by Rick Shelley
More than once Joe had to caution men to be quiet and to keep their vigil. Useless chatter over the squad radio channels might help ease the tension, but it could also be a deadly distraction. Joe had to fight his own urge to call Lieutenant Keye or First Sergeant Walker for information every few minutes. When there was something he might need to know, one or the other of them would call him. Joe smiled at the thought of having to fight the temptation to do almost exactly what the most inexperienced of the soldiers in his platoon were doing.
“Half and half,” he told the squad leaders after forty-five minutes of the tense waiting. That meant one fire team in each squad on watch, the other to rest. As if rest might be possible. “Half an hour each, for now,” he added. Echo’s “peace” might end at any minute, or it might continue for hours. The longer the men were staring down their rifle barrels out into the night, the duller their minds, and their vision, would become. The less use they would be in the first seconds and minutes of the fight... when it finally reached them.
It would reach them. Joe had no doubt of that.
“Joe, come back to the CP for a minute,” the first sergeant said. Joe warned the squad leaders that he was leaving, then climbed out of his hole and trotted back toward the command post. He was one of the first to arrive, but in just a couple of minutes, all of the platoon leaders and platoon sergeants were there.
“I’ll keep this brief,” Lieutenant Keye said. Even though they were gathered together in a tight cluster, the lieutenant spoke over his helmet radio. That way he could whisper and still know that everyone would hear.
“We think we’ve got all of the major enemy positions around us charted now.” Keye pointed to the mapboard open on his lap. “We might be missing some infantry units, but what we have is better than anything we had before.”
“Helluva lot of red on that board,” Joe said. Red marks indicated Schlinal units.
“The estimate is four short regiments of infantry, possibly three companies of Novas left,” Keye continued. “Right now, it looks as if they’re trying to make sure that we’ve got nowhere to go except–maybe–into the river. There’ve been no reports of Heggie movement on our north yet except for a couple of small patrols.”
“They’re setting us in the center of a horseshoe,” Iz Walker said. “Putting in strongpoints, digging foxholes, the works. They’re going at this carefully, as if they’ve got all of the time in the galaxy to work with.”
“What about the shooting we’re hearing?” one of the other platoon sergeants asked.
“Just keeping us occupied,” Walker said. “Making sure we know they’re around, trying to keep us thinking, and in place. That we don’t mount any sorties. That line of crap.”
“Which is why we’re going to put out a patrol,” Keye said, taking over again. “Baerclau, I want you to take your platoon on a little walk. Out a kilometer, unless you meet resistance sooner. Then take a left and give this outfit here”–he pointed at one of the red blips on the mapboard–“something to remember us by.”
“How long do we keep at it, sir?” Joe asked.
“In and out. Give them a couple minutes’ of everything you’ve got, then beat it back in. Don’t let your men trip over any of your own mines.”
“In and out through our own zone?”
“Right. Too many mines out there to try it any other way. Jump off as soon as you get back. Like now. The rest of you, have your men ready to provide cover when they come back in. They might need it.”
Joe hurried back to the platoon’s area. He alerted the squad leaders and assistant leaders while he was moving. By the time he reached his foxhole–just long enough to pull out most of the things he had stashed on the various ledges he had dug along the sides–the platoon was ready to move.
“First squad on point,” he whispered into his helmet radio. First squad expected to be sent first. They certainly received that “honor” more than their fair share of the time, but no one in the squad, certainly none of the veterans, ever complained. A couple of the men had been heard to brag, “We go first because we’re the best. The platoon loses fewer men when we’re opening the way.” The truth of that might be open to debate.
With first squad in the lead, it was their second fire team and Mort Jaiffer actually on point. Mort threaded his way through the mines that the platoon had planted earlier. He didn’t assume that there were only Accord mines in the area, though. Heggies might have sneaked in close enough to lay a few of their own.
Until the platoon got out beyond the lines where they had planted mines and bugs, they were forced to travel in single file, with narrow intervals between men. Each soldier watched exactly where the man in front of him stepped. That was more important than watching for Heggies in the woods to either side. Enemy soldiers would make their presence known quickly enough. A land mine, friendly or hostile, would only make its presence known if someone tripped it.
At the front of the column, Mort breathed easily, pacing himself as carefully as he always did. After each step forward, he would look through a 180-degree arc, searching for heat signatures or any trace of unnatural movement. Then he would look at the ground just in front of him, choosing where he would next place a foot. Despite his caution, the platoon made good time. It always did with Mort on point. He didn’t stop for longer than his routine required until he was far enough out that even the last man in the platoon would be beyond the lines of bugs and mines they had planted.
Joe followed first squad, less than forty meters behind the point. He tried to avoid thinking about anything but the demands of the instant, but a couple of times a worrisome thought invaded his mind: I’m leading twenty-four men out into the middle of what might be close to eight thousand of the enemy. Each time that happened, he would stop for a second, blink a couple of times, and swallow. It helped to clear his mind.
