Kris Longknife: Intrepid

by SHEPHERD, MIKE

  And none went anything like the battles she read about in the history books. Would some professor, from the safety of his dusty ivory tower, match this battle up against historical precedent and make its conclusion look easy and foregone?

  Of course, he’d know what Kris and her troops had done. And what had worked. And what hadn’t work.

  Matters weren’t that easy under a hot sun with dust rising from digging shovels. Hindsight was easy. Foresight wasn’t.

  And the two of them were separated by an agony of distance.

  Cortez had come to hate these little talks with the starship captain who rode so comfortably above it all. The colonel had cut Thorpe off in midresponse when he passed over after they took the ditches. Thorpe hadn’t even bothered to call down the next two passes as the troops ate the fruits of their victory.

  But now Cortez was moving to what had to be contact. Only after he asked Thorpe for coverage of the next likely ambush point did the starship send down the photos and map.

  And Cortez hadn’t gotten around to mentioning that the Longknife ship was passing over sooner and sooner after Thorpe’s ship. Let him and his ship sensors find out for himself.

  Cortez examined the strange arrangement in the swamps ahead of him. Captain Sawyer had identified them as rice paddies.

  “People could lurk under the water and come up out of it to shoot at us as we go by,” Major Zhukov observed.

  “And shoot at us from this hill,” Cortez added.

  “It’s obviously a good place for an ambush,” the major agreed, “but will this Longknife girl do something that obvious? Will her Marine leaders let her?”

  “All good questions,” Cortez agreed. “That first ambush was an obvious one . . . and she got away with it. Our breakfast stop was obvious . . . and she passed on it. She’s got to engage us sooner or later. Have you spotted any good ground up ahead?”

  Zhukov shook his head. Sawyer shrugged.

  “So,” Cortez concluded, “she either gives up the last good ambush site, or she doesn’t. Either way, I intend to walk into the damn fox trap loaded for bear.”

  Cortez studied his map. “We’ll take a break here, a good mile shy of their ambush.” He thought for a moment. “Sawyer, your company has handled the vanguard position fine, but I think I want to replace you there with another bunch.”

  “Who?”

  Cortez knew his grin was pure evil, but he loved it at the moment. “The gift they gave us. What else?”

  Kris licked her dry lips. It was hot . . . and she was nervous. She’d done all she could. Now she was just waiting for Cortez to show up.

  The Marines had added several refinements to her plan. The sticky net was laid out, ready to take down a chunk of the van. A half dozen of the fastest Marine sharpshooters had been distributed to leaven the local riflemen and -women. They were stationed close to the road and loaded with sleepy darts. Their orders were to concentrate on the light infantry.

  The rest of the Marines were held in three reserves. She’d use them to counter whatever surprises Cortez came up with. She expected some good ones from him. That still left her nervously licking her lips. Was she making a mistake—trying to fight this thing to a surrender? Only time would tell.

  Kris’s commlink clicked, then clicked again. Sergeant Bruce had come in shortly after noon from his job observing the fun and games at the dugouts. He’d gotten a laugh and a new tough assignment. He and a couple of locals were spread out in observation posts well in front of Kris’s ambush.

  Two clicks meant he wanted to talk. Kris clicked once.

  “They’re about a mile out. Looks like someone called a break. The officers are circulating among the men giving final reminders. My bet is we’ve been spotted.”

  No surprise. Kris would have no surprise in this fight.

  Kris gave a single click, and the commlink went silent.

  That was the problem with fighting smart people. What looked good to you looked good to them. When she’d met Thorpe, he hadn’t been dumb, just driven. She had no reason to think he’d have a dumb ground pounder working with him.

  Kris turned to the folks around her observation post/command center. “Pass the word. They’re a mile out and have stopped for a coffee break. We can expect them anytime.”

  Civilians and Marines scuttled off to pass the word. The waiting was over.

  35

  Kris stood in her command post, its viewing port hidden among the roots of a pecan tree and some berry bushes around it. Quite a few clumpings like these, or even orchards, had grown up in and around the fields planted with the grass/grain hybrid. They helped keep the water from running off too fast.

