Colonel

by Rick Shelley

  “His left shoulder is in pretty bad shape, Colonel,” the medtech who examined Phip said, “but I don’t think he’ll lose the arm.” Hesitation. “It’s going to be close, though. The shoulder and upper arm were crushed, the joint pretty well shattered. I can’t tell how much nerve damage there is—some, certainly. We’ve minimized the bleeding and got him on a stretcher. He’ll be in a tube in three minutes. He’s not completely conscious.”

  Lon called Lieutenant Colonel Dark to arrange for a security detail to stay with the medtechs and their charges when the battalions moved on. Then Lon gave the order to advance. He climbed over the fallen tree in front of him as the men of his security detail started forward in a ragged line. As always, Jeremy Howell was too close, a couple of steps to Lon’s left.

  Dorcetti’s dead, Lon told himself as he put one foot in front of the other. Frank had been his driver since Lon had taken command of 7th Regiment. Lon had never felt quite as close to Dorcetti as he felt toward Jeremy Howell, but still, Frank had been there every day, always with a joke and a grin to help Lon along. Not always good jokes, Lon thought, but he tried. He always tried.

  Lon tried to fight through the empty moment, the void of loss. The time for grief would come later, after the fighting was over and they were on the way home. For now, Frank was simply one man among many who had died on this contract. It was always the same, difficult to be that abstract about the inevitable cost of battle. The hundreds of men who had been killed in their shuttles trying to land on Elysium were less important—at this minute—than one man who had died a few hundred yards from Lon.

  But even thinking about Frank served mostly as a shield to help Lon avoid worrying about Phip’s condition. A full session in a trauma tube, maybe more, even if the medtech had not underestimated the extent of Phip’s injuries. If there was serious nerve damage in the injured shoulder and arm, Phip might be out of action for weeks. Left shoulder crushed, Lon thought. A few inches to the right and it would have been his head, and he might have been beyond help. Lon stumbled as he closed his eyes against that thought.

  The advance slowed as the lead companies started to cross the debris field at the base of the slope. Men had to pick their way over or around obstacles, and often a footstep started the man-made scree sliding again. Turn big rocks into little rocks swept through Lon’s mind when he reached the raw gravel and dirt himself. There were sizable boulders among the debris, but most of it was smaller, loose. The footing could scarcely have been more treacherous if the men had been climbing an icy slope against a strong headwind. More than once Lon had a foot slide out from under him, forcing him to catch his balance awkwardly. Each time, Jeremy Howell moved closer, ready to help, moving back when Lon gestured at him.

  It took twenty-five minutes before Lon reached the line of the first New Spartan defense perimeter, the site of the lower series of explosions. The fronts of the slit trenches had been blown forward, leaving raw gashes in the dirt and rock, reaching down to the heartstone of the hill in places. Behind, sharp rises of up to three or four feet that had to be clambered over.

  Lon started paying attention to reports from Fal Jensen and CIC as well as from his battalion commanders. The smaller group of New Spartans was still being kept from moving north to rendezvous with their main force, which was establishing defensive positions on the next ridge. They were being harassed by Lon’s 2nd and 4th Battalions and by most of what remained of 15th Regiment.

  The New Spartans were still fighting as smart as they could under the circumstances—keeping good order, not allowing the Dirigenters to roll over or around them, and husbanding their ammunition, relying on accuracy more than volume. They still think they can hold out until those ships get in with their reinforcements, Lon thought. It was a discouraging notion. They might have good reason for their optimism. What more can they do? Lon wondered, but his mind was too numb to explore the possibilities. Just hope they’ve run out of surprises, he thought. They have to, sooner or later. That might be more wishful thinking than logical deduction, though, and Lon knew it.

  The slope steepened above the line of the first explosions—more than Lon had realized from looking at the hillside from a distance. The blasts and landslides had taken the slope down to rock, stripping the thin covering of soil, and in many places the rock itself bore the scars of new fractures, areas where rock had broken loose and fallen. Much of the loose stone that had gathered in the few relatively level areas was sharp-edged.

