by John Bowers
“I just want to give you a heads-up, men. This may or may not mean anything, but I just received word that one of the civilian satellites has detected what may be a rebel strike force massing a few miles from here. Command thinks they may be getting ready to stage a last-ditch counter offensive to throw us back out of their territory.
“There is also word that the Coalition has, for the first time, responded to peace feelers from the Federation, so they may be trying for a better bargaining position at the negotiating table. If that’s really what they’re up to, we can probably expect some kind of attack in the next few hours.
“Be vigilant, Echo…and good luck.”
Nick and Kopshevar were sharing a foxhole on the west end of the farm. Thanks to Centauri B’s glow, they could see almost fifty yards in every direction, and both wore their IR contact lenses…but by 0400 it was still quiet.
Nick was feeling vulnerable. Though embarrassed by his outburst of a few hours earlier, he didn’t regret any of it. He had been ready to walk away and accept the consequences, or to kill Avila if Jaeger refused to act. But Jaeger hadn’t refused, and Avila had sealed his own fate. The end result was tragic, but Nick still regretted nothing.
With Kopshevar standing watch, he tried to doze for a few hours, but that didn’t last long.
Rebel 80mm batteries opened fire just before dawn and within seconds the entire Star Marine front came under intense shelling. The ground rocked and shrapnel whined. What was left of the farm was pulverized. The air sang with hot steel shards and flying debris, men screamed, other men died. It went on for two hours, a steady drumbeat of death, and Nick cowered in his hole with sweat pouring off his body. He heard Kopshevar praying and was tempted to do the same, but had no faith that it would make a difference.
Federation 205s answered the barrage, but didn’t seem to have much effect—the rebels had gotten really good at hiding their batteries and protecting them from counter-battery fire. By 0600, Federation commanders were beginning to realize that this was no ordinary barrage—the entire offensive line was under dire threat. At 0630, 2nd Battalion’s new commanding officer, Lt. Col. Armand Silva, ordered evacuation.
Evacuation was risky. Not enough sleds were available to carry the entire battalion, so they evacuated in relays. HVIs arrived in a staggered wave, setting down a hundred yards or more behind the Star Marine positions, which meant the men had to run a gantlet of fire to reach them. In spite of this disadvantage, most of those who made the dash to the sleds and clambered aboard were whisked away to safety.
Echo was the last company to make a break for it. When the sleds arrived, word was passed over the helmet comms, and those who could make the dash were ordered to do so. Dragging their wounded with them, most of them made it. Nick and his squad raced across the cabbage field, dodging shell craters, dodging falling shells, and finally reached the waiting sleds.
Most of them.
With Kopshevar ahead of him, Nick was still fifty feet from the nearest sled when he heard the rising shriek of an incoming 80mm round. He didn’t have time to dive for cover, and in any case he only wanted to get on that sled.
He was almost there…
Then the ground under his feet heaved upward, and he was flying. The blast drove him into the side of the sled, and he dropped to the ground unconscious, his back riddled with hot shrapnel.
Chapter 34
Wednesday, 19 November, 0436
Trimmer Springs, Alpha Centauri 2
Only a hundred thirteen men were still alive in Echo Company, and some of those were wounded.
Nick Walker lay on the deck of the HVI with shell fragments in his back, blood leaking from under his vest. Kopshevar sat on one side of him, DuBose on the other. The HVI was only half full; nearly half the battalion—what remained of it—had been lost to rebel artillery in the heaviest barrage Nick had ever experienced. If their ride hadn’t come when it did, no one would have survived.
“Where they taking us?” he mumbled, feeling weaker than he had in years.
“Who gives a shit?” Kopshevar said. “Anywhere is better than that farm.”
Nick closed his eyes, grimacing against the pain.
“I’d like to know where the hell the Freaks got that kind of hardware. They’re farmers, for god’s sake!”
“I think we know the answer to that. Those guys in the red berets.”
“Stop talking, Private,” Sgt. DuBose said. “Save your strength.”
