by Tom Kratman
* * *
From his position in the center of the cohort, Tribune Rogachev chivvied his troops into position. Nothing fancy was envisioned. A simple on line attack was all that would be needed. The cadets formed up, east to west. The infantry dismounted from their tracks and lined up close behind them. At Rogachev’s command the entire formation faced toward the Taurans and began a stately procession to the sea. Up front, the tanks’ 125mm guns lanced out regularly and frequently with high explosive and canister, munitions against which the unquestioned bravery of the Anglian Paras would be of little avail.
Once he heard the cannons beginning to belch, Carrera lifted a microphone to his lips and ear. He spoke into it to a small to a small fishing vessel sitting at dock at the Port of Balboa. The ship—the Pericles—answered “Roger, out.” When finished contacting the ship, Carrera made hurried further calls to his scattered units.
TUSF-B Headquarters, The Tunnel, Cerro Mina, Balboa Transitway Area, Balboa, Terra Nova
McQueeg-Gordon stayed in his office and hid. It was just too humiliating the way the Gauls who ran the operation patronized and then ignored him.
Conversely, now that the action had begun Moncey had more to do than pace. Both the Anglian and Gallic Para brigades had reported that they were on the ground meeting serious but surmountable resistance. The chief also had cause for satisfaction; better than when the Federated States had invaded, decades before, his attacks had jumped off on time.
As gratified as the chief was at the excellence of the timing, his C-3 (Air) was positively jubilant. Report after report flooded his work cell area of targets successfully engaged and destroyed by the air armada sent to fire the first shots in the action. As each report was received the C-3’s staff, under his direction, ordered the attack aircraft on to their secondary targets or, somewhat more commonly, released them to fly home as the airplanes reported low fuel or ordnance.
When the chief asked his C-3 (Air) how he knew the targets were genuinely destroyed, the answer was basically that the pilots had said so. Had he been a little more careful he might have asked about the extent to which armored vehicles attacked had shown signs of secondary explosions, fuel and ammunition blowing up, after the attacks. The chief, a tanker by background, knew that overestimation of the damage done to a target was an unavoidable vice of all pilots, in all countries, at all times. Still he didn’t worry overmuch. Things really did seem to be going like clockwork.
There came a spate of calls from headquarters attempting to establish radio contact. This would not have been unusual except that those headquarters had already established contact. More than a few RTOs answered with a slightly surly tone.
In a few minutes the calls to establish contact ceased. Their place was taken by reports of action and requests for orders or information. These, too, lasted only briefly before an NCO manning a radio sat straight up and shouted, “That was my voice, Goddamit. We’re being spoofed!”
TUSF-B began to work through the jamming, then to change codes. The code changes, especially in light of the jamming, were time-consuming, incomplete, and—for the men in action—unutterably confusing.
Initially, the Pericles almost kept up with the changes. Eventually, it caught up.
The chief returned to his pacing, though now it was quite nervous, when a strange and eerie piece of music began to blare from the loud speakers connected to the radios. More jamming. The general couldn’t quite place it until one of the headquarters radio operators, a Castilian-born enlistee into the Gallic army announced what it was.
“Deguello,” the citizen of Gaul said with wonder. “Who the fuck is playing Deguello?”
The private had no more than spoken the words when a major rushed into the Operations center. Looking around quickly, the major spotted the chief and hurried over. Speaking in hushed but excited tones the major told of what he had seen from the top of the hill. “Sir, Arnold and Brookings are both under attack. Rockets I’m sure of; I could see them. Maybe mortars or artillery too. Heavy fire sir, I counted over fifty rounds a minute landing in both places.”
Heart sinking, telling his staff he was going topside, the chief rushed out of the Operations Center to see for himself. When he’d climbed to the very topmost crest of the great hollowed out hill, his heart leapt to his mouth. It was worse than the major had said. Fire—rockets, artillery, mortars, and God knew what else—wasn’t just coming from one or a few places. It seemed to be coming from everywhere.
