Pors Tonith watched as the battle unfolded. He sipped from his teacup. Excellent! The enemy attack was proceeding just as he had anticipated. The attacks on his right and center were faltering, and the thrust toward the hills was being slowed by the crawler attack. They would have a big surprise when they reached the foot of those hills. “Are you ready?” he asked a technician.
“Yessir. We’ve penetrated their communications net. We have their commander’s call sign, his voiceprint, and his authentication code. We are capable of issuing orders to all his troops.”
“Good. Stand by.” Tonith could now issue bogus orders to all of Halcyon’s units to retreat or attack or stand still, but he wanted something more spectacular, and he was going to get it. He smiled.
“Give me your comlink,” Anakin demanded of the battalion commander, ripping his own off and throwing it out through the hatch. “This is Unit Six. I am in the lead transport. On my command, follow me.” He climbed back up into the vehicle’s hatch. “Move this thing as quickly as you can. Listen carefully: I’ll be giving you directions.” He toggled to the command net. “All eyes on me, follow my light.”
With that he drew his lightsaber, activated it, and held it straight up in the air. He swept his arm forward; the vehicle lurched into the ramp and surged up onto the plain above, followed by a long line of transports.
“Hard left,” he ordered, and the transport swerved to the left just in time to miss one roaring across in front. “Faster. Straight ahead. Right. Left. Open this thing up.”
Laser and blaster bolts sizzled through the air. Anakin effortlessly batted them out of the way. Behind him some of the transports were hit and slowed to a stop, but the following vehicles sped around them, keeping Anakin’s lightsaber in view. It was the only thing anyone could see at any distance in the dense dust and smoke hanging over the battlefield. Fortunately, Halcyon’s transports had done a good job, and the enemy machines had all either been disabled or were retreating.
In a matter of seconds they reached the rocks at the bottom of their objective. “Dismount. Form up in battalions and follow me!” Anakin climbed out of the hatch and leapt to the ground. This was a maneuver the clones had practiced to perfection in countless training exercises. Squads, platoons, companies, and battalions rapidly took their prearranged positions, closing their ranks to cover the gaps left in their formations by the transports that had been hit on the way in. The surviving vehicles rolled up and began to lay down suppressing fire on the hilltop.
“Give us supporting fires,” Anakin demanded of the Fire Direction Center.
“Copy that,” a voice echoed in Anakin’s headset. “Time on target five seconds.”
Anakin counted one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three, one-thousand-four, one-thousand-five, and mortar rounds began exploding on the hilltop. It was a very satisfying display of firepower. He let the barrage continue as he took his place at the head of the lead battalion. He turned to the battalion commander. “That’ll keep them down—nobody can survive under that pounding.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure, sir,” the commander said.
Anakin looked at the officer disbelievingly, but just shrugged.
“We advance on your order, sir,” the battalion commander said. “I advise that you stay here with the reserves until we’ve secured the hill.”
Anakin hesitated only briefly before making his decision. He was ready for a fight; every fiber in his body tingled to lead the charge and put his lightsaber to work. But he was a commander now: his job was commanding, not fighting.
“Colonel, take that hill.” He pointed at the hill that rose above the boulder-strewn field.
The battalion advanced by companies, the commander and his staff immediately behind the First Company. The field of boulders forced the clone infantry to bunch up to get through to the slope on the other side, and this made everyone exceptionally nervous. “Quickly! Quickly!” the battalion commander urged his troops, keeping his eye on the hilltop, which remained strangely silent. What were they waiting for? From just ahead came the sharp cracking of blaster rifles. “Droid skirmishers,” the lead company commander reported. “We’re brushing them aside.”