Once past their own early warning devices, the platoon shifted to a different formation. Joe put second and third squads out on the flanks. First platoon stayed in front, and fourth brought up the rear. Joe took up his position almost in the middle, actually staying with the trailing fire team of first squad. The intervals between squads, and among the men in each squad, were increased. Echo’s 2nd platoon was getting closer to the enemy, and farther from friends.
Joe kept a close watch on the distance gauge on his helmet display. Just below the time line, the distance he had walked from the lines was marked. He had to glance up and to the left to see the display clearly. It had to be out of the way to avoid being a dangerous distraction. At 750 meters, Joe stopped the platoon again, just long enough to take a good look to either side.
“When Mort gets to a thousand meters,” he warned, “we’ll shift to a skirmish line and move to the left. First, second, and fourth squads will move into line. Third will trail behind to cover our tails and pick up casualties. Mark where we make the turn. We’ve got to get back in over the same trail. We don’t, and we could walk into friendly fire. Or mines.”
He took another long look at his mapboard. The red blips representing the enemy unit they were supposed to attack hadn’t moved, but that didn’t mean much. It was an infantry unit. They might easily have moved just about anywhere. Until they were spotted again, the mapping system couldn’t update their position.
Out so far beyond the perimeter, the night was almost silent. The sounds of fighting were muted, all at a considerable distance. It was even possible, on occasion, to hear some of the normal night sounds of this wildemess, small animals moving in the underbrush, birds in the trees. Joe listened for the patterns. If he could mark those, he would be quicker to hear the exceptions, the altered patterns that might indicate trouble.
Mort reported when he reached the one-kilometer limit. Joe gave the platoon two minutes for a quick drink while they realigned themselves. He moved forward and to his right, between second and first squads, closer to second. He was right
up on the skirmish line when the platoon started moving again.
The first hundred meters on the new course went as easily as the kilometer out from the lines. They did seem to be moving closer to the sounds of war again. Somewhere, ahead and farther out, a couple of artillery rounds exploded. Joe stopped the platoon while he tried to gauge the distance. At least a kilometer. Havocs throwing shells at something, probably an enemy tank. That brought a new tightness to his throat.
“Keep the Vrerchs handy,” he whispered over the platoon circuit. “There might be more than infantry ahead.”
A few seconds later, he said, “Slow it down. We should be almost in range. Watch for Heggie trip wires and bugs. First man to spot anything, sing out. We go to ground then and give them something to remember us by.”
The squad leaders already had their orders: hand grenades and RPGs, Vrerchs if there were anything to use them on. The rest of the platoon would lay down covering fire with wire, whether or not they were close enough for the wire to do any good.
It was Frank Symes, fourth squad leader, who made the call. “About ninety meters straight ahead of me. Three men, too close together.”
The men of 2nd platoon went down, carefully, making certain that there were no nasty surprises. Ninety meters. That was almost close enough for wire to be fully effective. Joe only hesitated for a second.
“Let’s see how close we can get without being spotted. Another ten meters, at least.” I hope, he thought. At eighty meters, wire would penetrate net armor with some reliability.
Flat on his stomach, Joe edged forward, his zipper across his forearms. Scuttling along like this was one of the first things a recruit learned in basic training. Besides being a skill he might need, it worked a lot of muscle groups.
The platoon didn’t make the ten meters. Joe had moved no more than three meters himself before wire started coming toward them from the Schlinal positions–first from just a single rifle, then from too many to count. Second platoon stopped moving forward without command.
“Hit ‘em,” Joe ordered. He brought his Armanoc into firing position and started squeezing off two-second bursts, working back and forth across a 30-degree zone. Leaves and twigs were shredded by wire heading both ways, quickly clearing the zone of underbrush and low-hanging leaves between the two forces.
Rocket-propelled grenades went out. Each squad had one man equipped with an RPG launcher. One of the men with a Vrerch launcher let loose one missile as well. He hadn’t seen any target really worth a Vrerch, but the ground blast did put a hole in the Heggie line and slowed down their fire for several seconds.
Joe was inserting a new spool of wire in his rifle when the Vrerch went off. “Damn it, don’t waste those on dirt,” he warned. He lifted his head just enough to see down his rifle’s sights. This time, he let off the entire spool of wire in one long burst, working to one side of where the rocket had exploded.
Two minutes. Joe put another spool of wire in. This one and one more, he decided. When he put the next spool in after that, it would be time to disengage. There was time for him to toss one grenade of his own. The range was extreme. There was little chance that anyone could lob a one-kilo hand grenade eighty meters from a prone position, but it didn’t need to go all of the way. If it went fifty meters, it might do some damage, and if it went sixty, it would put the nearest Heggies in the kill zone.
Then it was back to the rifle.
Joe heard someone grunt heavily. Glancing to the left, he saw one of the men in second squad flop over onto his side, hit by wire. There were a couple of short calls from medics. There were other casualties as well. Joe kept firing until he reached the wire total he had decided would use up the two minutes.
“Pack ‘em up,” Joe said. “Third squad, get ready to cover us as we pull back past you. Maybe it’s time to use a couple more Vrerchs.”
Withdrawing under fire was always dangerous. No matter how well trained the troops were, there was confusion as men tried to move in one direction while firing in another, and trying to avoid being hit themselves.
