by Rick Shelley
“Our course is two-nine-five,” Slee said as the two Wasps cleared the trees surrounding the landing zone. Two more Wasps of Blue Flight landed. As long as possible, each of the three flights would try to keep all but two planes in the air, to cover the breakout and keep the rest of the Heggies in the area occupied.
“Two-nine-five,” Zel repeated. Keeping station on Slee, he was already on course, which would take them directly over the 13th, where the SAT was rushing through the lines. One of the other pilots of Blue Flight had been the one to spot the opening. A little help from air and artillery had widened the gap. Now they had to keep the Heggies from closing it too quickly.
“Red Flight still has the high cap,” Slee reminded Zel. It wasn’t that Slee thought his wingman’s memory deficient. Repetition simply made errors slightly less likely. The high cap was responsible for intercepting enemy aircraft. That left the ground support mission to Blue and Yellow flights.
Zel kept his eyes on the heads-up display on his canopy. That would tell him anything he needed to know sooner than he could learn it any other way. The Hegemony’s Boem fighters were as nearly invisible as the Wasps. It was unlikely that either side would pick up an enemy fighter until it caught its radar emissions. At night, two fighters might be less than a hundred meters apart before they became aware of each other. That made for tense encounters.
The antigrav engines were silent. Only at full throttle did they make an audible whine. Apart from that, the loudest sound in the cockpit was normally the breathing of the pilot, or his radio transmissions.
“”Hang on, Zel, we’ve got a mission,” Slee said. They had only been in the air a little more than a minute. “Looks like a full battalion of Heggie tanks moving to intercept our mudders. Change course to two-eight-six, distance thirty-two hundred meters.”
As soon as Zel changed course, the target blips appeared on the heads-up display, twenty of them, moving across his course.
“We’Il work from the front,’” Slee said. “Seven and eight are coming in from the southwest. They’ll work up from the tail.”
Zel simply clicked a reply. He flipped his weapons selector to rockets and pointed his target acquisition system at the lead Nova tanks. Though he could not actually see any of the tanks, Zel could picture them adequately. It wasn’t just the photographs he had studied. He had seen Novas on the ground–disabled, but relatively intact. The Nova was heavily armored and carried a 135mm main gun. It only required a crew of two.
The TA system clicked twice, indicating target locks. Two of the blips on the screen were highlighted. Zel hit the trigger twice, and two missiles raced out from under his Wasp. At the same time, Slee fired two of his rockets. Four missiles, four Novas. The two Wasps were almost directly over the tanks when the missiles hit. They flew on and flipped their Wasps around In a high-gee turn, climbing as they did.
For the second run, they came in from high, targeting four more tanks, then peeling to the left as two enemy surface-to-air-missiles climbed after them.
Zel dropped decoys and pushed his throttles wide open, climbing straight up. Slee angled off to one side, also dropping decoys. The new Wasps were just a trifle more sluggish than the old models, but the limiting factor in the Wasp’s performance was still, generally, the gee-load that its pilot could take. Zel and Slee had plenty of warning of the incoming enemy fire. Their lead was enough to let them outrace the limited fuel supply of the Heggie missiles. Those arced over and started to fall. Zel and Slee turned to make another run at the enemy tanks. Twelve had already been destroyed or damaged, but only seven of them seemed to be completely out of commission.
“Boems coming in!” a voice shouted over the radio. Zel scanned his display. The voice hadn’t been any of the pilots in Blue Flight, and he didn’t recognize it. It had to be one of the pilots in the high cap. “At least eight passed us.”
“Keep climbing, Zel,” Slee said.
“I don’t have them, Slee,” Zel replied.
“Low, clipping trees, due north of the tank formation.”
“We’re not attacking?”
“Yellow flight has them,” Slee said. “We’ll go north and down, come in behind, try the Novas again if the Boems are accounted for before we catch up.”
At twelve thousand meters, Slee and Zel leveled off and moved north. They were just turning back toward the targets when there were three explosions below them, in the air, followed within seconds by two more.
Nearly thirty seconds passed before Slee said, “Rais got it, and one of the planes from Yellow Flight.” Rais was Rais Sivvens, Blue seven.
“They get out?” Zel asked.
There was only the slightest pause before Slee said, “No.”
THERE HAD NOT been a single word in the design specifications for the Heyer armored personnel carrier about passenger comfort, and the builders had not gone beyond the requirements. The only real advantage a Heyer provided was speed. Its thin armor might provide marginally better protection than the net armor woven into battle fatigues, but that was more than offset by the fact that an APC was a much more attractive target for enemy gunners. Still, even on broken terrain, a Heyer could make better than fifty kilometers per hour. The night’s race in Heyers was mind numbing but physically almost painful for the infantrymen of the 13th. Riding in a Heyer at speed was as draining as marching with full gear through almost impassable terrain. Sleep was virtually impossible. All anyone could do was hang on and try not to get bounced around too badly.
It was nearly midnight before the 13th stopped for a break. That wasn’t so much for the comfort of the men as to allow the hydrogen converters to process water into fuel for the engines. Running after dark, the process was less efficient than during daylight, when solar batteries could speed the conversion along.
