“Tacticals.” Stewart frowned. The heavy assault vehicles were one of the critical requirements for Tapper’s team to capture in their raid. Two bore missile systems and two had multiple rotating machine guns: all weapons that would improve their chances against anyone who might thumb a nose in the Lost Soldiers’ direction. Recovering them was a mission requirement.
Dammit. “Get back to Tapper and have him get the seventeen ready vehicles into a defensive line, facing those dust clouds. Maximum concealment. Use the terrain and the brush as much as you can. We’re gonna figure out a way to get those four busted tacticals up the pass. We’ll need everyone else pulling security in case the enemy recon assets fix our position and strike while we’re moving those platforms.”
Stewart nodded. “How many of the ready vehicles do you want for towing the tacticals, Captain?”
“None.”
Stewart flinched as if he’d been struck. “Sir?”
Bo hooked a thumb at the winding, rock-strewn pass behind him. “Look at the width of that pass and the width of those vehicles. Some of them will barely fit. And give their engines a listen, Sergeant. I’m not sure they’ll make it up as it is. But towing those tacticals?” Bo shook his head. “It would be like a go-cart trying to pull a car. One failure and we’ve got two vehicles blocking the pass. We have to get the tacticals up another way.”
Stewart’s face clouded. “Begging your pardon, sir, but how?”
“We’ll tow them with the whinnies,” Bo replied. He had no idea if the whinnies could actually drag the vehicles behind them or not, but the leap seemed logical. Or at least unavoidable. “We may have to tear apart some saddles to get enough rope and cords, but we can do it. Tell Cook to bring in his security as tight as possible and, as soon as the ready vehicles are deployed, find out which of them need crews. On the double.”
“You got it, sir,” Stewart replied and galloped back toward Cook’s position near the bottom of the pass.
Bo looked over his shoulder and caught the eye of his RTO. Sublete moved forward on his mount. “Radio.” Sublete passed him the handset. Bo nodded his thanks before holding the ancient piece up to his face like a telephone. “OP One, this is Saber Six. SITREP to relay. Over.”
“Copy, Saber Six. Send it.”
“Relay to Starkpatch: convoy minus four vehicles secured. Friendlies moving up the pass. Time now. Multiple wounded requiring further evac. Break.”
Bo released the transmit button. Whether the J’Stull or anyone else could direction-find their UHF transmissions was an unknown, but prudence said to maintain communications discipline as they always had. And there just wasn’t the time to wait for orbital assets to be in a position for secure ground-to-bird and then bird-to-ground relays.
He pressed the switch again, “We are executing recovery operations to move four dead-lined vehicles. Push security elements forward to receive wounded and prepare to support my patrol by indirect fire. I want all mortars on the line and ready to send it. Prepare to execute contingency Charlie. I say again, prepare to execute contingency Charlie. How copy?”
The observation post RTO read back Bo’s message verbatim and added, “Saber Six, relay commencing. Please confirm contingency Charlie.”
“Contingency Charlie is confirmed. Danger close is authorized, if necessary.”
“Copy that, Saber Six. OP Two reports there is biologic activity in your AO and other indications that there is an unknown size force moving this direction from north-northwest. Over.”
“Copy,” Bo replied. “We’ve seen it. Report change in size or identification when you can. Saber Six, out.”
He handed the handset back to Sublete. “Keep a good ear on that, Sublete. Unless they call for me directly, just relay the information. Stay close. Got it?”
“Will do, sir,” Sublete replied. “I’ll be your shadow.”
Bo grinned. “You do that.”
He made a fist, raised it over his head, and brought it down like he was miming it hammering the top of his helmet. The signal for “form on me” brought Whittaker and Aliza Turan forward, their whinnies moving at a trot.
Bo gave them a bare-bones SITREP. When he mentioned the four disabled tacticals, Whittaker raised an eyebrow. Bo nodded grim agreement. “Yep. Gonna be rough. But I think the whinnies could be the answer. Using tow chains, we hitch them two or three per vehicle.”
Whittaker’s face remained still. “How?”
“We lash together harnesses, using pieces of the newbies’ saddles and tack.”
