Come and Take Them-eARC

by Tom Kratman

  “And if I do send more?”

  “I will meet every attack equally. Although at some point, I’ll have to decide that general war has begun. At that point I won’t hold anything back.”

  “Air power? You can’t meet me equally there.” No, in sheer numbers, at least barring Avenida Ascanio Arosemena, you surpass me by far.

  “I know. But I will have my heavy rocket launchers mine the runway and shell Arnold Air Force Base out of existence as soon as a single aircraft takes off. You must know I have it under constant observation. If you need proof, consider what we did to the aircraft you tried to lift from Brookings.”

  Carrera hesitated before continuing. “Speaking of being under observations, I’m also getting reports from just about every place in the Tauran Union that has light infantry, airborne, or special operations troops and every place that bases transport aircraft and airships. It would be better, perhaps, if they didn’t mobilize for this.”

  “And what am I supposed to tell my government?”

  “The truth. That it appears—and it does appear that way, I made sure it would—that a single Balboan unit and a Tauran unit, both engaged in provocational maneuvers, ran into each other in the night and engaged in a fire fight. That you don’t know who fired first…not that it really matters. That, since you are very badly outnumbered and outgunned, the mobilized legion could throw you into the sea if it attacked. That you and I are trying to limit the fighting.… That this is a predictable result of the kinds of stresses we’ve been throwing at each other.”

  “You really expect me to hang Tauran soldiers out to dry?” You had better expect it; it’s precisely what I wanted to happen.

  Unseen by Janier, Carrera shook his head. His voice when he resumed had a strained quality. “I know it’s a hard thing to do. But harder than losing many times more? I don’t know. In any event, you don’t have to give me an answer in words. I’ll know what decision you make by your actions. And now, I really have to go. But think about it—please think about it—before you do anything rash. Carrera out.”

  Avenida Ascanio Arosemena, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova

  Half of Captain Bruguière’s tracks were wrecked, along with three of the four tanks. Some still burned and others had burned out, with thin smoke seeping from their ruins. The smoke stank of overdone long pig.

  He had wounded all over the place, although the dreadful Balboan artillery and mortar fire reduced the numbers of wounded steadily, by killing them where they lay. The company commander tried desperately to think of some solution while directing his own gunner’s fire.

  I can’t attack into those buildings. I can’t leave my wounded behind. I can’t stay here or my whole company will be destroyed eventually. I can’t stop fighting to recover the wounded or the locals will murder us. The commander considered something, then rejected it. And I won’t surrender. Let’s pray for the cavalry then.

  Cerro Mina Inn, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova

  The senior surviving and unhurt leader in the building, a staff sergeant of Third Platoon, Number One Company, Second Cohort, Second Tercio shouted encouragement and orders to his remaining men. Both the centurion and the platoon sergeant were down; killed by the tungsten penetrators of the ARE-12Ps’ cannon, punching through brick and concrete walls. They’d torn through the Cerro Mina Inn’s walls as if they were tissue paper. Whether they hit anything after punching through was largely matter of luck, though, when each penetrator carried its own luck, and there were thousands of penetrators.…

  Well, luck had been against over half of the platoon, and both the radios, so far as the sergeant could tell. He stepped carefully over a legless body as he moved down a hallway to check on a position set up in a whore’s room and that had gone silent. Blood made the floor tacky to his feet.

  Of the three men in the whore’s room, he found only one alive. The others had been torn to pieces, their blood and brains sprayed across the floor and against the walls. The terrified survivor huddled against a corner, covering his head with his hands. That sole survivor moaned and wept continuously, rocking back and forth against the wall.

  The sergeant wiped a hand across his face and chin. He couldn’t bring himself to order the broken man back into the fight. And he couldn’t just leave him there, either. Bending low, the sergeant said, “Sanchez, I need you to carry a message to the commander. Can you do that for me?”

