Obligations

by Kevin Ikenberry

  The sound of several rifles firing nearby rang out. Bo flinched away from the hat even as his brain told him they weren’t firing at him. He leaned forward and snatched the hat away from the plant and heard a deep, throaty roar. A whinnie charged directly toward him at full gallop.

  Not just any whinnie. Bo grinned and got up to a low crouch. He slapped the hat on his head and worked his arms through the sleeves of his blouse. There wasn’t time to finish buttoning it up before Scout reared up and bounced to a stop in front of him.

  As Scout settled in front of Bo, streaks of dark purplish blood streamed from several wounds on the whinnie’s side. Bo stood and went to him. The bullet holes were small, and he counted ten of them on the right side of Scout’s neck. His first impulse was to grab his field dressing and tear the package open to press it against the worst of the wounds.

  Scout hooted and slammed Bo’s shoulder with his triangular jaw. The whinnie jerked its chin toward the saddle and hooted again, this time much deeper.

  He wants me to get aboard.

  “You sure, buddy?”

  Scout made the deep purring sound and then shook his head and body, not unlike a dog trying to dry itself after a dip in a lake.

  He’s telling you he’s okay, Bo. He’s shaking it off.

  My God, we’re communicating.

  Rounds impacted nearby, but Scout held his ground. A gun-shy mount would have bolted, but Scout stood resolute. Bo climbed aboard and patted Scout’s left forward shoulder, the one opposite of the wounds. “We can do this, buddy. Get me to Athena and the others.”

  Scout took off again, this time back to the east and the distant tableland. From the very first time he’d galloped a horse at fourteen, Bo learned a valuable lesson. Moving that fast astride an animal, especially one built for speed, distorted time and distance. On the farm, he’d intended to only ride his first horse, Maverick, for two minutes at a gallop before slowing down. He’d judged that he could ride to the far posts of the main pasture and back in that timeframe. When it had taken almost double that time, and Maverick was surly at him for a few days afterward, Bo had realized what had happened. A full-out gallop took a lot of energy for a horse, especially when they weren’t used to running like that. Aboard Scout, he kept wanting to hold the big animal back, but Scout never relented. Though it seemed impossible, as Bo hunched over the saddle to be more aerodynamic, he thought the whinnie kept a pace far faster than they’d done on the tableland.

  “Atta boy, Scout!” Bo called as they raced across the scrub. Branches tore at his boots and pants, but Bo didn’t care. His eyes remained locked on the high plateau. He turned once when the dust and smoke started to thin, saw the second enemy echelon approaching a draw that appeared to be where Whittaker and the others had prepared their defense. In that same direction but in the middle distance, Bo saw a pale whinnie standing and looking toward them. He didn’t immediately recognize the mount or its rider but headed toward them.

  Less than a minute later, Scout skidded to a stop next to Private Morton, a gangly kid from New York with shockingly red hair. Bo smiled; Whittaker had indeed hung out a fire-topped lantern for him.

  “Captain Moorefield? They reported you dead,” Morton blurted.

  “Not yet.” Bo smiled. “Get us to Sergeant Whittaker and the others.”

  The redhead grinned and tugged his mount up the trail. “Follow me, sir.”

  They bounced up the trail for a minute, and the draw came into view. An escarpment spanned the back of it like a dried-up waterfall. About five meters tall, the wall it created was imposing and perfect for defense. At the top of the wall, and atop the nearly sheer valley slopes flanking it, Bo saw the soldiers of sections three and four manning hasty defensive positions. He smiled to himself. Whittaker had chosen those parts of the high ground with good observation and fields of fire. The experienced sergeant had also placed firing teams above them on the rocks for air defense and better geometry for the attacking force at the valley’s mouth. The position was utterly defensible despite the dust and smoke swirling about them from the enemy’s indirect fire attempts.

  This might just work.

  Whittaker had positioned the sections of four in multiple locations. Two were on the rocks above the tight valley in prone positions behind cover. They appeared to be in good shape as they opened fire. Bo couldn’t see the enemy infantry, but he could hear them screaming as they ran up the draw.

