L13TH 01 Until Relieved

by Rick Shelley

  The other fire team moved on by. Joe and Mort fell in behind, with the rest of their team. No one paid any attention to the dead Heggie. He no longer mattered.

  FOUR MEN lay under cover of a thicket that blanketed the side of a hill overlooking the town of Maison. Members of the special intelligence detachment assigned to the 13th SAT, they had been on Porter for ten days, one of two teams that had been infiltrated ahead of the invasion. Their shuttle had never landed. The teams had jumped at twenty five hundred meters, free-falling most of that distance before deploying black parasails. Those chutes were jettisoned before they reached the ground. The men released their harnesses and landed on personal antigrav packs. That technology was so new that it had never before been used in combat.

  One man from the team targeted against the Schlinal forces in Maison had died in the landing. He had misjudged his timing, releasing his chute too soon. The personal antigrav packs were only good for thirty seconds of power before their batteries failed. He had fallen the last thirty meters and died on impact. His companions had buried him, leaving not a trace of the grave visible. The parasails had been equipped with nanotech systems to self-destruct once released. Not so much as a clasp survived of them.

  Ten days. The teams had jumped and landed separately, hundreds of kilometers apart. The Maison team–it had no other identifier–had hiked sixty kilometers before their first dawn on Porter, then spent two days hiding, well away from Maison or any other settlement. Seventy-two hours after landing, the Maison team had come out of hiding to move toward their target, slowly and carefully. Stealth was a way of life for these men. Their passage was scarcely noted even by the animals of the plateau. They wanted no contact at all with the world’s humans, certainly not the Hegemony’s occupying force, but not even with the longtime residents. They were prepared to go to the most extreme Iengths to avoid capture, and if that appeared to be insufficient, each was prepared to commit suicide–with a chemical that would insure the rapid destruction of brain cells, so that even dead they could not be milked of their secrets.

  The hundred-hectare thicket on the slope above Maison made a perfect refuge. The slope was gentle. The Accord observers crawled under and through the maze. In all that expanse, there was no place where a man could stand upright. The thicket was like a stunted forest, dense but short. Wrist-thick trunks supported the bushes. Their canopy of glossy leaves, with thorns only on the upper branches, was thoroughly interlaced and much too thick to allow any passage to walking men or large animals. But beneath that canopy, the four men had little difficulty moving around. Like ants in a crystal-sided ant farm, they had scores of meter-high passages available to them, concealment without the sense of complete enclosure that tunnels might have engendered.

  Gene Abru was the leader of the Maison team. Stocky and a little below average height, Gene had made a fetish out of physical fitness. His interests ranged from lifting weights to the most arcane of martial arts. The discipline he had forced on himself was mental as well. He had entered the army of his native world, Ceej–Tau Ceti IV–at the age of seventeen, and he had served there long enough to qualify for minimal retirement. But when he retired from that army, it was only to enlist in the Accord Defense Force. He had been invited into military intelligence, and had proven himself over and over in that capacity.

  Alone of the more than two thousand men in the 13th, Gene Abru had been on one of the core worlds of the Schlinal Hegemony since the start of the new Schlinal drive into Accord space. Past forty years of age, he was the oldest man attached to the 13th, save for a few of the senior headquarters officers and the regimental sergeant major. Nominally only a platoon sergeant, there was no company-grade officer in the 13th (outside of Special Intelligence, that is. Abru was of a type, not unique), who would have dared try to enforce their orders on him. Like the other senior noncoms in Special Intelligence, he had entree to the highest command levels in the assault team. Even Colonel Stossen found himself fascinated by Abru . . . and perhaps, though he would never admit it, even a little frightened of him.

  A week of idleness, doing nothing but watching Maison, was starting to tell on the entire team, but they maintained their silence. They had uttered scarcely a word in all of the time they had lain in wait in the thicket, and then only in the softest whispers, face-to-face. Though they had helmets, and helmet radios, they had not used the radios, not wanting to take the slightest chance of giving away their presence on the world. In a week, not a man of them had even been able to stand and stretch. But that was over now, or would be soon. In radio contact with the CIC aboard the flagship, Gene and his men knew that the 13th was on the ground, and that they had started to move on Maison. The team had witnessed the artillery barrage that had leveled the Hegemony compound at the edge of town. They had seen the column of enemy troops move out toward the Accord LZs.

  “I guess we’ll find out now if our legs still work,” Gene told his companions as they prepared to move out. They had marked the route they would take their first day in the thicket, and each man had studied it at length. Gene was certain that he could find his way along it blind. There was a long draw leading down and at an angle to the right. Even after they left the cover of the tangled thicket, they would be out of the line of sight of anyone in Maison until they were nearly down to the level of the town’s streets and no more than a kilometer from the outlying houses.

  They were armed no differently from line infantrymen. Each man carried an Armanoc zipper and a belt knife. They carried no explosives or incendiary devices. But they did carry small transmitters–radio beacons that could be placed to mark important targets for Wasp or Havoc attention.