The 13th had dispersed after clearing the Schlinal lines. The four recon platoons were out front and on the flanks. The eight infantry companies moved in a loose diamond pattern, with the artillery and various support vehicles in the center. The distance from one flank to the other was fifteen kilometers. The distance from point to rear guard was only slightly less. Echo Company was in the rear left section of the diamond.
“Fifteen minutes,” Joe Baerclau told his men as second platoon emerged from their three Heyers. “Do what needs to be done fast.” Joe knew that the fifteen minutes would almost certainly stretch to at least thirty, but he preferred to have his men ready as soon as possible.
Most of the men started out by going through a series of stretches and bends, trying to work out the kinks that four hours of riding had given them. Ezra Frain came over to Joe and lifted his helmet visor.
“Any idea how long this goes on?” Ezra asked.
Joe shook his head. “I don’t even know what we’re doing. Head off a thousand klicks or more. Get there as fast as possible. Nobody’s saying why, what we’re to do when we get where we’re going.”
“Just something to loosen up the Heggies around the rest of our guys?”
Joe hesitated before he said, “I don’t think so. If that was what we were supposed to do, we’d come out maybe this far then turn to move behind them, give them something close to think about.”
“Then what?” Ezra demanded. He took his helmet off and ran a hand through his hair. Even in the dark, the red seemed to stand out, almost as if it were luminescent. “I’ve been trying to puzzle it out since we left, and it just doesn’t make any sense. Blow a week’s worth of munitions to send us out into the middle of nowhere, a thousand klicks from the action.” Wasting ammunition was something that had to bother any veteran of the Porter campaign, where the entire 13th had virtually run out of everything from wire to Wasp rockets and Havoc shells.
“They don’t pay us to understand the big shots,” Joe said. “We just obey orders.” The exhaustion in his voice was only partially physical. He had also been trying to guess what their m
ission might be, with as little success.
“Hey, Sarge!” Both Joe and Ezra turned.
“I think we’ve got us a concussion,” Al Bergon said.
“Who?” Ezra got it out first.
“Eames. He whacked his head good, early on, while all the fireworks was goin’ on around us. I just had a chance to give him the once-over.”
“You get to Doc Eddles yet?” Joe asked. Eddles was the company’s senior medtech, more than a medic, not quite a full doctor. He could handle anything short of invasive surgery, but the need for that was rare, thanks to trauma tubes and medical nanobots.
“He said he’ll try to get to us before we take off, but he’s got a couple of others in the same shape or worse.”
“Damn buckets,” Ezra muttered under his breath. Louder, he asked, “Where’s Eames now?”
Bergon pointed. “There against the side of the mixer.”
Frain put his helmet back on and lowered the visor so he could use the night-vision gear: “He get cut?”
“Naw, but he’s got a lump the size of his nose. I put a soaker over it.” A soaker was a bandage impregnated with analgesics and simple repair nanobots, molecular medics.
“Anything more Doc could do?” Joe asked.
“Probably not, but he might be able to tell if there’ s a skull fracture,” Al said.
“You think he might?” Ezra asked.
“I doubt it, but I can’t be sure without pictures.”
“Neither could the doc,” Joe said.
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Al said. “But if he doesn’t get better, any chance of medevac?”
“Skipper said no way,” Joe said. “Whatever this lark is, we’re completely on our own.”
Whatever this is. Joe turned away from the others. He could make a vague guess. They were being sent to something specific. There had to be some reason for sending two thousand men crosscountry on a world still dominated by the enemy. What that reason might be eluded Joe. Something or someone, and neither made a lot of sense. What, or who, could be worth risking the lives of two thousand men?
Twenty minutes later, when the order came to mount up again, Joe had come no closer to finding a guess he was happy with.
* * *
The break had scarcely been long enough for Van Stossen to conduct a hurried conference with his staff. Major Dezo Parks, his executive officer, Major Bal Kenneck, intelligence, and Major Teu Ingels, operations–each was riding in a separate vehicle to minimize the effect of a lucky enemy hit. They had their own radio channels so that they could talk privately, but it was never the same as a face-to-face. Those three officers were the only men in the 13th, other than the colonel, who knew virtually all of the details of their mission.
“We’ve got three really dangerous transits,” Kenneck said when Stossen asked for his assessment. “These two rivers.” He pointed to a mapboard open on the ground in the center of the group. “And, of course, the last fifteen klicks, in the valley leading to Telchuk, that’s too narrow, with too little cover. If we get hit in there by substantial enemy assets, we’re finished. It’s as simple as that.”
“Teu?” Stossen asked.
“One thing is obvious,” Ingels replied. “We can’t take Havocs into that valley. Not only isn’t there room for them to maneuver, in a couple of places they couldn’t even turn around. I think we should disperse them to these two areas, here . . . and here.” He pointed out the locations on the mapboard. “That way, they can give us effective covering fire while we’re in the danger zone. And if we post a couple of recon platoons near the ridge lines”–he indicated those as well–“we’d be in better shape. Warning at least, maybe time to get out. It might be smart to leave the APCs out beyond that valley too. They’d be more trouble than they’re worth in that narrow track.”
