by Rick Shelley
Captain Ingels dispatched half of his recon force to harass them, and to make certain that the enemy was leaving–and not merely regrouping for another assault. Work parties were sent down into the valley to collect weapons and ammunition from the dead and wounded. Little could be done to help the Schlinal wounded. Medics gave first aid, bandaged wounds, and administered painkillers and nanotech repair machines, but the medics knew that, for the most part, their efforts would be wasted unless the Heggies returned to collect their wounded.
“No choice,” Ingels told First Sergeant Izzy Walker. “We can’t carry them with us, and I’m not going to ask for another shuttle landing to evacuate Heggies.”
Walker had not suggested otherwise. Under the best of conditions, the 13th was just barely able to think of civilized niceties of that nature. The 13th would lose a considerable portion of its mobility if it were to carry equipment and noncombat personnel to meet every possible contingency. For a detachment operating alone, far too close to the center of the enemy’s power base on the world, it was impossible.
“Leastwise, we don’t have any new wounded of our own who won’t be able to walk,” Walker said. “We come off lucky that way, Captain. Looks like nine dead, and maybe three dozen wounded, but none of the wounds are serious.” The characterization of “not serious” was easy for someone who had not been wounded himself. Those with the wounds might disagree. Walker shrugged. “Not if we don’t ask too much of them and get help in a day or so.”
The dead were already being buried, not the easiest of tasks in the rocky terrain that the strike force occupied.
“We can ask for another evac shuttle if we have to,” Ingels said. “Maybe tonight.” He had expected that another shuttle run would be needed. The possibility that it might not was a minor relief.
“For now, we’re going to move. I don’t want to wait for dark. The more distance we put between ourselves and those Heggies, the better I’ll feel.” Not that they could put too much distance between them, not without new orders. The strike force had to remain close enough to Porter City to be seen as a threat to the Schlinal garrison. That was the entire point of this foray, not just one raid on a kaserne. The Schlinal garrison would scarcely be affected by the damage the strike force had done so far. It would only be an annoyance–except to those Heggies who had been killed or wounded.
“The men are pretty beat, sir,” Walker said. “I don’t know how much more they have left to give right now.”
“Five klicks,” Ingels said. “That’s where the next decent defensive position is, according to the mapboard.” He had spent some time looking over their options. “We get there, and the Heggies don’t attack, we’Il let the men rest. All night and most of tomorrow, if we aren’t recalled before then.” All of his plans had to be qualified by that. Not knowing what new orders he might receive was annoying, but–this time–not particularly unwelcome.
“Yes, sir. I’ll get the men formed up for the move.”
There were more than a few audible groans as the word was passed to each of the platoons. No one enjoyed the thought of another hike. Most of the men had counted on having until dark, at least, before they would be on the move again.
Infantry welcomed the dark, looked forward to it. Even when friends and enemies alike were equipped with efficient night-vision systems, the darkness gave some cover. The best night-sight gear, such as that which the Accord Defense Forces used, only provided seventy percent of daylight visibility.
Sore feet and legs were asked to carry everyone again. Five kilometers, over rough country: it took the strike force three hours to cover that distance, more than twice what it would have taken if they had been fresh.
It was hard to keep the men together during this march. After days in the field with minimal rations and major exertions, stragglers were a constant problem, and there were no pickup vans trailing along to collect them. They had to be urged on–prodded, cajoled, or threatened–by their mates as well as by the officers and noncoms. If they fell behind, the only pickup would be by the Schlinal forces, and no one wanted to trust themselves to the suspect mercies of the enemy.
The start of the march was difficult enough for most of the men. They had to climb to the top of the hill. Though the route was well defined, it was steep. After they crossed the top, they had to follow the recon platoons down a steep draw on the far side. That was too narrow, and treacherous, for anything other than single file, and it took a considerable time to move four-hundred men down it, slipping and sliding repeatedly.
The narrow draw opened into a long, narrow valley with slopes rising on both sides–steeply on the left. The bottom of the valley was rarely as much as twenty meters wide, and it was exceptionally rocky–scree, loose rocks from pebbles to boulders the size of a small truck–strewn around haphazardly. That was especially hard on feet that were already aching, and the uneven going pulled at the muscles in thighs and calves. Smaller rocks gave way underfoot. A few times, rocks larger than a man were dislodged to tilt or slide a meter or two.
After two kilometers of that, the strike force had to climb another slope, to reach a pass between two more rocky hills.
That opened up into a higher valley, a large bowl-shaped depression that had survived long enough to collect soil to support the growth of small trees. Once inside that wooded area–it was hardly large enough to term it a forest–Captain Ingels called a halt.
The men moved into defensive positions. Most of them were ready to collapse from fatigue, but there was work to do first. Holes had to be dug. Dirt and rocks had to be piled up. Men had to be reminded to eat. Exhaustion might seem more important than hunger, but they needed the nourishment, scant as their resources had become.
Even then, only half of the men could be allowed to sleep at any one time. The squads were matched off one fire team on guard, the other to sleep. The first changeover would be made in two hours. After that, the intervals would be stretched by half. And, just maybe, everyone would have a chance to catch up on their sleep before the next march . . . or the next fight.
