by David Drake
He considered letting the Brasilian lights flow past a concealed blocking force; then spring an ambush on the main column, but reluctantly rejected the idea. The light infantry would merely return and counterattack his rear, trapping his people against the main column. Ambushing the Brasilian light troops would have to suffice.
If he had read the Brasilian commander correctly the man would halt the main column in any case once the ambush was sprung until the situation had been clarified. This would achieve Allenson’s purpose of delaying the Brasilian attack on the forts in the most cost-effective manner—cost effective, that is, as measured by troops lost versus time won for the evacuation of Trent to proceed.
So he pored over the map looking for a suitable ambush position. It would have to be somewhere guaranteed to be on the Brasilian march route, somewhere that offered his people concealment and cover but left the enemy exposed. But somewhere not so obvious that the light infantry commander would automatically deploy into combat formation in the expectation of a trap.
The route was easy enough to discern. There was only one all-weather stabilized road that ran south parallel to the Valerie. It meandered well inland along the edge of the river’s flood plain. He rejected as too obvious a perfect ambush position where the road crossed a tributary on a bridge.
The road swung west just north of the Trent Line to connect with a second stabilized road that came in from the agricultural areas. A small town had grown up at the junction, as is the way of things. The buildings would give his men concealment. The flat fields around the town would leave anyone moving down the road completely exposed, like toy soldiers on a table top. When things got too hot the town structures would also give cover for his men to run for it.
He touched an icon on the map and the town’s name was displayed. It was called Kismet.
The door opened.
Allenson clicked off the map and turned to greet his wife. He spoke quickly to avoid questions that he did not want to answer, such as why he was personally leading the Forlorn Hope. Trina was too bright to bullshit about the blocking operation. She would grasp that it had every possibility of turning into a suicide run. In vain would he explain that he had a plan to get away, albeit along a very dodgy avenue of escape.
“Trina,” he said in feigned delight, moving to embrace her. “I’m glad to catch you as I’ve a very important task for you my dear.”
“You have?” she asked.
“We are abandoning Port Trent, as you’ve no doubt heard. I need you to organize the evacuation of the soldiers’ families.”
She frowned. “As noncombatants they would be safest moved independently of the army.”
“If you think that’s best, my dear,” Allenson said, hoping he looked as if this hadn’t already occurred to him.
“I will need to hire a suitable ship and give the Brasilians reasonable notice of our passage. They may wish to inspect the vessel to ensure it is not being used to shift military equipment.”
Allenson nodded agreement.
“Possibly, but I expect your word will suffice, which is why I need you to be in charge.”
“Other civilians will also want to get out when they learn about the evacuation,” she said, eyes defocusing as she thought the matter through. “I’d better get on it without delay.”
“As you say,” Allenson said, grinning at her retreating back.
He had been married long enough to know that it was better to deflect his wife with something for her to do rather than meet her inevitable objections head on when he intended something she would consider stupid.
The lasercannon crew ripped up the floorboards of the front room of the house in Kismet to lower the gun to ground level. They cut a horizontal gunport in the wall and positioned the weapon well back. From there it could fire up the road without giving away its position, at least for a while. Allenson nodded approvingly before letting himself out into the front garden. There, a section of infantry from the Foresters dug in.
It had taken a degree of persuasion and some not so subtle hints of forthcoming violence to get the inhabitants of Kismet to leave for the city. One old man had to be forcibly put onto the tractor train. Allenson found the whole matter distasteful. He lied and told the people they could return when it was safe. Well, it was not a complete lie in that they could return, but there probably wouldn’t be much left of their town to return to.
He scanned the ground to the left and right with binoculars. The Cinnerans were dug into camouflaged trenches that ran out at forty-five degrees to the road. They had crew-served heavy weapons positioned on the far end of each line. The Foresters dug in just in front of the town. The troops had wanted to occupy the buildings. Allenson knew from bitter experience how little protection a wooden building offered from heavy laser pulses or mortar rounds so he vetoed that.
He urged the men on and then they waited, sleeping in the trenches. Allenson slept badly, disturbed by nightmares filled with burning houses and people. When he awoke his mind and body were sluggish so he took a stimulant.
Allenson gave strict instructions that all equipment was to be switched off. He took it as read that the Brasilians scouts would be using some sophisticated detection equipment. Inevitably some soldiers would forget or ignore the order but he hoped that any energy signs would be assumed to come from the town.
Mid-morning, the first Brasilians were spotted by an observer located up on top of a grain silo. It took a few minutes for the trooper to climb down and run to where Allenson had set up a headquarters with Todd and Fendlaigh beside a kitchen garden wall.
The Brasilians were well spaced in an irregular formation. They walked beside the road but not on it. The two leading men each side of the road had rifles slung over their backs. Their hands were occupied carrying detection wands, probably looking for mines. The enemy soldiers were professionals, no doubt from some sort of elite pathfinder unit.
They moved slowly as they neared the town, stopping two hundred meters out to scan the buildings. A third man moved up to the front to confer with the two on point.
“That’ll be the officer,” Hawthorn said, observing the trio through his rifle’s optical site.