  Sanchez stopped weeping and looked up. “They’re all dead sergeant? Do you want me to tell the commander that they’re all dead?”

  “Something like that,” the sergeant said, as gently as he could. “I’ll write it out for you and then you head back and find the CO.”

  Avenida de la Santa Maria, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova

  The Ocelot platoon leader and track commander ordered, “Gunner! Armor Piercing! Track.”

  “Target,” the gunner announced.

  “Fire!” The track rocked back on its suspension. Even a 100mm gun generated a significant amount of recoil for a lightly armored IFV pressed into duty as an armored gun system.

  “Shit. Miss.”

  “Repeat.”

  * * *

  It had taken quite a while for the Ocelots to get into action. In the first place they’d been held back, to allow the infantry time to get into position. But when called up, the fighting had already commenced, which set thousands of the urban poor to flight, blocking the streets. Then, too, the streets of the old city were narrow, and made worse by automobiles parked a lot more densely than a maneuvering armored vehicle driver would prefer. Then, worst of all, just before breaking out, the first Ocelot had been hit by a missile launched from by either one of the ARE-12Ps or a dismount with an antiarmor missile. The only ones who could have told were the turret crew and driver and they were all dead.

  Yes, the Ocelot had had reactive armor, blocks of explosive that deformed the jet stream formed by antitank hollow charges. These had proven inadequate against the tandem warhead of the missile system.

  The second Ocelot, the platoon leader’s track, had taken partial cover behind the first and trained its gun on the Gallic armored vehicle. That had fired a missile, but that missile had been a waste, hitting the destroyed Ocelot a second time. There had been no time for another shot; with its autoloader, the second Ocelot had been able to fire, miss, fire again, and hit too quickly. A solid shot at close range struck the Gallic IFV. The shot punched through the armor, then careened down the missile rack, destroying three of them and setting the rocket of a fourth alight. The flame from that touched off the other three, then caused all four warheads to detonate, essentially simultaneously. The rear door blew open, flames from the ruptured fuel tank shooting out. One poor bastard emerged, shrieking, a walking mannequin of flame. He fell and rolled, in absolute agony, until a bullet ended his pain. No one could say later if it had been a Balboan bullet or an Tauran one that had put the man out of his agony. No one bothered to ask, either. Sometimes one’s enemy can be one’s best friend.

  * * *

  “The CO’s track’s been hit!” the Gallic company exec shouted into his microphone. His next words were spoken more softly, mournfully, disbelievingly. “Shit…it’s burning. Boys, we can’t stay here much longer.” The exec forced his brain to formulate a plan that might save them. He came up with something only a little better than, “Sauve qui peut!”

  “All right,” the exec said, “we’re getting out of here. Two minutes to recover what wounded and dismounts you can. Then we pull back by platoons. Pop smoke, now!”

  From either side of the turrets of the ARE-12Ps that were still intact phosphorus smoke grenades flew to impact in the street. A dense cloud of white, choking smoke began to billow up. Unable to see through the smoke to identify targets, the Balboans either ceased fire or kept it up at the last known locations. Both Ocelots and ARE-12Ps had thermal sights. But the Volgan-built Ocelots’ sights were fairly marginal, while the Gauls’ were first rate. The latter had no p
roblem with seeing through the smoke. Their rate of fire increased. Back doors opened to let men out to recover wounded and to allow soldiers trapped outside to get back under cover. Still, the Balboan artillery fire coming from Fort Guerrero—now slackening as the gun platoon displaced by sections to another position—made even the brief trek to the armored vehicles a hazardous one.

  Balboa City Train Station, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova

  Inside the light brown stucco of the mostly open-sided building, Porras sucked air, as did most of his remaining men, some thirty-three of Figueroa’s platoon, a half dozen combat engineers and fifteen men with four smoothbore rocket launchers from the antitank section. There were also two FOs and a medic left. Cruz flopped down beside the lieutenant.