  The muscles in Lon’s calves and thighs started to tighten. The advance slowed more. Lon stopped moving forward for nearly two minutes, rationalizing that he was getting too close to the van, closer than he should be. Jeremy Howell looked toward him, an unasked question about Lon’s well-being clear in the tilt of his head. The rest of the squad charged with protecting the regimental commander took their positions around him, looking up and outward, vigilant … and nervous.

  We’re almost five miles from the enemy, Lon thought, noting the disposition of the men around him. After those explosions, there can’t very well be anything left to go off close. But he did not say anything. His men were doing their job, and would continue to do so despite any protests he might make. All the more now that the regimental lead sergeant was out of action.

  As he started moving up the hill again, Lon got on the channel that connected him to everyone in his security detail. “We’ll take five just before we reach the ridge, give the rest time to get farther ahead of us.” The squad leader voiced his acknowledgment. Lon saw a couple of heads nod, in either acknowledgment or relief. They’d all feel a lot better if I never got within twenty miles of any fighting, he thought, and not because it would keep them that far from danger. He shook his head in amazement.

  By the time he got near the ridgeline, Lon was glad he had decided to halt there. The climb had him breathing hard, and he had slipped once, bruising his right knee badly, with a two-inch gash at the center of the bruise. The knee hurt, and had already started to swell. Once he settled to the ground, Lon pulled up the trouser leg and put a medpatch over the cut and bruise; that would help his body’s health implants speed through the work of repairing the damage, and kill the pain.

  The two battalions with Lon kept moving, scouts checking the eastern slopes for mines and booby traps. There were only a few, and even fewer electronic snoops. Apparently the New Spartans had concentrated their available explosives on the western slope, in what they had hoped would be a coup de main. I hope they used everything they had, Lon thought after hearing a report from one of the point patrols.

  He glanced at the timeline on his visor display, then tilted his faceplate up and looked into the sky. There were still a couple of hours of darkness left, and the sky remained heavily overcast even though the rain had ended. There were no stars visible, nor any light from Elysium’s moon. Lon couldn’t even see a glow from lights in University City, off to the southwest. It would be great if we were up against an enemy without nightvision systems, Lon thought, but the New Spartans had gear as advanced as that of the Dirigenters.

  “Colonel, why don’t you have a meal pack as long as we’re going to be here a few minutes,” Jeremy Howell said. He knelt next to Lon and lifted his faceplate. “Got to give the body fuel to work, sir.” When Lon chuckled, it startled Howell. He drew back a little.

  “Sorry, Jerry, I wasn’t laughing at you,” Lon said. “You just triggered a flashback. Back in prehistoric times, when I was a cadet, everyone in the company seemed infernally preoccupied with making sure I shoved calories down my throat every time I opened my mouth. They weren’t happy unless I was as stuffed as a Thanksgiving turkey.” He hesitated. “Yes, I’d better have a little food while we’re stopped. A nap for an old man would be nice, too, but that’ll have to wait.” Maybe a long time, he thought as he accepted the meal pack Howell handed him.

  The New Spartan main force did not stay long in their positions on the next ridge, hardly long enough to dig minimal slit trenches, eat, and�
��perhaps—get a little rest. Once they saw the Dirigenters advancing again—obviously not destroyed or seriously weakened by the explosions left to catch them—they abandoned their new holes and started east again. According to the nearest Dirigenters, the New Spartans appeared to be moving slowly. They had been under constant observation this time, and it seemed clear that they had not booby-trapped those positions as thoroughly as they had the earlier lines.

