by John Bowers
“How are the rest of you guys fixed for ammo?” DuBose asked as he packed up his mess kit.
“I’m down to one full belt and a partial,” Clark replied.
“I’m on fumes,” Kopshevar said.
Everyone else, Nick included, reported one or two magazines remaining. If the rebels made a move in their direction, none of it would last more than a minute.
DuBose sighed.
“With any luck, the Freaks will lie low tonight. They’ve lost too many men to risk an attack, and they might even decide to withdraw across the river.”
Nick gazed out at what he could see of the North Trimmer. The opposite bank formed the edge of the northwest quadrant of town, the only quadrant the Federation hadn’t attacked. That part of town was sparsely populated. According to the map, it was more of a utility region, sporting a waterworks, power grid, and a cemetery. A few dozen modest homes were scattered along its winding streets. Buildings largely blocked his view, but he saw a few lights over there and wondered what they were.
“We shouldn’t let them get away,” he told DuBose. “If we don’t kill them here, we’ll just have to face them later.”
“We won’t. If they try to cross, the 205s will catch them out in the open.”
“Which means,” Nick decided, “they won’t try to cross. They know the sleds are watching them, and they know what the 205s can do.”
“Shit! I wish you hadn’t said that.”
“You think I’m right?”
“Yeah, much as I hate to admit it.”
“Everyone says they love to fight at night,” Nick said. “We’ve seen that for ourselves, so…”
“You think they’re going to attack.”
“It only makes sense. They know we’ll murder them in the daylight, and if they can’t evacuate, they don’t have much choice.”
DuBose nodded unhappily.
“It does make sense. But unless we get orders to the contrary, we’re not going out there tonight. We’re too low on ammo, for one thing, and I think we should brace to defend ourselves. Everybody get some grenades ready. If they do attack, try to conserve your shots, and make them count.”
He glanced at his watch.
“In the meantime, things are quiet right now, so let’s get some sack time. Two-man watch, two-hour shifts. Volunteers?”
“I’ll take the first one,” Nick said.
“Me, too,” said Rudy.
“Okay, I’ll take the next one with Kopycat. Carlson, you and CC take the third watch. Everybody else, curl up and grab a few winks.”
“What about me?” Avila asked.
“Sleep while you can. You can take the fourth watch with Walker.”
There followed some shuffling as everyone picked out a spot and settled into it. Nick sat behind a wall next to the window with a view down the street to his right; he placed Rudy on the opposite side, with a view the other way.
Within minutes, the men were snoring. They had been awake since 0400, in action since 0500. It had been a long, bone-wearing day, and though they were still alive, they hadn’t survived the battle yet. None of them could claim that honor until Three Rivers was completely in Federation hands.
Nick yawned, then rubbed his eyes to clear them of residual moisture that might occlude his night vision. He debated inserting a night-vision contact lens, but decided against it. In this urban environment, too many heat sources could foul his vision, and in any case, enough fires were burning to cast a ghostly, dancing light over the streets. He peered into the night for a few minutes, thinking of what might lie ahead, then came to a decision. He pulled his bayonet free and locked it into place on his rifle.
He yawned again, glanced at his watch, and settled down to watch.
South of his position, maybe down near the South Trimmer, a firefight broke out, but it lasted only a couple of minutes. From time to time, random shots could be heard from various directions. A P-gun shell whizzed overhead and impacted near the bank of the North Trimmer. Somewhere, he heard someone shouting, and from another direction the frantic barking of a dog. Someone yelled at the dog and it fell silent.
It continued like that for the next two hours, and then he woke the next shift.
2300 Hours
Nick had been asleep barely two hours, but it seemed much less than that. DuBose and Kopshevar had just finished their watch and were waking the third shift, Carlson and Clark. Everything was quiet except for the random sounds common to a battlefield at night. Their street had been quiet since dusk.
Nick would never know what woke him—DuBose was speaking quietly to his relief and they were answering in murmurs.