My God, thought the chief, as a fireball blossomed over Arnold AFB, how will we ever keep the troop flow going?
Chapter Forty-three
Now that was the story my grandfather told,
As he sat by the fire all withered and old.
“Remember,” said he, “that the Irish fight well,
But the Russian artillery’s hotter than Hell.”
—Traditional, “The Kerry Recruit”
Santa Cruz, east of Arnold Air Force Base, Balboa, Terra Nova
Tribune Ilya Kruptkin, XO for the cadet cohort, was thankful beyond words at finally getting out of the hot, stuffy, and miserable little warehouse in which he and more than two hundred cadets had been hiding for three days. As he emerged he heard the cohort’s artillery “club”—rocket launchers, 85mm guns, 81mm and 120mm mortars—pounding on the enemy to his west without mercy. A suddenly bright glow, the source hidden by the sharp ridge overlooking the air base, suggested the fire was particularly effective where aircraft were parked.
To the south, more artillery and mortar fire, 120s and 81s, added their voices to the rising din. Another fierce glow from the same direction suggested to Kruptkin that the indirect fires had found at least one more of the Tauran aircraft on the ground.
No building could have caught fire so quickly. Burn, you bastards.
As the executive officer, Kruptkin was responsible for initially overseeing the deployment of the fielded cohort of the Seventeenth Cadet Tercio’s air defense and other heavy combat assets. Those were “clubs,” too.
A roar from massed engines came from behind, then crept forward. At the head of the crawling column a wheeled armored personnel carrier came to a stop. From it emerged one of the adult cadre, a Balboan tribune, in this case.
Kruptkin didn’t have time to chat. He gave the commander of the motorized rifle company with its attached tank platoon the go-ahead to move across Santa Cruz Drop Zone, then promptly forgot about it as he turned and walked the short distance to give a little personal attention to getting the towed air defense guns and shoulder launched SAMs into action. Not nearly so effective as the self-propelled, four-barreled jobs, still the dual 23mm guns were dangerous enough to low flying enemy aircraft to ensure that they would be the first priority target once they made their existence known. Hopefully, they would last long enough to allow the cadet rifle companies to close with the defenders of the base.
Brought up on tales of young men, even boys, being asked to give their lives for their country in the Great Global War, Kruptkin only regretted the need, not the decision, to use Balboan boys for a similar reason.
All around Kruptkin, often not visible but still audible, the cadets of the Seventeenth formed up in the streets of Santa Cruz and began their march down the slopes toward Arnold Air Force Base. No Tauran air had interfered so far. Kruptkin knew that probably wouldn’t last. The sound of a heavy cannon firing told him that the tanks he had previously sent forward had engaged the outer defenders of the base. Seeing that the junior tribune in direct charge of the air defense needed no further help from him, Kruptkin mounted his personal vehicle, put on his night vision goggles, and then rushed westwards. He passed the cadet formations that were deploying on either side of him as he moved forward.
At the easternmost edge of Santa Cruz Drop Zone, Kruptkin saw the twenty odd vehicles, tanks and wheeled armored personnel carriers, moving forward toward the base. Occasionally one of the tanks would stop to fire at one or another of the defender’s positions. The AP
Cs’ heavy machine guns kept up a constant chatter. As the APCs and tanks reached to within three hundred meters of the wood line the infantry began to dismount from the side access doors. Through his goggles Kruptkin saw the boys struggling to fix their folding bayonets and then forming skirmish lines. A detached professional voice told the Volgan that the whole show seemed less than snappy. The experienced veteran’s voice answered back that it wasn’t bad, the boys being under fire for the first time and all.
Although he was too far away to hear it, especially over the thunder of the guns, Kruptkin knew that the commander of the unit ahead had given the order to conduct the assault. The cadets started marching forward, firing from the hip. The light given off by thousands of tracers threatened to burn out his goggles. Even over the sound of firing Kruptkin did hear the wild shrieks of over a hundred voices as the boys suddenly started their charge. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought that he saw some of the defenders running away.