The battalion commander heard only a very sharp crack when the mine went off, the instantaneous result of the concussion bursting his eardrums. He felt himself lifted off his feet and flung backward in a cloud of smoke, dust, shattered armor, and body parts. He slammed into a boulder and bounced off onto the ground. He felt no pain, just a dullness in his legs and back. He shook his head to clear it, but no good. He tried to get to his feet but couldn’t: his legs had been severed just below the knees. He knew this because he could rise up on his elbows just enough to see that he had no feet. He tried to sit up, to reach down and stanch the bleeding, but he couldn’t, because his back had been broken when he was flung against the boulder. Someone grabbed him under the arms and started pulling him back, and he lost consciousness. Much later someone, a woman, he thought, gave him some water.
The battle droids, rank upon serried rank, sat motionless in their bunkers. Their control systems were active, weapons systems charged, waiting for the command to attack. Only moments before, they had been ordered to take cover in the bunker complex to avoid the mortar barrage that began falling on their now-unoccupied positions. Labor droids had improved and deepened the bunkers the previous night so now they were impervious to the heavy mortar shells exploding in huge gouts of flame all over the hill. Not thirty minutes before, clone troopers had tried to penetrate their perimeter, but the droids had been ready for them. Now they sat safely in the bunkers, just waiting. The few sentient beings among them, their battle coordinators, hunkered in the bunkers expecting at any moment a direct hit that would penetrate the cover and destroy them all. But the labor droids had done their work swiftly and thoroughly, and although the concussions of the exploding thousand-kilo shells shocked and deafened them, they remained safe in their holes, waiting for the bombardment to cease.
The enemy infantry was approaching now, just as the admiral had said they would. The droid skirmishers were taking the leading units under fire. In a matter of seconds the huge mine laid in the remains of the blown tunnel to Izable would be detonated, and then the droids would be given the command to spring into action and deliver a withering fire on the survivors.
A controller sat with the detonating device in his hand, watching a monitor. As soon as the lead elements of the attacking force were bunched up between the rocks, he would explode the mine. The monitor went dead suddenly. No matter; he knew where the advancing infantry was. He counted: One. Two. Three. Four. He pushed the detonator button. The concussion from the exploding mine reached even those down in the bunkers, shaking them so badly that anything not secured was knocked over. The controller smiled. Now, when the mortars stopped falling…
The explosion threw Anakin to the ground. Ahead, where the lead company had just disappeared into the rocks, was a huge pall of smoke. The air was filled with dirt clods and rock fragments from boulders that had been shattered by the blast. Anakin leapt to his feet and ran forward. The sight that met him was straight out of a nightmare. Almost all the clone troopers in the lead company had been injured or killed outright in the blast. The wounded staggered about in a daze, their armor covered in blood; many were missing body parts. The ground was littered with corpses and the dying. Those not wounded physically were in a state of shock, weaponless, disoriented.
“Second Company, up,” Anakin ordered over the tactical net. “Second and Third Battalions up. Follow me!” He ran through the carnage to the foot of the hill, drew his lightsaber, and activated it. He raised it over his head. “Form up on me—I lead the way!”
The remaining two companies of the First Battalion quickly recovered their wits and surged on through the rocks to where Anakin stood on the slope of the hill. By that time the rest of the transports had come up and were disgorging their troops.
“Send them in now,
” Anakin ordered the brigade commanders, who immediately formed their regiments.
There was still no fire from the hilltop. Good, the artillery was keeping them down. Thousands of clone troopers swarmed onto the foot of the hill and paused, waiting for the order to rush to the top.
At that moment their own artillery started falling on the transports.
“Adjust your fire at one-hundred-meter intervals. Roll back toward our lines. Pass this order to all units,” Colonel Gris Manks called out. “The assault is being called off, and we must cover our retreating troops.”
“Sir,” one of the Fire Direction Center operators called out, “I believe the troops on the right flank are just now assaulting the hill. If we adjust one hundred meters to the rear, the rounds will fall on our own—”
“Your information must be wrong. Adjust for rolling fires. I just got that order directly from General Halcyon. Received and authenticated. Order all pieces to target the plain according to our preregistered fire plan and support our line in case of counterattack.”
The FDC directors dutifully passed on the order, and the blasters adjusted their fires accordingly.