Nick was stretched out beside the wall next to the window. Dreams flitted through his subconscious, retarding his sleep, preventing any real rest. His mouth felt dry. He sat up and reached for his canteen.
Dubose had his back to the window. Kopshevar was looking for a spot in a dark corner. Carlson and Clark, still yawning, were crawling toward the SAW, which still sat in the window. Avila and Rudy were sound asleep.
As he raised the canteen to his lips, Nick saw a flash of white outside the window. Instantly awake, he dropped the canteen and grabbed his rifle. As he swung the muzzle toward the window, he saw more white splotches, ten at least, maybe twenty. Before he could open fire, two grenades sailed through the window, one landing almost in his lap. Without even thinking, he grabbed it and flung it back outside, then opened fire. Two men in white shirts and black hats fall back as his slugs ripped into them.
“Grenaaaaade!” he screamed. “Cover!”
He followed his own advice and flattened out again. The second grenade had bounced across the tiled showroom floor and lay spinning near a display case next to Kit Carlson. Carlson saw it and, in desperation, kicked it as hard as he could. His kick sent it into the wall, where it rebounded behind the display case and exploded.
Riddled with frags, Carlson went down in a heap.
Rudy yelled in panic, Nick’s ears rang, but no one else was hurt. CC leaped to his squad weapon and opened up, spraying the street with tracer. Nick jumped toward the window and looked out, shocked to his core. The street was full of Coalition troops, not ten or twenty, but three or four hundred. They looked like a wave of dominoes, all white shirts and black hats. Most were carrying rifles, but only one or two returned fire. Two more heaved grenades, but Clark cut one of them down before he completed his throw and the little bomb erupted at his feet, blowing the legs off two or three nearby rebels. The second grenade hit the side of the building above the window and also rebounded, with similar results.
Nick resumed fire with his .291, joined by Dubose and Kopshevar. Rudy was on his feet now, but held his fire because the window was crowded with his squad mates. Avila scrambled to another window and began firing into the street.
The carnage was impressive, but didn’t begin to blunt the rebel wave. Nick realized that most of those in the street were not after 1st Squad, but were on a larger mission. Most of them surged around the corner and headed toward streets the Star Marines had already captured. His position was being overrun, and in the back of his mind flashed an image from the great pre-Federation Pacific war, something the Japanese had called a banzai attack—a desperate, last-ditch effort by a defeated army.
His dry mouth turned to dust. He fired until his magazine ran dry, then grabbed up three grenades and tossed them into the street. DuBose and Kopshevar also emptied their rifles, then fell back a few feet to change magazines. Avila’s weapon clicked on an empty chamber.
The street was now littered with dead and dying, but the rebels came on, at least twenty charging straight at the auto shop. CC Clark swept them with the last few rounds in his magazine belt, and without Carlson to reload for him, leaped to his feet and drew his pistol.
Nick also dropped back a few steps, and as he did, realization dawned on him—the rebels weren’t firing their weapons.
“They’re out of ammo!” he shouted. “Use bayonets!”
Four rebels, all of them skinny teenagers with long hair and pasty faces, leapt through the window and charged. Clark shot two of them with his pistol, then spun around to shoot three more outside. Two were still coming at Nick, one with a broken rifle stock and the other swinging a hunting knife. Nick side-stepped the first one and jammed his bayonet into the other. He jerked the bayonet free barely in time to turn and meet the first one making his second attack; he slammed his rifle butt into the kid’s head, then loomed over him as he tried to rise again.
The kid swiped at him with the knife, aiming for his ankles, perhaps hoping to sever a tendon. Nick, as close to panic as he had been since arriving on the planet, slammed his rifle butt down onto the kid’s head, driving it into the floor. Operating more on adrenaline than logic, he slammed the rifle down again, again, again, again, and again in a single, fluid motion until the kid’s skull cracked and his brains squirted across the floor.