  Now they hid Kris and, in other places, shooters.

  Cortez marched up the road . . . and around Kris, people laughed. His vanguard was a herd of goats and pigs!

  At a nod from Kris, the tech disabled the sticky net. No use tying up a bunch of dumb animals. With luck, Kris would reactivate it and still collect some good troops.

  Or not.

  The pigs and goats stomped or pranced or did whatever their natural inclination was, over a net that had not been designed with hoof traffic in mind. Pigs’ hooves sank deep into the net, cut this, connected that. Before the herd was halfway over it, the net was sticking to hooves and being pulled up and out.

  One of the goats tried to eat it. That one complained loudly as the net stuck to its mouth, and then it made no noise at all when the net stuck its upper and lower jaw together.

  Herders, white-shirted soldiers with long poles in their hands and their rifles slung over their shoulders, kept pushing the back of the herd into the net. At least they did for a while. Soon they were too busy laughing to pay much attention to the animals . . . or their own situation.

  Several of the animals were now stuck together. Hogs didn’t like being stuck to hogs. They definitely didn’t like being tied up with goats. Matters started going badly for the goats.

  The herders laughed harder. Two rolled on the ground.

  Beside Kris, Peter Tzu shook his head. “What a waste of good animals. And to let them suffer.” He glanced around. “They will know something is wrong.”

  “Why?” Kris asked.

  “Any good farmhand would be out there taking care of those poor animals.” So there went Kris’s last hope for surprise.

  Down on the flats, a sergeant trotted up to join the herders. The laughter stopped.

  The sergeant pulled up the bullhorn hung around his neck and put it to use. “You in the farmhouse. Come out with your hands up, and there will be no problem.”

  The sergeant only waited a quick five count before he reslung the bullhorn and unslung his rifle. Beside him, the Bo Peeps tossed aside their crooks and unslung their rifles, too. At a signal from the sergeant, they advanced on the homestead.

  Several took guard positions, covering all directions. Others dashed into the house. In a moment, the sergeant was standing at an open upstairs window. “No one here,” he reported, using the bullhorn.

  That was one way to communicate, Kris thought, and where he was only announcing what the opposition knew, it wasn’t a bad idea. Beside her, the commtech said, “I’m getting action on comm frequencies. I can’t crack the codes.”

  “Nelly?”

  “I could in half an hour, maybe longer. Assuming they don’t change codes every fifteen minutes.”

  Which wouldn’t be such a problem in a battle not likely to last an hour. “Jam all frequencies,” Kris ordered.

  “Done, ma’am.”

  Which meant Kris would not talk to her people on the radio net, either. But being on the defensive on ground of her choosing, Kris had prepared for that.

  “A call coming in from Gunny,” the commtech said.

  Kris accepted the landline phone. It had two buttons on it; one was flashing. “Yes, Gunny.”

  “We’ve got action in the draw behind your hill. Two squads of heavy infantry. Hold it. They’re breaking up, one squa
d heading up my hill, the other up yours.”

  Gunny’s was supposed to be a reserve position, the next hill over dug in along its crest. The shooting should have started before anyone coming up that hill got too close to them. Kris had firing positions on both sides of her hill. The second light on the phone lit. “Just a second, Gunny; Jack’s calling.”

  A glance out Kris’s observation post told her why. Light infantry was spreading out over the first two or three paddy dikes. So far none had spotted a firing position.

  Kris checked the main road. A platoon or two were moving in bounds up the road, one platoon doing overwatch while the other leapfrogged the line of prone troopers. Cortez had committed less than half of his troops.

  Damn, when Kris gave the orders to shoot, everyone she had would start shooting. Cortez would see exactly what she had.

  “Jack, wait one,” Kris said, then turned to the commtech. “Can you stop the jamming just long enough for me to make an all-hands announcement.”

  “No, ma’am, they started jamming us as soon as I started jamming them.” Of course they would.

  “Jack, when I give the order, take down the troops on the dikes. Try to get the word to the farmers not to shoot. Let’s try not to give away all we have.”