“We need those saddles to keep training,” Aliza objected.
Bo shook his head. “If these vehicles don’t get up the pass and integrated into our overall defenses, we won’t have any opportunities to train anyone on anything.”
She frowned but did not reply. Her eyes were serious and calm, and she’d taken his comment without a shred of contempt or challenge. Her demeanor suggested that she was prepared to listen to him and act responsibly.
No, that’s not it. He chided himself as the answer bubbled up: She’s acting like a soldier. “Can either of you lash? Or weave? Good with knots? Anything to make those harnesses?”
Whittaker grunted. “Willing to bet we have at least one Eagle Scout in the bunch.”
“What is that?” Aliza asked and then shook her head. “Not important. We’ll make it work.”
Bo smiled. “Aliza, some of your newbies may have to dismount and help crew the ready vehicles, anyway. Use their saddles first. See what you can do.”
“I will.”
Bo looked at Whittaker. “We need two whinnies per tactical, minimum. I want good riders up there, too. If that means we can only send two vehicles at a time, so be it. I want the first ones moving as soon as they’re ready.”
“What about them?” Whittaker cocked his head toward the rising dust cloud to the north.
Bo looked over his shoulder for a long moment. There really wasn’t any option. “First and second sections are providing security now. The minute we get the tacticals moving up the pass, we’ll focus on how to skin that cat.”
Or maybe, kill it.
* * *
Whittaker had been correct. Two of the newbies, a private from the American contingent of Vietnam vets and one of the Brits had been Scouts and knew their way around ropes and straps. Aliza watched them strip saddle materials and reins, tie them into ropes, and rig up makeshift harnesses for two of the largest whinnies. She watched as Moorefield and Whittaker set about hooking them up to the lead tactical. The first whinnie, with a black-tipped tail, stepped into the trail and backed into the harness with ease. A darker male with a crimson blaze on its angular forehead took some coaxing, but finally, anxiously, backed into position. With quick work and quiet, purposeful direction from Moorefield, they tied the harnesses into place. The young captain clearly had experience working with animals and the whinnies were surprisingly compliant.
The riders nudged the whinnies and the tow straps snapped tight as they strained against the weight of the broken-down vehicle. Its wheels inched forward. A cheer erupted from the group as the whinnies pulled harder, gaining momentum.
“Hey! Step in there and push it,” Moorefield ordered a group of soldiers standing nearby. “Get them moving faster.”
The soldiers stepped behind the vehicle and put their hands and shoulders into it. The vehicle rolled forward faster and faster. The black-tailed whinnie snorted a call and leaned into the weight hard, its head low to the ground. Almost immediately, the darker male did the same and the rate of the vehicle’s forward progress doubled and then doubled again. They were moving up the steepening hill at a good pace.
“Stay behind it!” Bo pointed at the soldiers pushing the vehicle. “All the way to the top.”
Whittaker’s voice boomed nearby. “Get the second vehicle hooked up!”
Aliza watched the first vehicle move up the pass and then almost disappear when it went around the first curving switchback. While the towing appeared t
o work well, it was slow. Too slow. She nudged Athena and walked over to Moorefield. His eyes followed the effort to hook up the second vehicle and get it moving.
“This is too slow,” she said in a low voice. “We won’t get all of them up the pass.”
He turned to her with a frown on his face. “I know. We just have to do the best we can, Aliza.”
She didn’t respond. His casual use of her first name sent a ripple of excitement down her spine. Her own reaction shocked her—until she started at a whinnie bellowing directly behind her.
Aliza spun to see one of the more experienced riders holding on to his saddle for dear life as his whinnie bucked and thrashed in the makeshift harness. Several soldiers shouted commands and advice, but there was panic all over the rider’s face and he half-fell and half-jumped clear. He hit the dirt, rolled, and scrambled away from the whinnie. Without its rider, the animal calmed down, but twisted and shook like a wet dog, trying to throw off the ropes connecting it to the second disabled vehicle.