Kruptkin called his boss on the radio and told him that the initial defense of the base was broken. “For God’s sake hurry up. We can take this place in an hour.”
Kruptkin was worried that the rear echelon motherfuckers in the Second Corps’ headquarters might give up before they could be rescued. Time was critical.
Second Corps Headquarters, the old Comandancia, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova
Sergeant Frederico Perez, of the Tenth Infantry Tercio was, in peacetime, a full-time supply sergeant for one of the infantry maniples. He would have been very happy if he could have remained so until his retirement. Now, however, he was stuck in a fighting position just inside the Comandancia’s thick concrete walls. He couldn’t see through the walls but that didn’t matter. His job for now was to watch over the open space of the interior for any Tauran helicopters that might try to land. Other people of the three headquarters stationed at the Comandancia were responsible for the exterior. This was almost perfectly fine with Sergeant Perez. It would have been better, of course, if he had been somewhere far, far from any fighting. As it was, if someone had to actually fight, Perez was quite content for it to be someone else.
Without warning the interior of the courtyard blew up. Only partially stunned by the blast, Perez could see that one of the Comandancia’s buses was burning side by side with a jeep. Almost simultaneously a loudspeaker began to announce a demand for surrender. Through partially deafened ears Perez could still make out the insistent demand. He began to crawl over the concrete wall that separated the Comandancia from the outside.
With his torso and right leg on top of the wall Perez tried to move his left over as well. It wouldn’t budge. Perez looked down to see a strong hand holding his trouser leg tightly. A few feet from the hands stood Junior Tribune Torres, just twenty-one and as fanatical as could be imagined. Perez’s eyes opened wide to see that Torres had a pistol in his hand, the muzzle pointed at Perez’s head.
Thus it was that the first official legionary response to the Tauran demand for surrender of the Comandancia was a shot that didn’t go very far past its walls.
Fort Guerrero, Balboa, Terra Nova
Major Christophe Pittard, Executive Officer of the Thirty-fifth Commandos, like all the other members of his paratrooper unit, had hoped that the headquarters of the Balboans’ Second Infantry would give up without too much of a struggle. That did not appear likely, now. Although there had been a fair degree of surprise—the bodies of Balboans cut down as they tried to get from their barracks to their defensive positions attested to that—the Second was resisting ferociously from its barracks and the few outside positions that were manned. Even the fire from the helicopter gunships didn’t seem to do more than temporarily suppress the return fire coming at the Tauran Union forces.
From a partially covered position in the housing area to Pittard’s rear a 105mm howitzer fired directly at the northernmost legionary barracks. Great chunks of wood, plaster, tile, and concrete flew into the street and the golf course opposite with each high explosive round. After fifteen rounds of HE, the gun crew switched to white phosphorus. The building, what there was of it, began to burn.
Pittard couldn’t see them, but he knew a platoon of Third Company was using the cover between the flat ground of Fort Guerrero and the shore of the Bay of Balboa to approach that barracks. The rest of Number Three Company followed.
On the point of that company’s approach, Sergeant Thomas Gilbert led his squad forward. Occasional tracers flying overhead gave proof that the company’s route was in defilade from the legionary positions. Even an observer in the top windows of the barracks couldn’t see a man moving at a crouch.
As he shuffled forward, Gilbert heard the impact of something explosive on Arnold Air Force Base a few kilometers to the west. He wasn’t overly concerned. While his company was based on Fort Nelson, an annex of Arnold, his wife had long since flown back to their little home in Gaul. Just about everybody else in the world he cared about was in file behind him. Arnold and Nelson were someone else’s responsibility. Gilbert and his comrades only had to clear their chunk of Fort Guerrero.
Gilbert didn’t need a pace count to tell him when he had reached his destination; the gut-rippling explosions of the 105 shells told him exactly where he was in relation to the first objective. He stopped his squad, then crawled up the embankment to steal a peek at the building.