Nick grimaced. “That’s Private First Class to you, Sergeant.”
DuBose laughed. “I’ll put that on your headstone. How you feeling?”
“Like a pin cushion.”
“If it helps any, I don’t think you’re hurt that bad. I don’t see more than five or six gallons of blood on the deck.”
“Well, shit, I feel better already.”
“There’s a couple of corpsmen in the other sleds. Soon as we land I’ll get one of them to look you over.”
Nick closed his eyes and nodded. He didn’t feel like talking any more.
*
If they thought they were being evacuated, they were wrong. The transports settled down in a small mountain town on a narrow plateau overlooking the Trimmer Plain. As the Star Marines disembarked, the HVIs lifted off again and soared away to the south.
Nick looked around, surprised at how few Star Marines he was seeing.
“Where’s the rest of the battalion?” he asked.
No one answered him.
Capt. Seals gathered the men in a small park in the center of town. Houses lined the streets on either side, a large church sat on the east end.
“All right, listen up!” Seals stood in front of them, his face streaked with dirt, his eyes serious. “Here’s the situation. Second Battalion has been surrounded and cut off. We’re facing at least five thousand enemy troops, and it may be tomorrow before we can expect any relief. The name of this town is Trimmer Springs. We’ve been trying to capture it for over a year and we’re finally here. It’s right on the edge of Coalition territory, and most of the people here are on our side, so we’re going to defend them as best we can. Echo Company has been detailed to dig in and hold at all costs.
“Remember that big Coalition buildup the satellites reported? It’s moving this way, and we expect them to attack within the hour. They’ll be coming from the west, and the only way in from that direction is through a narrow pass with a single road; we’re going to stop them right there. I want Second Platoon to hold the bottleneck with First Platoon in support, Third in reserve. Find some cover and button up.
“Questions?”
Kopshevar raised his hand. “What happened to the rest of the battalion, Captain?”
“Like I said, we’re surrounded. The Freaks cut the east road again last night and drove the Thirty-first back. Colonel Silva thinks they may try to attack from both directions, so the other companies are guarding the eastern approach to town.”
Before he finished speaking, they heard the whine of an incoming artillery shell. It exploded several blocks away.
“Looks like they’re gonna hammer us while we wait, so get in position and find some cover. Move out!”
First and Second Platoons, badly depleted in numbers, set out toward the west.
Half a dozen more shells streaked in and exploded randomly around town.
Lt. Jaeger gathered his noncoms to issue orders, then Sgt. DuBose returned to his squad, a corpsman in his wake.
“Walker! Strip off that vest.”
The corpsman looked about seventeen, but was quick and efficient. He picked steel fragments out of Nick’s back, disinfected the wounds with antiseptic spray, and applied a field dressing.
“Looks like you just got peppered,” he said. “How close were you to the explosion?”
“I dunno, it was behind me. Knocked me off my feet.”
“These laser vests aren’t good for much, but I think it protected you from the worst of it. You’ll be okay in a few days. Try
not to move around too much.”
Nick laughed at the absurdity of that statement.
“Yeah, right.”
The corpsman finished up and tapped Nick on the helmet.
“Good luck, Private.”
Nick nodded gratefully.
“Thanks, Doc. Soon as you’re old enough, I’ll buy you a beer.”
Kopshevar laughed.
“Don’t let him kid you, Doc—he ain’t old enough either.”
“Bullshit! I just turned twenty-one.”
The corpsman grinned and closed up his aid kit.
“Semper fi, dudes.”
He trotted off down the park to join his unit.
DuBose came over as Nick was putting his vest back on.
“You gonna live?”
“Yeah, he gave me five or six hours.”
“All right.” DuBose turned to the rest of his men. “First Squad, on me. We’re gonna take cover inside the church.”
“The church!” Kopshevar looked skeptical. “Biggest goddamn target in town!”
“The Freaks are Christian extremists, so the captain thinks they’ll avoid targeting the church. And it has a basement. Move out.”