The sight of bloody brain matter shocked him out of auto-mode and he lurched back with a gasp of horror, then turned to see Clark fighting off five more. Clark’s pistol was empty, his SAW was empty, and he didn’t have time to reload. Thanks to his training, Nick’s hands worked of their own volition; without even thinking, he found and inserted his last .291 magazine. He jerked the arming lever, but couldn’t shoot because Clark was blocking his aim.
“CC, GET DOWN!!!”
Probably the last thing Clark wanted was to get down with five red-eyed rebels swarming over him, but something in Nick’s voice—and the undying trust that bonded Star Marines—overrode his instincts. He dived away from the window, putting ten feet between himself and the enemy. The moment he did, Nick swept the rebels with his rifle and gunned down four of them, but the fifth dove after Clark with a large machete in his hand. Rudy Aquino killed him with his last couple of rounds.
Nick dropped to one knee, breathing hard. The majority of the rebels had passed, but there could still be more. He hoped not—they had little left to fight them with. Bayonets were wonderful, but would only go so far.
DuBose was on his helmet comm.
“Lieutenant, we’ve been overrun. The Freaks are headed in your direction, hundreds of them…
“Yes, sir, but we’re out of ammo. Apparently they are too, so you should be able to stop them…
“Aye-aye, sir. First Squad out.”
DuBose looked up.
“What did he say?” Nick asked him.
“He told us to shoot the bastards.”
“What!” Nick exploded into laughter.
DuBose nodded grimly.
“I explained that we’re out of ammo, so he told us to evacuate toward the river. He’s calling in the 205s.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Yeah. Let’s go, men! We’ve got less than two minutes!”
“What about Carlson? He’s hurt bad.”
“We gotta carry him. Let’s go, move it!”
It was a calculated risk—the rebels could still have men between them and the river—but they had zero choice. Everyone who hadn’t already done so fixed bayonets, then Clark and Avila lifted Carlson between them and everyone stepped out of the auto shop.
Nick led the way.
The river was two blocks directly in front of them, but those blocks were fronted by dozens of windows that could be hiding enemy troops. Keeping to the sides of the buildings on his right, he trotted as quickly as he dared with the others trailing behind. Fortunately, Carlson was unconscious, so he didn’t scream out against the pain. Rudy fell back to help carry him, and they made the next block in under a minute. Panting, Nick checked the cross street in both directions, then sprinted across.
He drew no fire.
He crouched and waited as the rest of the squad crossed, then turned and led the way the final few dozen yards to the street that bordered the river. When they reached it, he spotted what looked like a doughnut shop, smashed out the glass, and stepped inside. A quick sweep of the interior revealed no rebels, so he motioned the others inside. Just as the last of them got through the window, they heard the incoming rumble of Federation artillery.
The building shuddered as the first salvo of 205s impacted the city streets behind them. The noise was horrific, and everyone ducked, as if that would make a difference. The windows shattered and cascaded to the floor, letting fresh, cool air into the doughnut shop. Nick peered out at the lights across the river, but saw nothing moving. He wondered if this was the end of the battle—maybe the rebels had sent every last remaining man in their suicidal charge.
He hoped so.
He was exhausted.
Lucaston
Chapter 25
Sunday, 26 August, 0435 (CC)
The Alphalayas were secure, but 1st Star Marine Division was still fighting in Hamilton, two hundred miles to the west.
With the Federation capture of Three Rivers, the rebel effort in the south was no longer tenable; their troops in Hamilton were largely cut off from resupply and their lines were, in effect, a salient—over-extended and over-exposed.
Three Rivers had been pivotal to the Coalition defense in the south. In the north, the Federation had taken Monroe Falls, and in the west were approaching Devon Station. The rebel homeland southwest of Trimmer Springs was in jeopardy, and rebel commanders ordered a general withdrawal from its far-flung gains to protect it. Hamilton was a lost cause, but the rebels there kept fighting to tie up as many Star Marines as possible until the withdrawal was complete and new defenses could be established.