They appeared to be arguing.
“Something’s spooking them,” Allenson said.
“The town’s too quiet,” Hawthorn replied. “Where are the kids playing in the street, tradesmen going about their work and women doing domestic chores?”
“You could’ve maybe mentioned this sooner,” Allenson replied.
“Oh sure, so you could use the townspeople as bait?” Hawthorn asked.
“Of course not,” Allenson replied hotly, imagining the carnage among panicked women and kids when the firefight started.
Hawthorn wore a cynical grin.
“Okay, point taken,” Allenson said.
The Brasilian officer ended the debate by pointing vigorously at the town. The wandsmen reluctantly advanced, followed by the rest of the unit. Allenson let them come in another hundred meters before switching on his datapad. One of the wandsmen stopped and pointed his device directly towards Allenson’s position.
“Fire,” Allenson ordered.
Hawthorn caressed his rifle’s trigger. The officer dropped like a rag doll. The green troopers of the 11th opened up with a ragged volley from their laserrifles. Most pulse streaks zipped high, but with that many shots fired some had to find targets. Both wandsmen went down.
“Aim low, damn you,” the Forester’s lieutenant screamed.
One of the wandsmen got onto his hands and knees and began to crawl away. Hawthorn fired again and the man’s jacket caught fire. This time he stayed down. All the Brasilians then dropped so it was impossible to distinguish casualties from those merely taking cover. They began to return fire, shooting at the windows and doorways in the buildings behind the Foresters.
A porch oil lamp exploded, spewing burning oil along the ground and into a Streamer’s foxhole. He screamed and jumped up, clothes ablaz
e. Laser pulses lit up his jacket and he collapsed. At least he stopped screaming.
The open area to the left exploded in flame when the Forester’s lasercannon opened up. The gunner did it by the book. A one second burst, shift the gun five degrees and repeat. Brasilians threw themselves out of the burning vegetation. They rolled over on the ground to extinguish the flames licking at their uniforms. Burst after burst slammed into the long grass.
The Cinnerans still held their fire as they’d been ordered. That was why they were on the wings. Allenson doubted the Foresters could hold to the necessary fire-control. The job of the Cinnerans was to wait until the Brasilians walked right into the trap and then lay down enfilading fire.
A few Brasilians eventually detected which house held the cannon. They fired back with their rifles, marking the building for their comrades. A light automatic squad weapon took up the refrain. It raked the house. Small explosions like the hacking coughs of a lungworm victim sounded from the Brasilians’ skirmish line. Seconds later, grenades exploded harmlessly in and around the buildings at the edge of town. By chance a few dropped short into the Forester’s position.
One fell into a slit trench. The concentrated detonation threw out a limbless torso.
The firefight spluttered on fruitlessly, slowly winding down.
The analytical part of Allenson’s mind ran pointlessly in the background of his consciousness when it had nothing more useful to do. He pondered on the series of chaotic chance events that placed that man and grenade into juxtaposition. If the man had chosen another trench, or if the grenadier had been a better shot, or if the wind blew at a slightly different angle or . . . if the soldier had never been born. There was no end to the “ifs” that made the odds astronomically unlikely that that particular man would die in that place.
One of the houses caught alight, wooden clapperboards burning fiercely. The Forester’s lasercannon stopped firing, hopefully simply because it was masked with smoke. One of the disadvantages of laser weapons was that they had low penetration.
The Brasilians took advantage of the drop in firepower to rise to their feet and retreat. They proceeded section by section, laying down suppressive fire on the general area of the Foresters. The Cinnerans on the wings continued to hold fire. They were Allenson’s ace-in-the-hole, a card only to be played when it was most advantageous.
No terrain was ever truly flat and a few centimeters could mean the difference between death and safety on a battlefield swept by direct fire weapons. Most of the enemy infantry made it to where they were concealed behind a low ridge. Allenson ordered a ceasefire.
A wounded Brasilian trooper crawled slowly and agonizingly on his elbows back towards his comrades’ position. His legs trailed behind. A Forester fired a shot at the wounded man which missed by several meters.
“I said cease fire,” Allenson yelled, turning his datapad to full volume. He switched it off and spoke to Hawthorn. “I suppose I was over optimistic in hoping that the Brasilians would walk completely into the trap.”
“You know,” Hawthorn said conversationally to Allenson, “I may have made a mistake taking out that Brasilian officer right at the start. He looked the sort of gung-ho chinless incompetent who might have ordered his men to charge the town. We could have got the lot of them then. Those Brasilian NCOs are regrettably efficient.”
He sighed.
Two Brasilians burst from cover and ran to their wounded comrade. Seizing him under the arms, they dragged him to safety. No one fired.
Hawthorn carried on musing.
“Of course, those self-same NCOs might well have shot their own officer in the back if he ordered them to commit suicide. It probably didn’t matter that I killed him first.”
“Right,” Allenson said weakly.
“Hell of a way to go, shot by your own men,” Hawthorn said.