* * *
Eustace Ponks rode with his teeth gritted against the vibration he felt coming from the right tread of Basset two. The tremor had been there since they started moving after their repairs, just before sunset, and the vibration was beginning to get more pronounced. Eustace knew every sound and movement that the gun made, and this new sound did not bode well. They still had two-hundred kilometers to go, to reach the escarpment, and there was a long, difficult climb when they did. He had already had Simon cut back on their speed. Basset two was doing no more than forty kilometers per hour now, scarcely enough to give them time to get to the top of the escarpment by first light. If that vibration continued to get worse, they would have to slow down even more. That might leave them out in the open, either at the rocky perimeter of the rift valley or on the road climbing to the plateau, in daylight–where they would have no room for evasive maneuvers in case of attack.
“The rest of the battery will probably pass us in an hour or two,” Simon said. The recall order for the Havocs had gone out early in the afternoon, while the repair work to Basset two was still going on, but the move was not scheduled to start until dark, when the guns and their support vans would have some hope of moving unobserved. Basset two had started back ahead of the others because of the damage it had suffered. But a full day’s lead would be lost because of the time they had spent working on the drive wheel, and because of the slower speed they were being forced to hold to now.
They’ll pass us, Eustace thought, but there was nothing the others could do to help Basset two move any faster. For a time, the others would be in range to throw in a few rounds if they were attacked on the ground, but they would not stay close. That would simply present a more tempting target to any enemy aircraft that might happen to spot them, and the Havocs were not anti-aircraft weapons. They would be plump targets, ripe for the
picking. In any case, the rest of the battery was needed on the plateau. Not baby-sitting a cripple.
“At least some of us will get back in time to lend a hand,” Eustace whispered, not really caring whether or not Simon heard him. A little louder, he said, “You feel that vibration?” He had asked that question a dozen times already.
“I feel it,” Simon replied. “If it busts, it busts. There’s nothing more we can do about it. Rosey said it’s a miracle we’re even running. Just hope it gets us close enough that we can make it the rest of the way on foot if we have to.”
“Can that talk,” Eustace said, too sharply. His voice softened somewhat when he added, “This old girl will get us there. We just need to pamper her a bit. Try cutting another klick or two off the speed.”
“You’re the boss,” Simon said, resigned. He adjusted the throttles on both engines just a fraction.
Once the Havoc was running at its new speed, Eustace listened intently to the sounds the treads made for a moment. “Maybe that is just a hair better,” he conceded. “It should still get us up to the top before sunrise.” He hoped.
* * *
Al Bergon had a busy hour after the strike force made camp. While the others were digging in, he made the rounds of first squad, and second squad as well. Everyone had blisters or badly strained muscles. Ezra Frain had managed to twist his knee. By the time he was able to get off of his feet and stay there, the knee had swollen up. Ezra was in considerable pain but refused to admit it until he was alone with the medic. Even then, he whispered.
“I didn’t think I was going to make it,” he told Bergon.
“It’s a miracle you did. Next time, let me know right away. We could have taken two minutes to put a soaker on it. You’d have had a lot less pain, and it would heal a hell of a lot faster.”
“Yeah, well.” Ezra let his voice tail off. He did know better–it was the same sort of thing he had told Joe Baerclau when the sergeant hurt his leg–but it was always easier to give advice than to take it. With the pain, Ezra had not been thinking straight. “Long as we don’t have to start off again for a couple of hours.”
“Couple of hours? You’d better hope we have at least eighteen hours before you have to start walking again. That knee’s in bad shape. You may have torn cartilage or muscle. I can’t tell for certain. Right now, we’ve got to get you to Doc Eddles. Maybe he can come up with something more than I can.”
“I’ll be all right,” Ezra insisted.
“Don’t try to hand me that load of crap, Corp. If we had an evac shuttle coming in, you’d be on it. No shit. Doc Eddles would back me up in a second, and the lieutenant wouldn’t try to stop it. And don’t even think about putting any weight on that leg. I’ll get a couple of guys and we’Il carry you to the doc. You just wait where you are.”
Bergon stood, but did not actually have to go anywhere. He called for Mort and Kam, and the three of them moved Ezra to where Doc Eddles had set up shop. Mort headed straight back to the rest of the squad. AI stayed with Ezra so he would have a chance to tell Eddles what he had found. Kam started to Ieave, but stopped a few meters away. He looked back toward Al.
“Okay, Kam. I’Il be with you in a minute,” Bergon said.
The whole squad knew that Goff was having trouble, though they tried not to let him see that they knew. Al, Mort, and Ezra had been sharing the duty of watching over Kam, and it really did not matter if one of them happened to be occupied for a few minutes, the rest of the squad was also watching. Kam hadn’t realized that he was never out of sight of at least one of the others. They never called it a suicide watch, did not even think of it in those terms, but they knew that Goff was in danger, and they were determined to do what they could to help him through it. He was part of the squad.
AI briefed Doc Eddles on Ezra Frain’s condition, then hurried over to Goff.