  Several explosions drowned out the sound of battle for a few seconds. The OpFor’s indirect fire weapons weren’t dropping accurate fire on the position. They couldn’t see it from their position out in the valley and with no forward observer to actually plot and correct their firing solutions, they were firing blind and hoping to have some, if any, effect.

  It’s meant to deplete us. Harass us. Rattle us enough that their infantry rolls all over us.

  Not this time.

  They kept moving toward the position as a new barrage of indirect fire came down. This time the fire was more accurate. Soldiers scattered in all directions as the small, powerful explosions rocked the draw. Morton had frozen in the saddle of his mount. Bo bounded Scout around the shocked pair and raced into the position as the enemy infantry came into view at the wall below.

  * * *

  The artillery fire ended abruptly, and she heard the forward positions engage the infantry again as she stood. A whinnie clambered down from the rocks above. She recognized the rider and felt fresh tears fall on her cheeks as he approached at a gallop. Moorefield dismounted his whinnie and ran toward her. Words failed her and all she could do was shake her head. The young captain knelt by the body of Whittaker and touched his neck. Finding no pulse, he simply put his hand on the sergeant’s shoulder and squeezed. She couldn’t see his face under the brim of his floppy hat, but she felt his grief. The crack! of a single rifle fired from the points above them snapped both of their heads back to the wall at the mouth of the tiny valley.

  He stood and looked at her. “You’re in charge here, Aliza. Sergeant Cook is your platoon sergeant. I’m taking Stewart with me. Move everyone who can fire into position behind cover up here in case any of them get up here. Tell them to shoot whatever they can see and keep shooting until we come across the valley. Don’t hit us.”

  “What are you doing?”

  He smiled grimly. “Sounding the charge.”

  She blinked. “You’re what?”

  He pointed. “The whinnies can make it down the slope with us on their backs. We just have to hold on and trust them not to dump us. We’ll surprise the infantry and drive them toward our vehicles. You pin them down, and we’ll smoke them out.”

  “But that’s crazy!”

  “Not really.” He turned back to her. “We have the advantage of moving downhill. With speed and as much firepower as we can pour on them, we can pin their infantry between us and our vehicles down there. If the mortars are ready, we can rain steel on their heads and push their regiment back long enough so we can escape up the tableland and evacuate Camp Stark.”

  There was a clinical logic to his thinking. Before she noticed it, she was nodding.

  “You want us to stay here and harass the infantry below. Hold them in place for your charge to sweep them across to us, yes?”

  “Precisely. Can you do that?”

  She felt a genuine smile cross her face. “If you’d said to sit still and wait for rescue, I would have said no. We’ll hold them down, Bo. Go sound your charge.”

  He grinned at her and reached down to Whittaker’s radio. He hesitated for a moment, grabbed and holstered the fallen sergeant’s pistol, and then picked up the handset. “Saber Six Romeo, Saber Six. You read me?”

  “Holy shit, sir! We thought you were dead,” Sublete replied.

  “Alive and kicking,” Bo replied. “I want you moving toward the valley entrance. Slowly. We’ll scare up the infantry in your direction with a little cavalry charge. When you see that, you call for contingency Charlie. My authority. T
ell the vehicle commanders to lift and shift their fire until we find cover and then let anything escaping to the west have it. Over.”

  “Roger, Saber Six. Good copy. Give ’em hell.”

  Bo dropped the radio handset and turned, shouting orders to all the riders. From up the valley, the whinnies ran back to the soldiers and knelt to be mounted. Something seemed off and after a second of staring wide-eyed, she could see there were more whinnies than riders. At least twenty had no saddles on their strong backs. They’d come with the herd.

  To charge our common enemy.

  The electricity of the thought spurred her to action. “Sergeant Cook!”

  He looked over at her. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Gather the wounded. Everyone that can shoot gets in position behind these outcroppings. If we’ve got a few more who can get up on the high ground, get them up there. We don’t have much time to lay down fire for the charge.” She didn’t wait for a response. Instead, she spun and reached down for Whittaker’s radio, remembering their radio procedures by heart. “OP Two, Saber Nine, update on the mortars. Over.”