  “No time for a break, sir. You’ve got to get the men into position! That’s what you get the big bucks for!”

  “Sergeant Major,” said the signifer, weakly, “you make twice what I do.”

  Cruz grinned broadly and said, “Yessir, and I’m worth every centavo, too.”

  Porras’s weakness came partly from fatigue, partly from fear, and in good part from the horrors the platoon had, so far, fought through. Weakly or not, though, Porras nodded. He arose to his feet, stumbled once, and then began to shout orders. Cruz joined him in moving the men into a position from which they could dominate the only safe routes for reinforcements from Fort Muddville to reach the Avenida de la Santa Maria or for the Taurans engaged there to retreat to Fort Muddville.

  The rain began to fall again as engineers laid mines across the street. There weren’t many mines, perhaps fifty in all. About half were laid on the other side of the street, half laterally in front of the ambush position. Exhausted from lugging the little five-pound track killers, the engineers moved more slowly than was usual. On the tree covered hill behind the station, Cruz and Porras pushed men into hasty positions, taking advantage of what cover was available, mostly thick tree trunks and shallow depressions.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.

  —Matthew 5:9, King James Version

  Avenida Ascanio Arosemena, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova

  Shocked with the fury of the battle just ended, the remnants of Number One Maniple slumped in exhaustion or shuddered with terror, each as the feeling struck. They were all, in any case, completely incapable of pursuing the fleeing shreds of the Tauran company.

  Recovery—the first baby steps in recovery—began with an acting platoon leader; he was a corporal and the fourth man to hold the job in forty minutes. His first step was finding the presence to order what was left of his platoon to begin to fight the smoldering fires threatening to burn the Cerro Mina Inn. He also directed that recovery and evacuation of the dead and wounded begin.

  Should have been done sooner, thought the corporal. Then again, who was responsible at any given time to give the orders? And did they even know? I didn’t until a private pointed it out to me.

  Farther to the west, another replacement chief had the presence of mind to lead a squad across to begin the search for Tauran wounded and to take prisoners…if possible. A half dozen men, and all that remained of a twelve-man squad, fanned out to search for survivors or to silence any Taurans who might resist. In this sector, wounded were already being carried back to casualty collection points.

  Farther into the city, ambulance sirens, some civil, others military, echoed off of the walls of buildings and down streets and alleyways. The ambulances forced their way to the casualty collection points scattered throughout this portion of the old city. No helicopters were available; the Taurans weren’t allowed to overfly while the Balboans had mostly fixed wing Crickets for dustoff, which couldn’t land in the narrow confines of the city.

  From the sounds of it, the battle moved on farther toward the Transitway. Even there it was now usually single shots—albeit sometimes very large single shots—rather than the deluge of fire that had been the norm for the morning. Some of those large single shots came from the Ocelots, tanks, and SPATHAs whose crews, once they realized that the Gallic armor facing them had pulled out, had begun a cautious pursuit. Because they were buttoned up, that realization took a while.

  Balboa City Train Station, Balboa, Terra Nova

  “I just got the word over the radio, Sergeant Major,” said Signifer Porras. “The priority of fires for the artillery and heavy mortars has switched to us.”

  “Good, sir. I don’t like being left out on our own. Any word from Intel?”

  “Just that the rest of the mechanized battalion’s readying at Muddville; almost a full tank company, two mech infantry companies, an antitank and part of a headquarters company.”

  “Did they have any idea of how long the Taurans will take?”

  “No. I asked. But we’ll get word as soon as they move.”

  Cruz stopped for a minute, then said, “Just in case I don’t get a chance to tell you this later on, you did well back there, sir.”

  Porras flushed, unseen by Cruz in the darkness. “Thanks, Sergeant Major. Seemed like the thing to do. And…ah, Sergeant Major, if I don’t make it…”

  Cruz frowned and waved the nascent comment off. “Don’t even start that shit, sir. The somber morose crap is my job, not yours. Besides, you’ll come through just fine.”