“Something I can do for you?” AI asked as casually as he could manage.
“I don’t know.” Kam had his visor up, and he whispered so softly that AI had to pay particular attention to be certain that he heard what Kam said. “I’m not sure there’s anything anybody can do.”
“Let’s take a walk.” There was too little room in the patch of woods to get out of sight of everyone, but they could manage a little privacy.
“Talk to me,” AI said when they were finally out of earshot of the men around the dispensary.
AI sat, and gestured for Kam to get down as well. Goff hesitated, then more or less collapsed onto his rump. His head hung forward for a moment. AI waited without moving.
“I was wondering if Doc Eddles might have something to help me,” Goff managed after a minute.
“Help you how?” Bergon asked.
“Deal with all this,” Kam made a wild gesture with one hand. “You know what it’s been like for me. I see somebody dead, see a little blood, and all of a sudden I’m puking my guts out. But that’s not the worst part. I’m scared crazy. I can’t sleep. I hardly dare close my eyes for all the terrible things I see. I don’t know how much longer I can take it.” More softly yet, he added, “I really don’t.”
“I can give you a sleep patch,” AI said, speaking slowly while he tried to think what else he might be able to do. “That puts you so deep you won’t dream.” Or won’t remember what you dream if you do, he qualified silently. “Just getting some undisturbed sleep should help. The human mind can do a lot for itself, if it gets a chance. A mild tranquilizer to help the other. But it can’t be too much, Kam, you know that. We’re stuck out here. You’ve got to be able to march with the rest of us. I know it’s rough, but you are making it. You’re doing your duty. You’re doing the best you can, and that’s all anyone can ask.”
Kam shook his head. “I’m just going through the motions. I couldn’t–couldn’t–actually shoot at someone. Not anymore. I’m just making noises with my zipper. I think Sarge knows.”
Probably, AI thought. “Don’t worry about that. If it was ticking the Bear off, he’d let you know fast. Let’s get back to the squad. I’ll give you a patch so you can get some sleep before we hit the road again.”
* * *
The next attack started with a dozen Schlinal snipers sneaking close enough to work on the strike force. The Heggie shooters had all managed to get past the thin cordon of sensors that the strike force had planted without setting off any warning. There had been too few of the remote bugs to adequately cover the perimeter, and the men of the strike force had been too tired to do their best work in any event. Sudden gunfire two hours before dawn woke everyone immediately–except for the two men who were struck by the first volley of fire, and those men who had required sleep patches for one reason or another.
AI Bergon came awake instantly. He rolled onto his stomach in the slit trench and lifted his head just enough to see over the dirt he had piled up around his hole. Though someone else had started it while he was treating the injured, Al had widened the hole and made it deeper, to give himself room for a patient.
Kam Goff was in a trench three meters away–with a sleep patch on his neck. No shooting in the galaxy was likely to wake him until the patch had run through its six-hour dose, or until it had been removed. Asleep, Goff had no way to defend himself, nor would he be able to respond to orders.
AI rolled out of his foxhole and crawled to Goff. Keeping himself pressed as close to the ground as possible, Al reached in and ripped the sleep patch from Kam’s neck. Goff would still need time to wake, but yanking the patch was the first step. A stimulant patch was the next. Before AI could bring his arm back to his side to reach for the new patch, he was hit in the elbow by a slug.
The pain was so intense that he was even unable to scream. Then, there was a brief numbness, an instant of relief as AI’s nervous system overloaded on pain and he came close to passing but. Then the pain was back, growing, and blood welled out of the shattered arm.
“Sarge, I’m hit,” AI reported. He sounded almost calm. “At Goff’s hole.” Then he did faint.
Tod Chorbek and Wiz Mackey spoke at the same time. Wiz finally took over. “We can get him, Sarge. We’re not all that far off.”
Joe’s instinct was to tell them to stay put, but he didn’t. They could not–would not–leave their medic out in the open. He would have gone after any of them, no matter the risk.
“Be careful,” Joe told the volunteers. “Stay flat. Drag him back to his hole.”
Wiz and Tod scuttled across the ground as if they were trying to break speed records. Neither man had his rifle or pack harness, so they weren’t slowed by gear. When they reached Bergon, each man grabbed a leg and they dragged him back to his own foxhole. Twice Joe saw dirt kick up within centimeters of one of the men as bullets struck–heavy slugs, not wire.
“Can’t anybody see who’s doing that shooting?” Joe demanded, frustration pulling his voice up a half octave. “Give them some covering fire.”
After a few more rounds had hit, Joe thought he had an idea of the direction the shooting was coming from. He fired two short bursts, and told the rest of first squad to use his vector to guide their own. “Put some wire out there!” he shouted into his radio. He was on the platoon channel though and it was the whole platoon that started shooting into the trees.
They might not have hit the sniper–a slug-thrower had a much greater range than a wire gun–but there were no more incoming rounds while Wiz and Tod were dragging the medic in.
“His elbow’s been shattered, and he’s lost a lot of blood,” Tod reported. “Our medic needs a medic, like now.”