  North of the New Spartans, the Dirigenter 2nd Battalion, 7th Regiment was pushing east as rapidly as the men could—faster, perhaps, than was prudent. On the south, 4th of the 7th and half of 15th Regiment also were pushing east quickly, though not quite at the same pace as Vel Osterman’s battalion. Osterman had his lead company as far east as the van of New Spartans, with the advance patrols starting to curve south, attempting to slow the enemy until the rest of the battalion could get in place to hold them. The rest of 15th Regiment was still engaging the smaller New Spartan force near the Styx. The New Spartans were finding it increasingly difficult to keep moving toward a hoped-for rendezvous with their main force.

  “We’ve still got two days to bring this to resolution,” Lon said, conferring with Fal Jensen and the battalion commanders from both regiments, “but we don’t want to use every minute until those new ships get close enough to launch troops and fighters against us. We get that close to the end and there’s little chance the New Spartan commander on the ground will surrender. They’ll try to keep us occupied right up until the new force can get into the act. And if that happens, we’re in big trouble.”

  “They can’t have any rocket artillery left, not close enough to hit us,” Fal Jensen noted. “Our tanks have driven the few launchers they had left out of range. If they had anything closer, they would have hit us by now. And our Shrikes are keeping them from using their fighters for close air support.”

  “And vice versa,” Lon said. “We can’t get Shrikes in to help us either. That end of it is a stalemate, at least until the new force gets close enough to use its fighters. Then our fleet is in trouble, too. Maybe the New Spartans don’t have any rockets left for their self-propelled launchers, but we’re also out of ammunition for our rocket launchers and artillery, and getting close to out of ammunition for the tanks as well.”

  “Is getting the New Spartan commander on the ground to surrender going to be enough?” Tefford Ives asked. “That new fleet might still attack our ships. We might end up being stranded without a way off. If that happens, the New Spartans can land whatever troops they’re bringing and give us as much trouble as we can handle.”

  “One step at a time, Teff,” Lon said. “The troops on the ground are the only ones we can do anything about. If we force them to surrender, strip them of weapons, ammo, and communications gear, we’ll have a chance, no matter what the newcomers do. If the enemy can’t provide replacement equipment, the men won’t be much use. We’ll get in another ammunition resupply before the new fleet gets close, maybe risk shuttles to bring in food and ammunition for the heavy-weapons battalions.” He paused. “We’ll have to risk that, as long as there’s a possibility we’ll have to keep fighting. After that … we’ll do whatever we have to do.”

  23

  Lon took time to visit the treatment center the medtechs had set up on the western slope of the ridge the New Spartans had blown. Twenty trauma tubes were in use. Another forty men were lying on blankets spread on the ground. Those were men whose injuries were not serious enough to need time in a trauma tube … or who had to wait their turn because their injuries were not as critical as the men already in the tubes. Lon stopped to say a few words to each of the wounded who were not in tubes but were conscious—words of encouragement, comfort. He asked the medtechs about each man in a tube, and stopped hardly longer next to the tube holding Phip Steesen than any of the others.

  Get better fast, Phip, Lon thought, resting his hand on Steesen’s tube before moving to the next casualty.

  “We’re okay for the moment, Colonel,” Major Norman said during their tour together, “but I can’t answer for how much longer. One more major firefight and we could run low on medical supplies, even critical components for the trauma tubes—assemblers and controllers. I talked with 15th’s acting SMO an hour ago, and they’re much closer to that point than we are. They lost a third of their medical stores in the shuttles that were destroyed. And, of course, the one thing there never seems to be enough of is trauma tubes.”

  “We can’t do much about the tubes,” Lon said. “Set things up to use resupply rockets to bring in consumables—whatever can survive a landing in one of those rockets. We’ll do double drops in case some of the rockets don’t make it.”

  “Even if all the rockets are brought in on target, we’ll probably lose some cargo, possibly thirty percent of the most delicate items,” Norman said. “The molecular controller units are particularly fragile. They can’t take a hell of a lot of hard treatment. That’s why we’ve never really considered the resupply rockets as a routine means of bringing in medical stores.”