The day wore on. Every so often the Brasilians lobbed a grenade in the general direction of the Foresters. None caused casualties, but it kept the Streamers pinned down in their slit trenches. Hawthorn sniped at anything showing over the ridge, but was doubtful that he had a kill. It was more a question of reminding the enemy that they were still under observation.
The grassland shimmered when the plain heated up. Allenson’s troops began to run out of water. Eventually Allenson asked volunteers to sprint from trench to trench distributing bottles.
What happened next was quite unexpected. Firefights started on the wings; little spurts of combat that fizzled out almost as soon as they started.
Allenson snarled.
“The bastards have worked their way round to outflank us. I bet there’s no more than a couple of men still in front just firing the odd grenade and waving helmets in the air to keep our attention.”
“Yeah, a good plan. Pity they ran straight into the Cinnerans,” Hawthorn replied with a grin. “Don’t tell me you planned that.”
“Actually, no,” Allenson replied. “But don’t tell anyone. I’d hate to lose what little reputation for competence that I have left.”
The firing died away after a couple of minutes.
Allenson signaled Braks. There was little point in maintaining communication silence with the Cinnerans. The enemy knew just where they were.
“Report if you please, Captain.”
“We’ve repelled probes, sir, on each wing. The enemy backed off as soon as we fired without making much of a fight of it.”
“Very good,” Allenson replied, “await further orders.”
“That’s curious, those are veteran troops,” Hawthorn said. “Not the sort to give up easily.”
“They’re in no hurry. Why risk getting killed when the war is going their way,” Allenson said. “It’s not like they have much emotional investment in this war. They’ll just pin us down and wait for the heavy infantry to bring up mortars. Then they’ll blast us out.”
“Excellent,” Hawthorn said.
“I intend to be gone before that,” Allenson said.
“Find out how the evacuation is going,” Allenson said to Fendlaigh “You can switch your equipment on now.”
When she didn’t answer, he turned.
The young woman knelt with her back to him. She leaned forward over her communication array as if trying to protect it with her body.
“Fendlaigh?” Allenson asked again.
He went to her and touched her shoulder. She fell onto her back, sightless eyes staring at the sky. There wasn’t a mark on her but she was still dead, her equipment smashed and burnt. Allenson couldn’t remember any particular explosion close by but the Brasilians had fired volleys of grenades. The blast had killed Fendlaigh by stopping her heart, collapsing her lungs or simply turning her vital organs to jelly. A blast that left her uniform and skin unmarked.
Allenson reached down and closed her brown eyes. There was no particular reason to but something about them disturbed him.
“Shame, that,” Hawthorn said dispassionately. “Now we won’t know when we can leg it.”
“No,” Allenson replied, mind churning as he ran through the options.
Hawthorn was right. They were in deep trouble. He had no way now of getting in touch with Kaspary. Allenson knew how long the evacuation to Brunswick was planned to take but when did anything that complicated run to plan? A messenger would take too long, even assuming they got through. He daren’t just assume that all three waves made it out according to the timetable. He could lose the army if he quit the blocking position on that assumption.
His duty in these circumstances was to stay and buy Kaspary as much time as possible. That meant sacrificing the Foresters and the Cinnerans. Military logic dictated that exchanging two understrength regiments for an army were an excellent exchange. His soul revolted at sacrificing the men under his command. It occurred that he wouldn’t have to worry about it for long as he would also be dead. He would make sure of that but it still didn’t sit right.
He forced himself to calm down and assess the problem rationally.
>
As tradition dictated, a Brasilian mortar barrage opened up when the sky lightened. It plastered the Streamer positions identified by the enemy pathfinders’ probing attacks the previous day. The mortar fire ceased as the sun came up. Brasilian heavy infantry attacked out of the sunrise, supported by suppressive direct fire. It was a perfect set-piece attack carried out by well-trained troops.
Of course the charge carried the trenches. It would have carried them even if Allenson had not taken the precaution of withdrawing his people back into town. The Brasilian blow fell upon a vacuum. He ordered the Foresters to the rear with instructions to guard the transports. This was a useful role, but his main reason was to protect their fragile morale by giving them something to do. They had performed well yesterday, but he had little confidence in their skills for what was to happen next.
The noise of battle died away when the Brasilians discovered the Streamer positions abandoned. An ominous silence hung over the town. Allenson awaited events, his mouth dry. He crouched down beside a plum tree in the garden of a one story house. His line of sight extended down one of the lanes between the houses for a bare thirty meters.
Kismet had grown organically from a farming hamlet. It had never been subject to the rigors of town planners. Each house was placed haphazardly at the whim of whosoever had caused its construction. Vehicle lanes and footpaths curled between and around houses and kitchen gardens.
The Cinnerans were dispersed in small fire teams through the town. They had orders to contest a position only until outflanked or heavy weapons were brought up to blast them out.
A loud explosion sounded from beyond the town’s boundaries.
Hawthorn grinned evilly.
“There’s always some idiot tempted to pick up shiny loot.”
Some of the Special Project soldiers had showed an inventive mastery of the art of making booby traps.
A second explosion sounded a few minutes later.
“And an even bigger idiot incapable of learning from other people’s disasters,” Hawthorn said with satisfaction.