  “All I got is runners, and I hope you’re about ready to give the word.”

  “Send them running. Let me talk to Gunny,” she said, and punched the buttons. “Gunny, give yourself a slow five count, then take down the heavies on your front.”

  Kris didn’t need to tell him he would not be using sleepy darts. The force it took to punch through armor made even a sleepy dart deadly.

  “Roger, ma’am. Starting one—”

  Kris punched back to Jack. “Prepare to fire on Gunny’s shot.”

  Then Kris turned to Penny. “Tell everyone in this hill not to fire.”

  “Don’t fire.” And she was off.

  The word passed from gallery to gallery. Kris doubted it would get to everyone, but it should keep the fire down a notch. Maybe she’d have some surprises left for the next assault.

  A single shot rang out.

  And the valley before Kris erupted with fire.

  The small viewing port deflected the full shock and blast from Kris, but its impact was immediately visible.

  Men dropped.

  The platoon moving forward had their guns at the ready. At the first sound of shooting, they let go on full automatic.

  Kris didn’t see any targets, but they sprayed the area before them liberally. The complaining farm animals took most of the brunt of their fire. But only for a moment.

  Under the hammering of fully automatic fire, Kris could just make out the pop, pop, pop of M-6s firing single shots, low powered for sleepy darts. Men went down in ragged rows. Some twitched. A few managed to get an arm under their heads like they probably did at bedtime. However they did it, they went down.

  Out on the rice-paddy dikes, others were going down, too.

  Some were hit and going down. A couple looked like they were just dropping. Maybe Jack’s Marines weren’t getting all of them, but it was hard to tell who was hit and down and who was faking. Maybe the fakers would play it smart and just stay down.

  Yeah, right.

  The platoon on overwatch was giving as good as it could but couldn’t find anything to aim at. Their rapid-fire volleys To Whom It May Concern didn’t hit anywhere Kris had stationed gunners. Still, the leaves were flying from the tree and bushes in front of Kris’s position, and a noisy round shot into her command post to bury itself in the ceiling.

  “Fire enough, and you’re bound to hit something,” Kris mused to the senior clan members sharing the command center with her, then hardened her voice for Red. “Put the gun down. Don’t even think of firing from here. I don’t want this hill firing this attack, and I sure don’t want us showing where we are.”

  Gamma Polska put out a hand, rested it on Red’s rifle. The barrel sank to the floor. “Seems like a chicken way to fight a war,” he growled.

  “Colonel Cortez is just feeling for us,” Kris said. “I doubt he expected to lose everything he sent in this time, but this is not his main attack.”

  The rapid fire from the white-shirted troopers quieted as they went to sleep, or, in the case of those hit by the farmers, screamed for help. Now Kris could make out the shriek of M-6s on full power. The shots were carefully spaced, and though Kris could not risk a run to one of the gun ports that opened on the other side of her hill, she was willing to bet money that Gunny’s team was taking down each of the heavy infantry in that gully. Probably one shot, one target.

  “Comm, raise Gunny,” Kris said.

  “I’m flashing him, but he’s not answering” told Kris that Gunny was indeed busy. On Kris’s front matters got active.

  One of the white-clad soldiers who’d fallen off the dike had been faking it. Down, he spotted a firing port.

  Yanking a grenade from his belt, he pulled the pin, leapt up, and tossed it at the opening in the dike. Then he dashed over the dike to escape his own grenade’s blowback.

  Five rapid pops stopped him. Even before his grenade exploded, he was falling, headfirst, onto the other side of the dike wall. From what Kris could see, legs up, body down, the grenadier was very likely head down in muddy water.

  Sleepy darts weren’t intended to be lethal. However, if you went to sleep facedown in two feet of water, the darts did nothing to help you breathe.

  This was battle. People died.

  Through the phone, Gunny’s voice came. “The heavy infantry on your and my hills are down,” was all he said.

  The guy drowning in front of Kris wasn’t the only fellow whose name would be on the butcher’s bill for today.

  No, maybe not.