Moorefield dismounted his whinnie and ran toward the distressed one. A few meters away, he stopped, and she could hear his low voice talking calmly. She lost his words in the slight breeze and the ambient noise around her. His whinnie, still at her side, trumpeted softly and a few others repeated the noise with their own distinct voices. The anxious whinnie calmed, stamped two of its feet in rapid succession, and then turned to stare unpleasantly at Moorefield as he stepped closer.
* * * * *
Chapter Five
When he was eighteen, Bo and his father took in three horses from a neighboring farm that had fallen into disrepair. The lush green fields of northern Mississippi gave the animals enough in their pasture to eat, but they hadn’t had real interaction with human beings in the several months of their previous owner’s illness. When Bo and his dad arrived, the old mare of the group trotted over happily and let them get a lead onto her without much trouble. The other two horses stayed a good hundred meters away, eyeing them warily.
It took more than an hour to get the older male calmed down and led to the gate. The younger stud stomped in circles as Bo talked to it like his father always did. His father leaned against the front fender of the old Ford truck and watched for an hour as Bo tried and failed repeatedly. Disgusted, he’d walked over, leaned a hip against the nearest headlight, and spat. His father smiled.
As Bo stared down the whinnie, he heard his father’s voice as clear as ever. No two animals are the same, Bo. What works for one doesn’t always work for the other.
With Scout, he’d never raised his voice or violently spurred the animal. The whinnie had always responded. The anxious one appeared to take little notice of Bo’s attempt at soothing words. He stayed quiet and walked forward confidently and slowly. The whinnie watched him approach and stilled.
Easy. He didn’t say the word aloud; it was more a matter of willing it at the big lizard. Easy, boy.
The whinnie looked up and over Bo’s head. He resisted the urge to follow the animal’s gaze; he stepped forward and grabbed the reins. When the whinnie didn’t respond, Bo grabbed the saddle and swung himself up into the seat in one smooth motion. That was when he saw that the whinnie’s eyes were on Scout, twenty meters away. Who stood alert and staring at the whinnie he’d climbed aboard. The intensity of Scout’s eyes struck him.
They’re not just smart. They’re almost—or actually?—intelligent.
In the next breath, he mentally shook himself. Intelligent wasn’t necessarily the word he was looking for: they were sentient. They communicated verbally with their hoots and other noises. Like horses, they moved as a herd. Maybe they even had alphas and omegas. Societal instincts, intelligence, and communication spoke to something much more than they’d assumed the whinaalani to be. His mind reeling at the discovery, Bo forced himself back to the present and backed the whinnie into position for the harness.
He pointed at Stewart. “Hook him up.”
The sergeant and two others did so quickly. “Good to go, sir.”
Bo leaned back in the saddle and looked over at the other rider, Specialist Davis. “You ready?”
Davis, a tall and lanky Alabaman, nodded and drawled. “On you, sir.”
Before he could respond, Specialist Sublete waved at him. “Sir, the first vehicle has reached the top of the pass.”
Bo replied, “Tell them I’m on my way with the second. I’ll get back here as fast I as can. Sergeant Whittaker, you’re in charge until I get back. Let’s see just how much time we have.”
Before he nudged the whinnie into action, he caught sight of the dust cloud along the northern horizon. It had doubled in size against R’Bak’s sky.
Let’s hope it’s enough.
* * *
As Moorefield and Davis disappeared around the first bend of the trail with six soldiers pacing them on foot, Aliza caught Sergeant Whittaker’s eye. The old soldier sat astride his mount, Casper, staring at the dust cloud.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He nodded once and looked back beyond her to the horizon. “The better of the four vehicles are headed up the pass. That means we’re fifty percent complete with this part of the mission.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
He laughed. “In ordinary circumstances, yes. This isn’t ordinary. Looks like we’ve got the whole damned J’Stull army headed this direction. And we’re forward, located away from the rest of our own ground forces. Gonna be a long day.”
She followed his eyes to the dust cloud. There was no doubt the J’Stull were coming now. Word was that Tapper and his team had hit the enemy hard. The enemy would not merely want to eliminate their attackers, but make examples of them and, so, would accelerate across the valley floor. She looked over the defensive line of vehicles—all random shapes and weapons—and wondered how they could hold off an assaulting force of any size.