  “I know, but since we don’t have any viable options, we have to use what we’ve got,” Lon said. “I’ll give CIC authorization. You get on with Peregrine’s SMO on what you want and any tips you can give him on how to pack it to minimize losses.”

  Norman nodded. “Lon, there’s one other thing I have to bring up as senior medical officer. How long do you plan to push the men without sleep? We’re not to the critical point yet, since a lot of our people had a chance to get some sleep yesterday afternoon, but we’re on the move, heavily loaded, and looking for a major engagement at the end. If the chase goes on until dark tonight, with a fight after that, we’ll be getting critical. Tired men make more mistakes, and mistakes in combat get men killed and wounded.”

  Lon hesitated before he replied. “I know the situation, Dan,” he said, very softly, “but … we just don’t have many realistic options. I hope we’ll be able to get enough men behind the New Spartans that they won’t be able to keep running, or that they’ll get tired enough that they have to make a long stop to let their men sleep. But with that new enemy fleet coming in, we don’t have time for luxuries like sleep. We can’t stop until the New Spartans already on the ground stop. Once we get the enemy main force locked into position, I’ll try to give us enough time to let everyone get a few hours’ sleep. If possible. A lot depends on how long it takes us to force them to stop—and whether they try to force a breakout when we do.”

  “My concerns about sleep extend to you as well, Lon,” Norman said. “You need enough to be able to function at your best as well. Maybe more for you than for the younger men in the line companies. You’ve been at this business since before a lot of them were born. If you’re a glutton for punishment, I can get the exact percentage for you in about five seconds.”

  “I know how old I am, Doc,” Lon said, his voice showing a harsh edge. “And I’ve already got a pretty good idea about the other. No need to rub my face in the obvious.” He shook his head. “I do that myself every time I look in the mirror.”

  “Tell me, did you ever get a chance to meet Warren Greavy?” Norman asked.

  Lon laughed. “Old Prune Face himself? Yeah. I was introduced to him at a Founders’ Day ball, back when I was a fairly new lieutenant. Matt Orlis told me that Greavy was a hundred and thirty years old, and he looked twice that.”

  “He was fifteen years older when I met him, not long before he died.” Norman shrugged. “I was surprised when I heard about that. Old as he was, he had looked fit enough to last another ten or fifteen years, and you couldn’t get a bet that he wouldn’t reach a hundred and fifty. My point is, he remained on active duty until he was well past ninety, set all kinds of records, commanded 4th Regiment twenty-three years, served three terms as General—and flatly refused a fourth term. He took his annual physical qualification test just before he finally retired, and passed it with numbers to spare, not a hell of a lot worse than you did on your last qualification. He was
eighty-nine the last time he led a combat contract, and from the reports I read, it was no beer run. He managed to get himself shot on that one, but kept fighting for twenty minutes before a medtech got to him.”

  “So he was an ornery old goat. So?”

  “So don’t get yourself hooked on thinking about how old you are, or how long you’ve been in the Corps,” Norman said. “Don’t rub your own face in it, or beat yourself over the head with the calendar, any of that nonsense. With all the nanotech floating in our systems, age is more a state of mind than anything else.” Lon smiled. “Point taken, Doc.”

  When he returned to the ridge, Lon moved his command post into the valley between it and the next line of hills—which the New Spartans had already abandoned. His 1st and 3rd Battalions had already pushed past the creek that marked the lowest line through the valley and were climbing toward the next ridge. The point companies were within two miles of the enemy rear guard. The situation on the flanks was better. Dirigenters were level with the New Spartan point, closing in from north and south. Lon concentrated on getting updates from CIC, Fal Jensen, and the commanders of each battalion. They were making definite progress, as much because the New Spartans had slowed down as for the increased speed the Dirigenters were attempting.

  “Unless they pull another rabbit out of the hat, we should have them pretty well encircled by sunset,” Jensen said. “And the smaller force is just about taken care of. The reports I’m getting from my company commanders is that those New Spartans seem to be running critically short on ammunition.”