“Bal?”
“Since we have to do this regardless, I agree,” Kenneck said. “Those measures do minimize our exposure, especially if we do have Wasp support, but it’s still going to be hairy.”
“Dezo, you have anything to add?”
Parks shook his head slowly. “I agree about leaving the Heyers outside the valley. As far outside as practical.”
The laugh the others gave was subdued and showed little humor.
* * *
The 13th took one more long break during the night, then, two hours before dawn, they stopped again. The formation was spread out even more than it had been on the march, with units taking advantage of whatever cover the terrain offered–more to hide vehicles than themselves.
It wasn’t much. The broad plain between the eastern seaboard and the mountains was mostly flat. Areas of forest were interspersed with prairie. The 13th had reached an area where the long prairie grasses predominated. The stands of trees were mostly small, and widely separated. Heat tarps were spread over all of the vehicles. The combination of camouflage and trees did offer some protection. The men were set to digging holes for themselves.
“I hope they don’t hit us too soon, Lieutenant,” Joe Baerclau said. “We’re all so zapped that it wouldn’t take much to roll right over us.”
“I know,” Keye said. He stifled a yawn. The two men had their foxholes about eight meters apart. Iz Walker, Echo’s first sergeant, had his hole thirty meters the other side of the lieutenant, far enough away that a single hit, even from a bomb or 135mm shell, would be unlikely to take out both of them. “Best I can say is that there’s no indication of Heggies anywhere close. We’re already better than four hundred klicks beyond the lines.”
“Coupla Boems could knock the stuffin’s out of us,” Joe said. “If they see us. Just make sure that they can’t. Get everybody tucked in good, ponchos over the holes. The works.” This was the rainy season. Ponchos had been issued. While not as effective as thermal tarps, they would help minimize a man’s infrared signature.
“Aye, sir. I’ll make the rounds myself.” Joe already had his own hole dug. The soil was somewhat sandy and loose.
“Let the squad leaders handle it,” Keye said. “That’s what they’re there for.”
“Yes, sir.” Joe changed channels and passed the word on.
“Half and half on watch,” he added. “One fire team sleeps while the other’s on alert. Hour at a time to start. If it looks like we’re going to stay put all day, we’ll extend that later.”
What am I forgetting? Joe asked himself. That was a common question for him on campaign, more as the days and nights dragged on and he got further behind on sleep. It was too easy to forget, and forgetting was as lethal an enemy as any Heggie.
A yawn forced its way out. For just an instant, Joe raised his visor so he could rub at his eyes. They burned from lack of sleep and too many stimtabs. It would be so easy to let them slide shut and sleep . . .
Joe shook his head violently. Not for an hour. He had to take the first watch. Then he would turn the platoon over to one of the squad leaders for the next hour. The price of being a leader, he thought, lowering his visor into position again. He forced himself to do a slow, detailed scan of the countryside beyond his foxhole–for the present, “the front.” He scanned close, then farther out with each additional pass, out to the abbreviated horizon that his foxhole gave him. There was nothing visible moving out there. Nor were there any obvious heat signatures showing up in infrared.
This is crazy, Joe thought. Then, fearing that he might be sliding toward sleep again, he busied himself with little chores. He checked to make sure that his carbine had a full spool of wire in the chamber and a fully charged power pack. He took a mouthful of water, swishing it around in his mouth for a moment before he swallowed. He would make that last until after his hour of sleep. Water discipline. He couldn’t be certain when they might get a chance to replenish their supplies.
Should I eat? Joe asked himself after another long look at the horizon. He turned on the microphon
e pickups in the earpieces of his helmet. That way, he would be certain of hearing anything more than the sound of an insect walking, out to at least forty meters.
Should I eat? He had to admit that he really wasn’t hungry. He needed time to recall that it had been twelve hours since his last meal, back behind friendly lines. He needed to eat.
He pulled out a meal pack and stripped the wire that would start heating the food. By the time he got the lid off, the food was as warm as it was likely to get. He ate sluggishly, too tired for either appetite or any reaction to the taste. A single meal pack was designed to provide half a day’s nutritional needs, and enough moisture to allow a soldier to get it down without drinking water. Taste had not been high on the list of priorities.
After every couple of bites, Joe would look out over the lip of his foxhole, scanning the horizon while he chewed. Once, he leaned back to look up into the sky. In the trees there was a single gap that he could see through. A few clouds, a few stars. Joe wondered whether there were any Wasps overhead, keeping watch for them, ready to respond if they were attacked. He knew better than to expect to see or hear a fighter, but it was still a way to occupy a few minutes–get through that much more of his hour’s watch.
* * *
With the dawn, heavier cloud cover moved in from the west. Two hours later, it started to rain. Colonel Stossen and his staff gathered under a tarp that had been erected next to one of the APCs. .
“It looks like the rain will be with us most of the day,” Bal Kenneck reported. “A steady soaker. The satellite data is pretty solid on this.”
“Gives us some cover,” Dezo Parks said. “The men need sleep, but still . . .”
“I know,” Stossen said. “The general said to hurry. If we moved all day we could get . . . where we’re going by midnight, be in position before dawn.”