“Is he thinking about using those vehicles down here instead of moving them up the pass? I don’t think they have a prayer of delaying the J’Stull, no matter how well we fight them.”
“When the time comes, we’ll do what we have to do, Aliza.” Whittaker sighed. He spun his mount and called to Sergeant Stewart. “Set one hundred percent security. Push out a section to recon the north side of the pass, but no farther than Phase Line Sheridan.”
Aliza squinted at him. “What is a phase line?”
He laughed. “A control measure. We call it a phase line, which, in this case, is an intermittent creek bed about two klicks north. Giving it a code helps us relay information faster.”
“And Sheridan?”
“American Civil War general, Union side.” Whittaker grinned. “He was the quintessential cavalryman. Very colorful guy.”
“Why use his name?”
Whittaker’s grin faded. “He’s one of Captain Moorefield’s favorite generals. Gave the Confederates fits in West Virginia. Unpredictable and elusive. Exactly the guy we could use right now.”
“And is Moorefield ‘that guy’?” she asked.
Whittaker shrugged. “Could be. But he’s gotta have the heart for it.”
Aliza wondered what the sergeant meant but did not have time to ask as Whittaker rode out to set the patrol into their duties.
* * *
The ride to the top of the pass went more smoothly than Bo would have dared to imagine. Once the whinnies snapped the towlines taut, they kept a constant, measured pace all the way up the two-kilometer trail. As they crested the top, Bo sent the walkers down the pass. Bo intended to join them as quickly as the recovery team from the camp could unhook the vehicle.
Fortunately, Lieutenant Meehan had come through. The recovery team—a half-dozen mechanics and maintenance specialists with two vehicles from the motor pool—came forward with heavier tow chains. A squad of infantry was detailed to both sides of the trail, standing security. As soon as Bo and Davis had the crippled tactical over the lip and on mostly flat ground, the recovery team unhooked the hasty harnes
ses, draped them over the front of the two riders’ saddles, and started connecting the chains. The two strange vehicles—crude diesel command car-truck hybrids—rumbled to life, belching black exhaust into the air as they backed toward the tactical to put a little extra slack in the chains. Once attached, the recovery team mounted up, and the first vehicle gunned its engine, building the torque required to tow it swiftly to the rear. The smell of diesel exhaust never failed to bring back memories of the first time Bo had climbed aboard an Abrams main battle tank at Fort Knox. What he would have given for a few of those beautiful beasts on R’Bak. The ability to see, positively identify, and then engage targets thousands of meters away would have been a beautiful thing.
As the first recovery vehicle started towing the tactical away, Bo turned to Davis. “Get down the hill with these harnesses. Get the next one ready.” The young specialist pivoted his mount and galloped back toward the men readying the last two vehicles. Bo glanced around, found the RTO for the security patrol Meehan had sent, and waved him over, making a “give me” motion as he reached for the handset. “Starkpatch, this is Saber Six. Fifty percent of the disabled tacticals are on the plateau. We’re heading back for the rest now. Over.”
“Saber Six, be advised. OP Two says enemy forces are heading that way. Not sure you’ll have time to recover them all. Over,” Meehan replied.
“They are mission imperative. We’re not leaving them.” Bo frowned. “We’ll just have to move faster, Starkpatch.”
“Sir, all due respect, you can’t buy time you don’t have.”
“The hell I can’t,” Bo snarled into the handset. “Saber Six, out.”
With a nod at the RTO, Bo whirled the whinnie back toward the trail. This male didn’t respond like Scout did, but it moved well enough, and fast enough, to settle Bo’s mind to the task at hand.
You can’t buy time you don’t have.
A force of unknown strength was bearing down on them. His cavalry patrol couldn’t fight them off, and the retreat from Camp Stark back to the main assembly area was poised to start. If the enemy kept coming at the rate Bo thought they were, even the retreat could fail. The paltry forces forward at Camp Stark, or any of the other smaller posts Murphy had set out for different missions, wouldn’t be able to develop a concerted defense. Everything dirt-side was in danger.
Obligations Page 6