  Single file, the four men worked their way down off of the hill, through the angled draw past a formation of rocks that blocked the bottom of the cut. Despite the fact that all four men were as fit as rigorous daily training regimens could make them, the week’ s forced inactivity told on them. Legs were stiff and knees ached. They pressed on without complaint. At the bottom of the draw, they paused for a rest. Gene got back on the radio to CIC for a final confirmation that the attack was on time, that the forces were moving on schedule.

  “It’s a go,” Gene told the others. Each of them nodded at him. “We’ve all got our work to do. See you in the morning.”

  * * *

  Though no one in Echo Company knew it, the hill they moved around in the last hour of their night march was the one that had sheltered the intelligence team. No one outside Colonel Stossen’s headquarters even knew that those teams had been dropped onto Porter well before the invasion. When Captain Ingels received the radio call on his command channel, he was surprised . . . and suspicious.

  “Captain Ingels, this is Gene Abru, of Special Intelligence. We met three months ago at the Accord Day ceremony. You remember?”

  For a moment Ingels was completely at a loss. The last thing on his mind was some garrison doings months back. It was difficult to take his mind away from where he was now. But, finally, he nodded to himself, and said, “I remember. Major Parks introduced us.”

  “There was a reason for that, sir,” Abru said. “It was so’s you’d know me now.”

  I didn’t even know there was going to be this now then, Ingels thought.

  “All dressed up and nowhere to go,” Abru said next. That phrase startled the captain. Abru had used it twice during the few minutes they had talked at the Accord Day party in the officers’ mess.

  “I take it that that’s some sort of password?” Ingels said.

  “You could call it that, sir. Now, my men and I are inside Maison, The town is wide open, not a Heggie in it. Not alive, anyway. They took all but a few guards with them. The guards didn’t get a chance to call for help before we got ’em.”

  “You’re certain that there are none of them left?”

  “Certain as I can be without searching every building in town. Most there could be is a few isolat
ed individuals, and they wouldn’t be good for much ’cept snipin’. We’ve made contact with the locals. They’re plum delighted that the Accord’s finally come for them.”

  Until we leave again, Ingels thought, but there was no need to mention that. He assumed that Abru knew about that as well. Special Intelligence: they would damn well know, even if they weren’t supposed to.

  “Ingels, this is Stossen.” The captain was also unprepared for the sudden addition to the radio conference. “Yes, sir,” he managed, not quite stuttering.

  “Don’t knock the free ride,” the colonel said. “Get your men into Maison and set up your positions on the west and south to keep the Schlinal forces from getting back inside.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ingels did not waste time with excuses about not knowing that Sl had people on the ground inside Maison, or about not having proper authentification procedures. It was possible for the enemy to tap into what were supposed to be secure channels–highly improbable, but possible.

  Despite Abru’s assurances, and the fact that Colonel Stossen had confirmed the man’s identity, Ingels still did not simply march his company into Maison. The recon platoon was sent ahead, to take up positions around the town and to set up listening posts on the approaches. Then Echo went in as cautiously as if they knew that every building concealed an enemy sniper. The men had been warned that Maison was apparently empty of enemies, but to be on the alert anyway.

  Although there was still an hour left before dawn, more than half the people of Maison came out to greet their liberators, or simply to watch from windows and doorways, making sure that they were clearly visible–and seen as no threat. There were a few cheers, but most of the people were content simply to wave or say a few words to whichever troops came nearest them.

  Maison was the second largest town on Porter, but it was no metropolis. There was not one building in town more than two stories high, and most were only a single story, particularly the residences. Porter clung to a common colonial style–large, rambling single-story homes, most commonly built around a central courtyard, completely enclosed on every side. In some cases, the original homes had been expanded one or more times, spreading to include two or three courtyards. On a primitive world, such designs were often literally a matter of life and death. And, on many worlds, such as Porter, later generations never quite escaped this sort of architectural common memory.

  After centuries of settlement, Maison was a far cry from the one real city on the planet. The vast bulk of the world’s population still lived in Porter City, or in a belt of suburbs that had grown up around, and gradually more distant from it. Maison’s population had never topped ten thousand. Now, it was somewhat below that figure. More than a thousand people had left Maison to open a new settlement farther to the north, just months before the Schlinal invasion.

  “Glad to see you lads,” one elderly man called out, his voice sounding uncomfortably loud to the soldiers.

  Joe looked at the man. He was dressed in soft clothes, what might have been pajamas on a world like Porter. Joe could not tell at a glance, and there was no time for more than that.

  “About bloody time,” another voice called, more softly.

  Five streets went through Maison from east to west. Two went north to south. The streets were broad, except right in the center of town. Later additions had marred the symmetry there. Also except in the center of town, the buildings were generally spaced well apart, or in small, tight clusters separated from other, neighbors. Although only a small fraction of the populace still farmed extensively, almost every family appeared to have a small garden near their house, some right out in front, between house and street. It made Maison seem more rural than it actually was.

  “You need a hand, we’re here.”

