulled his faceplate back down and glanced at his timeline. Two minutes were left of the ten he had estimated for preparations. He adjusted his position, getting farther down into the cover offered by the two fallen tree trunks. I wonder where Junior is? Lon wondered, glancing toward the north. Junior would be with 1st Battalion. Or is he with one of the patrols up near the ridge? Lon had not asked who was leading those. It would have been … not quite proper. I hope he knows to get his head and butt down at the right time. Lon swallowed hard.
I could sure use a pint of Geoff’s best lager right now, Lon thought, startled by the intrusion of memories of his father-in-law and the pub he ran on Dirigent. He could almost taste the beer, feel the muggy warmth of the pub. Maybe it is time to retire and move to Bascombe East. Spend the next few decades tending bar. Be around to see at least one child grow up, not miss almost every birthday and Christmas the way I have with Junior and Angie.
He blinked furiously for several seconds and looked at his timeline. This was not the time to think of home and the baby whom Sara was carrying. Any time now, he told himself. Phip and Frank have had time enough to get the word out. He stared at the head-up display on his visor, looking for the appearance of friendly blips along the line that the two noncoms had followed. Phip’s would be the first to show. The rest should appear almost instantly after that.
Now! Lon saw the blips appear. In a ragged line they started moving forward. Some went out, then reappeared a few yards farther on in staggered sequence—the sort of display that might result from officers and noncoms giving orders and taking reports as their battalions started a broad advance. Lon switched to an all-hands channel that would connect him to every man in 7th Regiment. He spoke one word: “Down!” The men Phip and Frank had enlisted knew the command did not apply to them.
Lon got under one of the trees, squirming to get as much of his body touching the ground as possible. Now we wait, he told himself. Again. And find out how foolish I’m going to look.
The wait was not as long as he had feared. Little more than ninety seconds passed before the entire western slope of the hill seemed to explode at once.
22
First, there were two thin strips of dirty orange-red light, roughly parallel to each other on the slope, approximately following the lines of slit trenches and foxholes that the New Spartans had dug earlier. The orange-red glow drew Lon’s eyes. He lifted his head—just a couple of inches—to see what was happening, an instinctive motion that might better have been suppressed. The sound of the explosions and the concussion wave swept down the slope and across his position as the line of light stretched into the sky—bulging, blossoming as it raised smoke, dirt, and heavier debris. It cast rock and soil up and out, broke off heavier chunks, and started them rolling down the slope, beginning a prolonged rockslide. Lon could feel the ground shaking beneath him, even after it had stopped. The initial concussion had knocked the air out of him, and recovery seemed infinitely prolonged. He could hear nothing but echoes of the explosion for most of a minute, and his ears continued to ring after that.
Lon, like most of the troops of the two waiting battalions, was far enough back that the heaviest debris fell far short of where he lay trying to cover himself as the sky fell, but dirt and small stones pelted him and the others, some of the objects with enough force to be painful. A shower of very small bits of rock and dirt rained on Lon’s helmet, a staccato rattle that temporarily obscured the ringing in his ears.
The assault from above seemed eternal, but lasted less than a minute. The rockslide lasted longer, only gradually coming to a halt. The smoke above the slope dissipated, lifting, thinning, dispersing. The dust settled. Lon found that he was holding his breath and released it quickly, then inhaled deeply. The smells of explosives and dirt were almost overpowering, choking. He coughed several times, then shook his head to dislodge the grit and dust that had collected on his helmet. Finally, he cautiously lifted himself to his elbows to look out through a gap in the trees he had sheltered behind and below.
He looked up at the slope of the hill. There were a few small fires—grass and low shrubbery burning along the lines of the explosions—and the infrared display of his nightvision system showed alternating bands of hot and cool spots on the hillside—hot where the blasts had originated, cool where deeper layers of rock and soil were now exposed on the surface.
Only slowly did Lon become aware of talk on the radio, faint, almost unable to compete with the volume of the tinnitus that remained from the concussive force of the explosions. He adjusted the volume on his receiver until the voices were louder than his inner-ear static. There was still a jumble of sound, too many voices trying to talk at once, electronic silence forgotten. Still, Lon needed nearly a minute before he was able to respond, to say, “Can the chatter” on his all-hands channel.
It spoke well for the training of his men that silence came to the troop channels immediately. Lon switched frequencies. “Phip, are you there?” he asked on the channel that connected them directly. “Phip?” Lon held his breath while he waited for a reply, switching his head-up display to show vital signs. There was no indication of any signs for Phip. Lon looked for Frank Dorcetti’s vital signs then. Something flickered across his display then, and vanished. It hadn’t been a proper readout, simply static.
Damage to the electronics, Lon thought, fighting down the fear that he might have lost another friend—the closest he had ever had. We’ll probably have a lot of that, after a blast that strong. That did not totally erase the agitated thumping of his heart, the edge of fear. He switched channels again. “We need medtechs and several squads to help them find the men we had out front,” he said, speaking to the battalion and company commanders in 1st and 3rd Battalions. “Lead Sergeant Steesen and Sergeant Dorcetti were leading them. We’ll have to find them to find out just how many people they had with them.”
Lon got to his feet, leaning against one of the fallen trees that had sheltered him. He rested his gun across the trunk, the muzzle pointed vaguely up the slope. It was, perhaps, reckless to expose himself, but that never even crossed his mind. In the wake of such massive explosions, any other danger seemed unreal. His eyes scanned the terrain, which certainly looked like a war zone now, as stark as some of the old battlefield photographs he had seen at The Springs on Earth, images from the two global conflicts of the twentieth century. Several bands of low-lying smoke or dust clung to the hillside, slowly descending,
only slowly being torn apart by the light breeze.
His men were out there, and two of them counted as friends. Resisting the urge to look for them personally was the most Lon could manage. He stood and watched as squads of searchers moved forward, weapons at the ready, eyes glancing nervously up the hillside, as if in anticipation of more explosions. A medtech moved with each squad, his medical bag over his shoulder, a folded stretcher on his backpack. But each medtech also carried a rifle and held it ready for instant use.
Lon called the commanders of 1st and 3rd Battalions. “Get a check from your companies. Make sure we don’t have any other casualties from the blast. Then get ready to move out before the New Spartans have time to figure out that they didn’t decimate us. We’re going to the top of the hill. And beyond. I want us ready to start in five minutes.” Five long minutes. Lon had been tempted to order an immediate advance. That was what he wanted to do, almost desperately. Cover the ground. Close with the enemy. Force the fight … and take some payback. But he could not order some mad charge. This had to be done properly, in military order.
Lieutenant Colonels Syscy and Dark acknowledged the order—indicating that they had already started checking for casualties among their men. Their voices seemed distant, hollow, to Lon, though the ringing in his ears had declined considerably. He shook his head, gently, trying to rid himself of the remnants, but it was not that simple. It would take time for the effect to end. This was something Lon had experienced before.
“I think our deception worked,” he said, still on a link with the two battalion commanders. “Those blasts were meant to catch us all on the slope, in the kill zone. We got lucky.”
“It would have done a number on us if we had all been moving, that’s for sure,” Dark said. “But I wouldn’t call it all luck. That was fancy thinking, setting up decoys that way.”
A little bit of occupational paranoia, maybe, Lon thought as the word “decoys” tied his stomach in new knots. Decoys were meant to be sacrificed to draw out the enemy. How many men did I send to their deaths this time? Lon closed his eyes for an instant. It’s time I start getting reports on that. The first report came within seconds. Six men were dead. Twenty were wounded, half of them seriously enough to need time in trauma tubes. Frank Dorcetti was among the dead. Phip Steesen …