  There was no response. She snorted. “Then we’ll just hope they get in position soon.”

  She grabbed Whittaker’s M14 and spare magazines from his load-bearing equipment. The peace on his pale face had settled as slight creases and deeper wrinkles, like an old man who had fallen deep asleep in a hammock. She smiled and placed her hand on his. “Let’s hope you’re right about dying twice, my friend. Thank you. I will see you soon, but not today. Not if I can help it.”

  No tears came, which surprised her. There would time for more of them, but it would not be now. She stood, cradled the rifle at what the soldiers called the low ready and ran forward toward the wall. She took up a firing position and saw the enemy infantry dismounting their vehicles and rushing toward the opening.

  A sharp whistle from above caught her attention, and she spun to the right. Atop the rocks and back from the upper firing positions, she saw Bo and the others. He waved at her, and she checked the soldiers to her right and left and those at the other outcroppings. She gave him a thumbs-up and turned to the soldiers under her unlikely command. It was time to do what she hadn’t been able do for Ben Mazza and the others.

  “Open fire!”

  * * *

  As Aliza’s defensive positions rained direct fire on the infantry below, Bo turned to Sergeant Stewart halfway down the poised line of whinnies. The ones without riders surprised him, but he said nothing. Scout and the others evidently understood the stakes and, given their intelligence and disposition, they had brought the rest of the herd into the fray. The wounds on Scout’s neck seeped blood, but there was no sign that the whinnie was in pain or even distracted by them. Several others had more serious wounds yet stood alongside the others on the upper surface of the eastern wall.

  “We’ll sweep downhill like a swinging door,” Bo said. “Stewart, your side stays pinned close to the bottom of the wall as we go across. This end will sweep out, all the way toward the enemy vehicles. Move as quickly as you can. The whinnies will bound down these rocks faster than anything you’ve ever seen. Just hold on for dear life until you reach the floor of the draw. Once you’re there, commence firing and stay in your lane. Once we hit the enemy flank, all hell will break loose. Push them south toward our vehicles. They will eventually regroup. When they do and start to return fire, find cover. Until then, watch out for each other and good hunting.”

  The soldiers all nodded, and their faces were more serious than he’d ever seen. Gone were any expressions of bored indifference or guarded resentment. Some of their friends lay wounded below them. A few were dead. They all knew the cost and there was nothing in their present demeanor to suggest they would shy away from it. Still, he sensed trepidation.

  Bo smiled, made sure his nod was one of casual, and therefore absolute, confidence. “It’ll work, guys. The 20th Maine did the same thing at Gettysburg. Won the field and likely the whole damned war that day. Just stay in line and keep firing.”

  Stewart waved a hand. “Sir?”

  “What is it, Stewart?”

  The sergeant slowly smiled. “Was just wishing we had a bugler. You know? To sound the fucking charge?”

  The soldiers laughed together and their tension broke.

  Bo waved one last time to Aliza. “Hell,” he said loudly, “who needs a damned bugle?” He nudged Scout forward and shouted, “Charge!”

  Around him, the soldiers and the whinnies raised their faces in a matching cry and raced down the hill together, straight toward the flank of the J’Stull infantry.

  “Go, Scout! I’m with you.” Bo wrapped the reins around his hands and squeezed the whinnie tightly with his legs. Scout bounced between two rocks and then shot downhill in a series of bounds that took Bo’s breath away. The last leap took them to mostly level ground. Through the brush on both sides, he saw the line was intact and starting to swing. From his position near the far end, he saw the unmounted whinnies charging forward of the line.

  Beneath him, Scout roared. It was a sound he’d never heard from any of the whinnies. The ones charging forward slowed to stay in formation, to keep with the line as it pivoted. They charged over a slight rise and descended to the flatland of the draw and toward the loosely arrayed enemy infantry.