  Joe turned his head to look again. That voice had belonged to a woman, but he could not decide which one. There were several women, or girls, in a cluster. It might have been any of them. Joe glanced around at the men of his squad, wondering how Iong it would be before one of them broke discipline to say something back to one of the locals, particularly the women. The robes they wore against the light chill might not have been particularly becoming, but a soldier didn’t need much to excite his imagination.

  “Don’t worry, Sarge,” Tod Chorbek said over the radio. “They ain’t gonna attack us.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about,” Joe replied tightly. “Just mind what you’re supposed to be doing. There’s still a lot of Heggies between us and home.”

  Echo Company moved completely through Maison. Only the headquarters detachment and the heavy weapons squad would wait for the enemy’s return in town, or on its edge, The rest of Echo, and the recon platoon, would be out in front of the town, between the civilians and the Hegemony garrison that might soon be retreating toward it.

  “Dig in fast,” Joe told his men when they were in position southwest of town. They were in farmland now, but there were occasional groves of native trees and orchards–various sorts of fruit and nut that the settlers had brought to Porter with them. Second platoon was lucky. They found themselves posted in an orchard of apple and pear trees. Though the pears were far from ripe, some of the apples were close enough to be tempting.

  The sun was up before Joe had his men dug in as well as he wanted. Then, there was time for a meal, several drinks of water, and a chance to rest.

  “The Heggies are still an hour away,” Joe told his men after he got the word from the first sergeant. “Use the time. Long as I don’t hear any snoring, I’m satisfied.”

  Joe stuck a hand inside his tunic and scratched at his chest. He had been inside his clothes for more than twenty-four hours, and he felt filthy. There was no way to guess how much longer he might spend in those clothes, quite possibly until the 13th returned to its ships. It would take a week of frequent scrubbing before he would feel really clean again.

  After Joe had eaten, he pulled off his boots and spent a few minutes taking care of his feet. He wiped them dry, powdered them, and put on fresh socks. When he zipped his boots back on, he felt marginally better. For an infantryman, feet were as important as his rifle. He could get nowhere without them.

  Joe closed his eyes then. He could hardly have kept them open unless there was shooting. Twenty-four hours–Porter’s day was very close to Earth standard, just a few minutes short of twenty-four hours long–but ninety minutes shorter than the day on his native world of Bancroft. Exhaustion was hardly the word for the way Joe felt. At times like this, he sometimes fantasized, usually about being Rip Van Winkle and sleeping for twenty years. Long enough to retire.

  * * *

  Joe woke with a start. There was a scream in his ear: “Watch your front, They’ll be in sight in a few minutes.”

  It was Max Maycroft’s voice, the alert. And he had not screamed. It had merely sounded like it to Joe’s sleeping mind. He shook his head and blinked rapidly several times, feeling himself come alert as adrenaline poured into his system. They’re coming!

  This won’t be like yesterday, Joe thought, and then he repeated it for his men. “Couple thousand men, running from one fight into another,” he added. “They’re gonna be downright desperate. Mind yourselves.”

  He checked his rifle. The indicator showed full power and a full magazine. Spare spools of wire were in pouches on his belt, and two were on the ground next to him, where he could get to them even faster. Deep breaths: two, three. Joe took his hands off of his rifle and flexed them several times, so that there would be no stiffness to distract him from what was about to come.

  What was about to come. This was an ambush on a massive scale. A lot depended on how quickly the Heggies recovered from the shock of finding enemies waiting for them. If the ambush was a surprise, if Echo Company had not been spotted, what was to come could be brutal. If they had been spotted, if the Heggies knew what they were facing, things might get dicey for Echo Compa
ny. The Heggies did have overwhelming numbers on their side.

  The Schlinal force retreating toward Maison was still a coherent unit. Their discipline had not evaporated under the harassing tactics of Charley Company and the Wasps and Havocs. Although they were retreating, making a “tactical withdrawal,” they outnumbered their attackers by a much larger margin than they could know, and they were moving under orders, paying attention to the fundamentals. Most of their trucks had been abandoned, or destroyed, but most of these garrison troops were infantry anyway. They might be out of practice, but they did have training to fall back on.

  If the Heggies were not expecting to walk into an ambush close to Maison, they did react swiftly when the shooting started. Few of the Schlinal soldiers waited to see where the firing was coming from. Most immediately dove for cover, protecting themselves before they worried about countering the attack.

  Echo Company had the surprise, however briefly, and they used it to good effect. A single word of command from Captain Ingels brought every weapon into use. The first short bursts from wire carbines and splat guns raked over the nearest sections of the Hegemony force. Some few of those bursts actually managed to evade or penetrate the body armor of the Hegemony soldiers, though the range was too great for maximum effectiveness.

  The Schlinal troop was caught in the open, with little real cover available. With Echo Company in front of them and dug in, and Charley Company pursuing, the much greater numbers that the Hegemony enjoyed were of little use. Within a minute after Echo Company sprang its ambush, the guns of Basset Battery started pouring in on the Heggies. Four Wasps flew in to add their cannons and rockets to the commotion.

  It took the Schlinal commander less than ten minutes to decide that he had only one way to avoid the wholesale slaughter of his entire command.