  Across the paddies from Kris, one of the white coats came to his feet. He had no gun, and his hands were held out in the universal sign for surrender. He climbed up onto the dike and hastily made his way to where his comrade lay, feet down.

  Kris held her breath as the man pulled his buddy from the water, arranged him so that his mouth drained water, then gave him one or two breaths of artificial respiration. When the half-drowned man began to cough up water, the rescuer smiled.

  A single pop, and the man looked down. Someone had put a sleepy dart right in the middle of the guy’s chest.

  And the guy lay down and went to sleep.

  “Ha,” Kris said into the phone, but for all to hear. “Let’s see how Colonel Cortez takes to our way of fighting.”

  36

  Cortez scowled. He’d watched that loving tableau of battlefield mercy through his binoculars. A moment earlier he’d watched as half a Guard platoon had been wiped out by hidden fire. Thus ended Cortez’s planned envelopment of what he’d mistaken as a limited position.

  “This is not a small force,” Cortez muttered to himself.

  “It must be at least battalion size,” Major Zhukov said. “Maybe bigger.”

  “But how many of them are those damn Marines?” Cortez asked, chewing his lower lip.

  “If we can trust this scandal mag,” Captain Sawyer said, unfolding the cheap newspaper he’d confiscated from a trooper, “all the Longknife girl has is what’s left of an embassy Marine company that she didn’t get killed in her last escapade.”

  “She’s had time to return to Wardhaven, to be reinforced,” Zhukov pointed out.

  “Enough!” Cortez snapped. “We’re here to boot her out. Quit talking and start booting. She’s spread shooters wide to cover this whole front. She can’t be strong everywhere. And if most of her firepower is these damn farmers, I’ll bet you my eagles she can’t get them to move an Earth inch under fire.”

  Cortez gauged the reaction of his subordinates. Sawyer’s face was a wolf’s grin. And a hungry one at that. Zhukov’s eyes had narrowed. He was holding his judgment. A good XO.

  “Sawyer, your company is nearly full strength. Take it wide around the swamp side. Stay low on the far side o
f the farthest-out dike. Zhukov, send along a squad of the Guard.”

  “It will be done, sir,” Zhukov said, sprouting a tiger grin.

  “You there,” Cortez said, signaling to the youngest captain from the psalm singers. “Take what’s left of your company and climb those hills on our right. I want you to set up fire lanes down both valleys, the one where our Guard squads got hit and the next one over. Don’t let them come around our flank. Don’t let her move troops from one hill to the other without knocking some daylight into them. You understand?”

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  “And don’t just sit on your hands. Probe those two hills. I don’t want you launching a full-fledged assault, but don’t let them ignore you, either. Probe for firing positions. Are they isolated spider holes or connected by tunnels? If they are connected, send me a runner and carefully, boy, carefully work at getting some of your shooters into their tunnels. I wouldn’t mind at all if you broke them. Not at all.”

  “Yes, Colonel.” The kid looked scared and excited. Cortez would keep an eye on his left flank. He didn’t intend for him to do much more than hold Longknife’s troops there in place, but the kid might surprise him.

  Good surprise or bad surprise?

  “Zhukov, you go with Sawyer. I’ll take the rest of the Guard and psalm singers and advance in the center. Not too far. Not too fast.” Cortez eyed the ground before him. The trees along the edge of the swamp were the only solid cover he had to approach the farmstead. The hilly side showed some cover, even an orchard here and there, but nothing solid.

  He turned to the Guard captain. “Afonin, advance what I haven’t given away of your Guard to that orchard. Looks like peaches. Set up fire lanes to cover that first hill. I’ll take the last of the Jerusalem Rifles and set them up in the woods beside the swamp. Our job is to keep enough fire on the hill that they don’t dare reinforce whatever they’ve got in those rice paddies. I think the dikes are hollow. Not sure how much they’ve got there. Zhukov, Sawyer, you will clean them out of the rice paddies and close on the hill. We’ll roll them up from right to left,” Cortez finished. That was the way to go. Roll them up a piece at a time. He had all the time he needed.