Shells were coming faster now, singing through the air like huge metallic insects.
Nick walked stiffly, carrying his rifle at port arms.
The church was a magnificent structure, but was mostly constructed of wood. Artillery could rip it apart in minutes if the captain was wrong. Still, it boasted a bell tower sixty feet high, which would make a great observation platform if the enemy actually got into town…and if it had a basement, so much the better. Right now a basement sounded very appealing.
The shelling continued for ninety minutes. Nick dozed while his squad waited for orders. About thirty civilians also cowered in one of the basement rooms, having sought the nearest shelter after being caught in the open.
With senses attuned to changes in his environment, Nick woke when the shelling stopped.
Kopshevar was staring at the ceiling and other men were stirring as well. Sgt. DuBose was on his helmet comm talking to Lt. Jaeger.
Nick shifted position and winced as his wounds complained.
“What’s going on?”
Kopshevar shrugged.
DuBose turned to face the squad.
“Sounds like the Freaks are making their move. Second Platoon is engaging them. We stay put until the captain says otherwise.”
The squad sat silent, their hearts tripping.
Dimly, Nick could hear small-arms fire somewhere in the distance. He reached into a pocket for a ration pack, ripped it open, and chewed the contents, some kind of granola bar with raisins. He hardly tasted it.
They heard more artillery. The sounds of small-arms got louder, closer. DuBose listened on his command link and Nick saw his features tighten.
“Sergeant?”
DuBose shook his head.
“Second Platoon is falling back. The Freaks have reached First Platoon’s position. Get ready to move.”
Everyone jumped in alarm as heavy combat boots thundered down the wooden stairs. Seals’ runner, Pvt. Winston, scrambled toward them and dropped to a knee in front of DuBose. He was out of breath, looking close to panic. He carried a backpack and a heavy .49 calibre Browning sniper rifle, which he handed to DuBose.
“Captain wants to know if anyone here has qualified on this. He wants somebody up in the bell tower. The Freaks are about to overrun First Platoon.”
“Send Walker,” Kopshevar suggested. “He’s about to die anyway.”
Nick tried to laugh, but burst into a coughing fit instead.
“Fuck you, Kopycat.”
But DuBose was looking at him.
“You are qualified, aren’t you?”
Nick blinked in surprise.
“Yeah. I qualified on the range, but I’ve never used one in combat.”
DuBose hefted the rifle and tossed it to him.
“Looks like today’s your lucky day.”
*
The air was alive with lead as Nick struggled up the wooden staircase inside the bell tower. Stray bullets had punched holes through the wooden siding, leaving sunbeams shining like lasers through the gloom. Nick panted with exertion as he made the turn at each landing, continuing the painful climb while the shrapnel cuts in his back stretched and stung; blood leaked from under his vest and soaked his underwear.
The belfry was square, eight or ten feet across, surrounded by a wooden skirt that came up to his stomach; a heavy railing capped the skirt, offering a solid firing platform. The brass bell hanging from the apex probably weighed a ton, and took up so much space that he had to duck under it to get into position. He settled behind the skirt and took a moment to catch his breath while he peered out over the town. It was a magnificent vantage point—the tower was the tallest structure in town and offered an unobstructed view in every direction.
The breeze was in his face as he looked west. The rattle of small-arms was louder than ever from here, and he quickly began to pick out Star Marine positions as he opened the backpack and started pulling out magazines. He arranged them on the deck next to him for easy access, and slipped one into the rifle. A bullet whined overhead but he ignored it—after one had been in combat for a while, such things became routine.
Nick checked the rifle’s mechanism, hefted it to get a feel for the weight, and rested it on the railing as he prepared to adjust the scope. His heart pumped in a steady rhythm, but he wasn’t unduly afraid.
He scanned the streets to the west, the alleys, the backyards, and spotted the men of 1st Platoon who were waging a desperate battle to hold the rebels back. Then he started seeing the rebels themselves, dozens of them. Scores of them.
Hell—hundreds of them!