  Porras gave a noncommittal grunt. The radio crackled to life. It was a two-man team that Porras had placed on flank security toward Avenida de la Santa Maria. “Five, this is two-three,” announced the caller. “Five Tauran tracks, one tank, heading your way…maybe three minutes. They’re moving fast.”

  “Damn!” cursed Cruz. “First Maniple wasn’t supposed to let them get away. We’re not set up to handle someone coming from that side. Not as well anyway.”

  “Two-three,” answered Porras, “this is Five. Roger.

  “It was a calculated risk, Top.” Porras recalculated—picturing the layout of his platoon in his mind—then decided. “All right. Take one of the rocket launchers. Cut left and get in position on the other side of the station. They won’t see you there. Toast the first track. I’ll take the other gun and we can handle the last. On your way pass the word that the RGLs are not to fire until one of us does…or an antitank mine goes off.”

  Cruz jumped to his feet and ran to the left, shouting Porras’s instructions to the rocket grenade launcher gunners.

  300 Barracks Block, Fort Muddville, Balboa, Terra Nova

  Compared to this morning’s frantic pace, the usual alert was positively lackadaisical. But their comrades of Company B were in battle, rumor said desperate battle, and the men of the other companies in the 420th Dragoons fairly flew to go to their aid.

  Ammunition was short, although not desperately so. Each company arms room and the ready battalion stocks held something less than a full load. There were safety regulations, by and large sensible ones, that restricted the amount of ammunition that could be held on hand. It was only through bending the rules that the dragoons had as much as they did. A convoy of trucks had been dispatched across the swing bridge over Florida Locks to the main Ammunition Supply Point. They had yet to return. Most worrisome was that the battalion had no mortar ammunition. If they fought it would be without the ability to suppress enemy infantry with high explosives from the battalion’s heavy mortar platoon. Supposedly the artillery battery on Fort Nelson could range, but who trusted that?

  Some of the men of the battalion had begun to breathe easier when the sounds of firing had died out, a few minutes before. Others, knowing what the cease fire most likely portended, grew furious.

  The Battalion Commander’s ARE-12PC squatted at the head of the line of tracks, nearest the usually locked gate that was the 420th’s standard egress. The commander, Lieutenant Colonel Michel Koenig, a Gaul, despite the name, stood in the commander’s hatch. He had his internal coms tuned to higher, and couldn’t hear anything outside of what came through the combat vehicle crewman’s h
elmet. Down below his radio telephone operator monitored the internal nets.

  Koenig felt a tapping on his leg. Looking down, he saw his RTO holding a microphone up to him. Koenig tore his helmet off, then reached down for the mike.

  The RTO said, “Sir, it’s B Company’s XO.”

  “Six, over!”

  From the other end, broken by static and distorted by the roar of the engine, B Company’s XO sounded nervous and fearful. He was clearly near—if not quite at—panic. “Six; Bulldog Five. We have broken contact and are returning to base. Losses are heavy…” the XO paused and swallowed. “Very heavy.”

  “What the fuck happened, Five?”

  “Don’t know,” the Exec replied. “We were in our assault position. Firing broke out from the right. I think we might have started it. Then all hell broke loose. We had Balboans in the buildings within twenty meters of our front and didn’t know it. The CO’s dead, sir…I saw him burn!”

  Koenig swore before keying the mike. “Calm down, Five. We’re just about ready to roll. If you think you need to hunker down ’til we get there, just say so.”

  “Six, Five. No, sir. I just want to…Shit! Shit!” The XO began relaying orders to his driver and gunner without flipping the communications switch on the side of his helmet. Koenig heard confused commands interspersed with machine gun and cannon fire. The static from the radio cut out.

  Face a mask of rage and hate, Koenig dropped the mike, climbed on top of his track and spun his finger in the air. “Fuck the ammo! We roll!”