In the extreme north, 31st Star Marines had attempted twice to capture Trimmer Springs, a small mountain town on the edge of cult country. Most residents of Trimmer Springs were mainstream citizens, not connected to the religious extremists, but their geographic location demanded that the rebels defend the town against the Federation advance. Coalition troops occupied the mountain passes east of town and intercepted the 31st, driving them back each time. After the second failed attempt, Federation Command decided that the cost was too high and suspended the effort, at least until the net had closed tightly enough to make it viable.
The bottom line was simple enough: the Star Marines had made incredible gains in just a hundred days, but the Coalition was far from finished. They still occupied thousands of square miles of the Trimmer Plain and were not about to give them up.
Months of fighting still lay ahead.
***
Echo Company had been reduced to eighty-six men. In just three and a half months, forty-seven had been killed or died of wounds, and seventy-one were wounded; many had rotated home with “million-terro” wounds. Nick’s squad was down to five men.
A week after the shooting stopped at Three Rivers, 2nd Battalion was pulled out of the line. Nick Walker expected they would return to Camarrel for rest and recuperation, but 3rd Division Command transferred them instead to Lucaston, the largest city on the planet, four hundred miles north of Camarrel.
Lucaston was the colonial capital of Alpha 2, population nearly two million. The first time he saw it, Nick was impressed by its modern beauty. Situated at the junction of two rivers, it was surrounded by mountains on three sides and boasted all the amenities of any large city on Terra. Beautiful skytowers stabbed eight hundred feet into the air and more were under construction. The war had impeded travel and caused some shortages, but the downtown area was thick with hover and surface traffic, the sidewalks glutted by pedestrians. It was a beautiful, vibrant city.
Nick didn’t see it the first day he arrived. Echo was assigned to Firebase Sierra, six miles west of the city, and for the first three days all they did was sleep, waking long enough for a meal every few hours before sacking out again. Once they had caught up on their sleep, they spent extended time under hot showers, four or five each day. Showers of any kind—hot or cold—were not available in the field, and bathing was sporadic.
It would be days before Nick’s body felt clean again.
They also received thorough medical exams. Any
one diagnosed with a problem received treatment, and a select few were returned to Terra.
Replacements were still not available.
Friday, 31 August, 0435 (CC)
The River Club – Lucaston, Alpha Centauri 2
They had been on Alpha Centauri four months, and it was their first liberty since leaving Camp Pendleton in SoCal. A pair of civilian taxis picked them up at the gate outside Firebase Sierra and delivered them ten minutes later at a public transportation stand at the north end of the River Walk, Lucaston’s most publicized tourist attraction. They had no dress uniforms, so were wearing clean camos with garrison caps and combat boots.
Nick should have been excited, but wasn’t. Neither, apparently, were DuBose or Kopshevar. But Rudy Aquino’s eyes glittered with wonder as he gazed at the gaily colored lanterns that lined the River Walk, and the flashing marquees of stores and restaurants that, even after dark, were thronged with patrons. Avila also looked happy, his grin wider than usual; he giggled at everything he saw.
CC Clark had opted to stay behind.
They walked in two groups, two and three abreast, in no hurry. Civilians eyed them with curiosity as they strolled past, and several small boys stared at them as if they were gods.
“What do you boys want to do?” Dubose asked after they had walked several blocks. “We have all night.”
“Maybe some civilian food,” Nick suggested.
“Yeah, that sounds good,” Kopshevar said. “But first, let’s get a couple of drinks. I see a pub up ahead.”
Everyone agreed and they walked toward what looked like a disco. The marquee above the entrance proclaimed it as the River Club.
As they approached across the cobbled walkway, they saw half a dozen uniforms milling about outside, some of them smoking vegetarian cigarettes. Two Star Police in shiny white helmets eyed them as they approached. One of them, wearing a sergeant’s chevrons, stepped in front of them.
“You boys new in town?”