His mouth turned dry. Capt. Seals hadn’t been kidding—the Star Marines were badly outnumbered.
“I’m in position, Sergeant,” he said quietly into his helmet mike.
“Copy,” DuBose said in his ear. “Choose targets of opportunity.”
Nick didn’t answer. Instead, he chambered the first round. The Browning magazine held twenty-one rounds, and after the first one fired the rest would chamber automatically. He took a deep breath to steady his adrenaline, then peered through the scope and took aim. He saw so many targets it was hard to know where to start, but one particular machine gun was hosing down a squad of Star Marines just six blocks from where he sat…that might be a good starting point.
Two men in flat black hats crewed the gun; the Star Marines on the ground were pinned and didn’t have a shot at them, but Nick had a clear field of fire. He estimated the distance and adjusted the horizontal reticle in the scope. Unhurriedly, almost leisurely, he fired his first round. The man behind the gun catapulted backward, landing in a bloody heap eight feet from the gun. The rebel feeding the gun spun around in surprise—Nick could actually see the astonishment in his eyes when he turned back. Before he could decide what to do, Nick blew off the top of his head. The sharp crack of the rifle echoed across town like the voice of doom, and Nick heard the brass cartridge ring as it hit the composite-stone floor of the belfry.
He shifted the rifle a few inches and picked out two more men providing covering fire for the gun—they also looked startled, and one began to crawl away to look for better cover. He hadn’t gone three feet when Nick fired again. The rebel’s body jerked as if electrocuted and his white shirt blossomed red. The second man lurched to his feet and turned to run, but Nick shot him right between the shoulder blades. His rifle clattered to the ground.
Just that quickly, the sound of small-arms was reduced by half.
Nick took a moment to wipe his brow, his helmet dipping below the railing for a few seconds. He had no illusions about what was coming—as soon as the rebels realized they were facing a sniper they would figure out where he was located, and then he would be in deep shit. He needed to inflict maximum damage before that happened. He pulled his canteen out and took a
brief swig, then capped it and raised his head again.
Several houses were burning on the west end of town, and some streets were obscured by smoke. But he saw motion in several places. Star Marines were scattered about in strategic locations, blocking key streets and intersections to hold the rebels back. At best it was a delaying action—2nd Platoon had already been pushed back behind 1st Platoon’s position, and if the rebels kept the pressure up, 1st Platoon would soon have to retreat as well, leap-frogging backwards.
Nick spotted four Star Marines holding an alley, pouring lead toward the Coalition troops…but one block to the north a column of Freaks was moving through residential backyards trying to flank them. They were farther away than the machine gun he’d taken out, but well within range. Realizing the Freaks were almost in position to hit the Marines from behind, Nick quickly adjusted his scope and took aim. Intent on their prey, they were bunched together, only a few feet separating them. Nick counted nine of them, and opened fire. He pumped out six quick shots and saw five men ripped apart—a sixth spun in horror as his left arm came off at the shoulder and pinwheeled across the alley.
With five men down and one spinning in panic, the remaining three sprawled hastily on the ground, casting frantically about for the source of the attack. As Nick focused on them with the scope, he saw one man’s eyes widen in understanding as he gazed directly at the bell tower. It was the last thing he ever saw. Nick shot him through the face and saw a volcano of blood and gore spatter across the man behind him. The two remaining rebels scrambled backward, and Nick was tempted to let them go, but realized they also probably knew where he was and would give away his position. He killed them quickly, a little frown creasing his brow. He really hated to kill men who were trying to run away, but if he had any hope of surviving the next few hours, he didn’t have much choice.
He dropped behind the skirt again and ejected the magazine. It still had rounds in it but he hadn’t been counting, and it was always better to have a full mag inserted. He reloaded the rifle, chambered a round, and took a deep breath, releasing it with a puff of his cheeks. The floor around him was smeared with a thin film of blood, but he no longer noticed the pain. With a grunt of resolution, he raised his head again and aimed the rifle.