Gilbert’s commander, Captain Bernoulli, slithered up beside the vantage point Gilbert had chosen. Bernoulli was accompanied by Lieutenant Garonne, the first platoon leader. The three had worked and practiced together for long enough that no words were needed. A few hand and arm signals directed the troops to their assault and support positions. A quick look around told Bernoulli that everyone was ready. He took a green star cluster from a side cargo pocket and fired the signal that would shift the artillery support and send his cutthroats into the assault.
The 105 firing in direct lay on the barracks shifted to the next one over. Machine guns kicked in to keep down any legionaries that were still in a mood to resist. At the signal from Bernoulli, Gilbert and his squad, followed by the rest of the first platoon, rushed forward screaming like banshees.
Ciudad Antigua, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova
In this old and quaint area of Balboa—the place where, centuries prior, Belisario Carrera had attacked, captured, and burned the headquarters of Old Earth’s United Nations in Balboa—the mobilization of the Tenth Infantry Tercio went on fairly unhindered. While it was unavoidable that the artillerymen of the gun battery should have to actually enter the armory to get the keys to unchain their guns, most of the troops assembled in nearby houses. The gunners took serious losses from the Tauran aircraft overhead as they tried to get their guns into action, but the foot soldiers managed to assemble mainly unscathed.
Under the Taurans’ plan, the Tenth Tercio was supposed to be engaged and held in place by airpower and some minor number of infantry as they became available. With the natural friction of the operation the Tauran infantry had not yet arrived. It remained to be seen whether they could arrive or would instead be diverted to some other mission.
When the broad spectrum jamming began and cut both Tauran and Balboan radio communications, the tercio had been somewhat stymied in a way they really hadn’t remotely expected. Carrera—the thoughtless son of a bitch—had kept the Volgan built “trawler” a very deep secret. This lasted until the commo chief realized that he could probably get phone communications with either his legions or Second Corps headquarters in the Comandancia. When the Comandancia answered on the first ring, he passed the phone to the tercio commander.
The Tenth’s CO, Umberto Pizzaro, could hear the crump of Tauran artillery through the phone as well as through the air. He asked for the Corps commander, but was informed that Legate Suarez was having a wound treated.
“Serious?” Pizzaro asked.
“I’m always serious, sir,” the man at the other end of the line answered.
“No, you dipshit, I mean is
the wound serious?”
“Oh, sorry, sir. We are told the legate will live.”
“Fine, give me the corps exec.”
“Here he is, sir.”
“’Berto, this is Dario. The old man’s down, ’Berto. I don’t think he’ll die; the medics say ‘no.’ Hell, the medics say he’ll be back on his feet inside of two hours. But come quick with your troops, friend, or we’re all going to die. The ever-so-peace-loving Taurans are using everything they’ve got on us, jets, gunships, artillery, tanks. They’ve gotten over the wall twice already, but we kicked their asses out again. We can’t keep it up forever. Come running or we’re dead. Keep someone on this line ’til you get here.”
Pizarro sent runners to bring his company commanders. Then he ducked into a hallway, pulled out flashlight and map, and began planning how he was going to relieve the headquarters.
Lago Sombrero, Balboa, Terra Nova
Carrera left his CP, guarded only by Soult. He and Jamey walked in the path the cadets had trod.
The cadets had attacked on line and at a pace little faster than a walk. With the tanks leading them, firing their machine guns and canister rounds from their 125s, the Ocelots fired high explosive and machine guns. Behind the Ocelots marched the cadet infantry, firing off to the sides.
Though the attack proceeded at a fast walk, it was still faster than the Paras could react to, since they, under all that fire, could only move with any chance of survival at a belly crawl They had barely stood a chance. The bodies—some crushed and leaking—littered the runway where Carrera walked. These showed that, even fucked by fate, they had still tried.