Erk and Odie jumped to their feet. “Received and authenticated, standard practice,” the droid commented, “means the commanding general has given the order and orders must be obeyed. I know because I am a…”
To Anakin, standing at the foot of the hill, the blaster assault from the top began as a bright, flashing row of fire from so many weapons that it was difficult to pick out the individual shooters. A wave of destruction rolled over the soldiers gathered around him. Without even thinking, he used his lightsaber to divert several bolts aimed directly at him. Troopers standing to his right and left were not so fortunate and were cut down in droves.
“Forward!” Anakin shouted and started up the hill. The companies, battalions, and regiments rolled forward behind him, firing and maneuvering as they went, but the line faltered under the devastating fire from the top of the hill, then stopped as casualties mounted and the survivors went to ground, seeking whatever cover the terrain offered from the destruction pouring onto them from above.
“Put artillery on that hill,” Anakin ordered over the command net, forgetting the proper comm procedure in his excitement. “This is Commander Skywalker—give us back that artillery support! You’re dropping rounds on our transports. Readjust your fire. We’re being slaughtered down here. We are pinned down. Repeat, we are pinned down! Over.”
Thinking this was some kind of trick—the order to adjust fire had just come from the FDC and presumably the army commander himself—the battery commanders assigned to support Anakin’s troopers hesitated, then asked for confirmation from the FDC, and the shells continued dropping on the transports.
The fire from the droids only intensified. Few of the clone troopers were able to return it. Frustrated, Anakin toggled to Halcyon’s command net. “General Halcyon, this is Anakin. What’s going on? I’m pinned down here, my own artillery is firing on my rear, and the enemy in my front is killing us!”
Halcyon started when he heard Anakin’s voice booming over the loudspeakers in the command post, and everyone stopped what he or she was doing. “Anakin, hold on.” He turned to his artillery liaison. “Get me Colonel Manks.”
“You gave me that order just a little while ago,” Manks said when Halcyon asked what was happening. “Adjust fires at one-hundred-meter intervals to cover our retreating troops—”
“Our net has been compromised,” an officer gasped. “You gave no such order!” He looked at Halcyon.
“Colonel, cover the retreat on the left but put fire on that hill on the right immediately. Anakin, as soon as the mortars start up again, get out of there—I’m calling off the attack.”
When the mortars again started falling on the hilltop it was too late to do any damage to the droids—they’d already retreated into their bunkers.
Odie buried her face in her hands. “We’re killing our own troops,” she whispered.
“That,” the droid said, “is what is called friendly fire. It happens all the time.”
“I know what that is,” Odie replied bitterly, “and I hope I never hear that term again.”
“Your status, Tonith?”
It was that detestable Commander Ventress again. Pors Tonith put down his teacup. “You are calling at an inconvenient time,” he sneered. “I am in the process of beating back a major attack.”
“Yes, you look extremely busy, as you always do. Have you been successful, then?”
“Entirely,” Tonith answered smugly, lifting the teacup to his lips and sipping contentedly.
“Casualties?”
“Ours? Light. Theirs? I haven’t assessed them yet, but heavy, very heavy, indeed. You see, I was able to anticipate their moves perfectly—”
“Count Dooku will be pleased,” Ventress interrupted, her voice a neutral flatness.
“I am sure this confirms his faith in my ability to command this situation and save it,” he said, leaning back and grinning at the hologram image hovering before him.
“You shall be reinforced shortly. The fleet is on the way.”
Tonith only nodded. “I may not even need them. I believe I’m faced by second-rate brains. Frontal attacks. Flanking movements. Jedi running about with their lightsabers. Pish! It’s firepower and tactics that count, not heroics and posturing.”
“I shall so inform Count Dooku,” she replied. “One more thing, Tonith. When this is over we shall meet, and I will kill you.” The image disappeared.
Tonith sat frozen for a second. Then he shrugged, drained his teacup, and poured another. “That will be the day,” he smirked, but he knew she meant what she said.