  The surprise was complete. Intent on finding a way up to silence the stiff fire from Aliza’s defenders and to reach the tableland higher up, the enemy hadn’t seen or heard the whinnies coming. Turning to discover a charging line of cavalrymen and ferocious animals bearing down upon them, the enemy infantry panicked and ran. They scattered, some falling back toward their vehicles but most simply fleeing away from the charging whinnies. If any of them realized that the direction of the charge was actually herding them south of the attacking vehicle column, there was no sign of it.

  In seconds, Bo and the others were among them. Pistol in hand, Bo kept hold of the reins with his left and fired with his right. Some of the enemy stood their ground only to be cut down by weapons, or in more terrifying ways by the whinnies. A man Bo hadn’t seen appeared on his left side. Before he could pivot with his weapon, Scout darted that direction without breaking stride. He snapped his jaws, and the man fell to the ground, both hands amputated in a spray of blood.

  Holy shit!

  “Go, Scout! Get ’em, big guy!” Bo yelled. It felt good enough that he screamed from his diaphragm. The others joined him, and the whinnies roared. The enemy infantry’s panic became absolute. Those who had fled without any initial direction now raced for the imagined protection of their vehicles.

  The gun platforms on the enemy carriers opened fire. Bo and the riders leaned forward to lower their profiles as they charged. A whinnie on his right went down with a howl. He heard a smack as a bullet missed his left leg and tore a gash in Scout’s hide. The big whinnie roared again, and Bo expected him to bolt further forward when he dashed hard left instead. The entire line moved that way without a command and ran east toward the sheer, soaring sides of the tableland.

  “Scout! What are you doing?” Bo tugged the reins hard to the right, but Scout wouldn’t change course. “Scout! You’re going the wrong—”

  WHUMP! WHUMP!

  Bo whipped his head to the right and saw a series of explosions around the enemy vehicles as mortar rounds fell in and among them.

  Contingency Charlie was on time and on target. And was very close—or would have been, had Scout and the other whinnies not heard and understood the significance of the incoming mortar rounds.

  Between the withering barrage, the captured vehicles roaring out of the south, and the line of whinnies that had slowed and stopped just beyond the mortars’ beaten zone, the enemy infantry threw down their weapons and fled west. Still in a line abreast formation, they faced as one into the rising dust cloud of explosions and watched the steel rain fall.

  The barrage hammered down for several minutes, completely obscuring any view to the west. A trooper fr
om third section appeared out of the thin smoke from the direction of the wall, the unit’s radio on his shoulder. “Sir! Sir! We’ve got comms again!”

  Bo reached for the handset. “OP Two, Saber Six. Relay to the mortars cease fire. I say again, cease fire. Over.”

  “OP Two, roger, out.”

  A few more rounds moaned through the sky above them, chasing after the dim shapes of the J’Stull vehicles, and exploded on impact among them. Silence fell across the valley. Bo pressed the handset again.

  “Saber Nine, Saber Six. SITREP, over.”

  Aliza’s voice came back a little shaken, but steady. “Saber Six, we took more casualties, Bo, but we’re okay.”

  “Roger, we’ll be back there soon.” He glanced at Stewart. “Post an OP and observe them. See if there are survivors and such. Let them collect their dead and wounded. If they mass forces or start any movement east of their line, I want to know about it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stewart replied. “On it.”

  “Make it happen,” Bo said. He watched with pride as the young sergeant raced back toward the mouth of the valley with a section of four riders.

  “Saber Six, OP Two with a relay from Starkpatch, over.”

  “Send it, OP Two.”

  “Starkpatch relays Glass Palace. All enemy elements withdrawing at speed. Evacuation of Camp Stark delayed pending further observation of OpFor movement. Major Murphy sends outstanding work. Orders are for you to maintain reconnaissance and prepare for next phase. How copy? Over.”

  Bo grinned and wiped his chin with a sleeve. “Good copy. We’ll start extraction immediately. I’m positioning OP One forward again to observe the enemy here. I want you to move to the mortar platoon to augment their security. Over.”