The first thirty meters, most of the men moved flat, on their stomachs, one fire team in each squad moving while the other kept popping away at the Heggies with wire and RPGs. The Schlinal troops were starting to get a few RPGs out themselves.
The rest of the platoon moved through third squad as the latest Vrerchs exploded among the Schlinal positions. Second platoon had a half dozen wounded men being helped along by their buddies now. Two men wouldn’t be making the trip back at all. Their bodies had to be left behind. If the 13th somehow managed to survive this fight and there was a later, the dead would be retrieved. Attempting to bring them back now could only cause more casualties.
“Up and out of here,” Joe said, getting to his feet and spraying wire toward the enemy. He was close to 120 meters from the Heggies now, out of the greatest danger zone from enemy wire. “Third, you’ve still got rear guard. We’ll stop and cover you from another thirty meters back.”
The platoon moved faster now. Men ducked around trees, trying to keep as much wood as possible between them and the enemy. Three squads covered thirty meters and stopped to let the remaining squad rejoin them. Third had one wounded man of its own to deal with now.
“I want the rest of the RPGs out,” Joe said. “We’ve got to keep them from following us too soon.” Carrying wounded, they would be too easy for any pursuit to catch.
Third squad moved past as the men with the grenade launchers started firing as quickly as they could load. Four at a time, over and over.
“First, we’ll take the rear now,” Joe said. He sent the other squads on after third and stayed back with third. Pit Tymphe, the only wounded man in first, was still firing wire as rapidly as he could load new spools.
Joe waited until the rest of the platoon had covered twenty meters before he started to pull first squad back. “Let’s start it out slow,” he said. “Keep ‘em occupied.”
There was no sign of any Heggies coming out from their lines to pursue. Yet. That was good news, but there was always a chance–a good chance–that the enemy commander would be doing whatever he could to get troops in from one side or another, circling around to ambush the Freebies while they retreated.
Joe put himself right in the center of the first squad’s line. Ezra Frain anchored one end, Mort Jaiffer the other. Those three set the pace, and they kept it dead slow until the rest of the platoon was nearly back to where they had to turn for the final kilometer-long leg back to the 13th’s lines.
After checking with the other squad leaders, Joe said, “Okay, let’s beat it,” on first squad’s channel. The six men turned and ran through the woods, making for the rest of the platoon.
First squad had nearly reached the turn before there was any sign of pursuit by the Schlinal unit they had attacked. Joe and the others could hear men running through the underbrush, beneath the trees. It was a surprise to hear fire coming from up ahead also, on the other side of the path leading back to the rest of the 13th. Heavy fire.
“It’s not coming at us,” Sauv Degtree reported. “They’re shooting at the main lines. Looks like the Heggies are finally getting around to attacking our sector.”
That’s all we need, Joe thought. He switched channels. “Lieutenant, we’re coming in, right down the path we followed going out. There’s Heggie activity on both sides of us.”
“We’re monitoring you, Baerclau,” Lieutenant Keye said. “The men know you’re coming.”
Just so they don’t get trigger happy anyway, Joe thought. He took a deep breath and started running again.
REPORTS CAME in from every company of the 13th. We’re under attack. Van Stosser and Dezo Parks both took calls, talked to company commanders. There was no change in orders. Do what you can. Hold at all costs. We don’t have anywhere to go.
With very little time to work, the headquarters security
detachment had dug and built a solid command bunker for the colonel and his staff, well camouflaged and as solid as possible working only with the materials at hand. There were two separate sections, secure enough that even a direct hit might take out only one of the two. Stossen was in one. Parks was in the other. The rest of the staff circulated between the two as needed. Some thought was given to keeping approximately half of headquarters apart from the other half to insure some sort of continuity even in a disaster.
Around the command bunker was a last line of defense, a place for the security detachment and other headquarters personnel to make a last stand, if–or when–it came to that. There were splat guns and men with Vrerchs and RPGs.
Even Colonel Stossen kept a loaded rifle close at hand. He had a full bandolier of wire spools and power packs slung over a shoulder, and several hand grenades hanging from his tunic and web belt. He looked very little like a regimental commander now, except perhaps for the harried look on his face.
Bal Kenneck came over to the colonel, waited until Stossen finished a call and nodded to him, then said, “The last of our patrols is back in. We’ve just lost another Wasp.” Kenneck shook his head. “On the ground. Hit by a tank round, I think. The pilot’s okay.”
“Three planes left,” Stossen said. It wasn’t a question. “They’re all back up, freshly charged. There’s still no hint of shortages for them, either batteries or munitions, but if the assault gets much heavier, we might have trouble getting them in and out safely.”
“Has that crew chief, Vernon, got his weapons ready for us?”
“They’re being humped into place now, fast as he puts them together. I wouldn’t put too much faith in them, Colonel. Eyeball-aimed rockets, and those cannons. The guns are made to be held securely under a Wasp. Makeshift tripods aren’t going to give them the stable platform they need. They start shooting those, there won’t be any safe places to hide.”