26
I’ve never seen anything this fouled up,” Private Vick, the former Neelian guard, commented to Corporal Raders.
The pair were standing in the rear of the command post, sandwiched together into a corner, trying to stay inconspicuous and out of the way.
“How do you know? I’ve got more time in the chow line than you’ve got in the guards,” Rader replied, “and this isn’t so bad. General Halcyon knows what he’s doing. You’ve seen him fight up close and personal.”
“All I know is things are falling apart out there and here we stand, sucking our thumbs. Let’s go ask the general to let us loose.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to work with any clones; those boys make me nervous. With those helmets, you can’t see their faces.”
“We need another mission, like that recon with Sergeant L’Loxx, he’s someone I can really work with. We sure made junk out of some droids that night, didn’t we? But bro, we don’t want to wind up stuck down in the FDC, like those two lovebirds.” Lieutenant H’Arman and trooper Subu had become known throughout the command staff as soft on each other. “You don’t want that, do you?”
“No. Or standing around here, either. We should be out with that other Jedi, Skywalker. He’s deep in it now. That’s where I want to be. He could use a couple of good hands, I bet.”
“You’d better watch out what you’re asking for, buddy. But Skywalker, you know, I’m older than he is.”
“Shows what you been doin’ with your life.”
Raders nodded silently. Then he said, “You know what I’d like right now?”
“I could think of a million things.”
“I’d like a nice cold drink of water.”
There was very little of that precious commodity on the battlefield. Major Mess Boulanger estimated, using standards established for soldiers of all species operating in every conceivable climatic condition found in the galaxy, that the clone troopers needed, to maintain top performance in combat in the desert-like environment found on the continent on Praesitlyn where the action was taking place, 8 liters of water every twenty-four standard hours, or 160,000 liters each and every day for the entire combat force under Halcyon’s command, and that didn’t count what was needed for the command, staff, and support uni
ts. The water vaporators, like those used on the farms on such worlds as Tatooine, could produce only a liter and a half a day, were very large, had to be spread apart certain distances to be effective, and were subject to constant bombardment by enemy artillery. Halcyon’s engineers had drilled deep into the planet’s crust and constructed artesian wells, but they were capable of producing only about ten thousand liters of water a day, and that supply had to be processed first to make it drinkable.
Thirst occurs in humans when fluid amounting to about 1 percent of body weight is lost. Death from dehydration occurs when that ratio reaches about 20 percent; less in an arid environment. Already in the attack just mounted against Tonith’s lines, the clone infantry had sustained about 2 percent of their casualties from dehydration. And those infantry fighters were in top physical condition. Each had landed on Praesitlyn with a full combat load of more than forty kilos of weapons and equipment, including eight liters of water; by the time the attack on Tonith’s lines was called off, most of them had consumed the water they’d brought with them.
Mess Boulanger had calculated this requirement very precisely and he had prepared for it. There was only one problem: the main supply, which was needed right now and required immediate and continuous replenishment, had to come from the fleet in orbit.
Far above the cauldron of death and destruction that raged about the Praesitlyn Intergalactic Communications Center, the crews of Halcyon’s fleet in orbit labored mightily to keep his army supplied with the essentials of war. Grizzled bosuns directed massive loadlifters as they shifted cargoes and loaded them into transports. A steady stream of supplies proceeded from the ships to the planet’s surface. Old Mess Boulanger had calculated precisely the amounts of ordnance, spare parts, and rations the army would need to operate at a high level of combat for a week, the period of time it was estimated would be required to break Tonith’s hold on the Intergalactic Communications Center. He and his staff had also estimated the precise tonnage required to resupply that army per day to support it during heavy fighting. Boulanger had the troop transports that landed the infantry converted to combat delivery vehicles by modifying the troop compartments for storage and was using them by the dozens to move all this matériel. He had to use them because he needed speed and maneuverability to get the cargoes safely off-loaded. That was because there was one more big problem: nothing could be landed in the immediate vicinity of Halcyon’s troops.
Star Wars: Jedi Trial Page 22
