Imperial Guard

by Joseph O'Day

  “Yes. You leave immediately.”

  Josh scratched his head. “I’ve been thinking. I’ve decided I might not like the Guard after all.”

  Carl strode over to his brother, grabbed his shirtfront, and shoved his face close to his. Through gritted teeth, he hissed, “It’s all been arranged, and it’s cost me plenty. You are to report to the port within the hour. Now get moving!” Carl shoved his brother away in the direction of the door.

  “Hey, stay cool, bro,” Josh said, laughing. “I got a date tonight. Maybe I’ll go tomorrow . . . afternoon. Not too early, you know,” with a wink.

  “You will go now under your own power, or you’ll go feet first . . . into the first available disintegrator tube,” Carl shot back, clenching and unclenching his fists.

  “OK! OK! I was only testing you to see if you were serious.” Josh started heading for the door. “See, I’m going.”

  “You better make sure that you do, Josh. This is your last chance. If you’re not at the port in an hour, I’m sending the Guard after you. And that’s final.”

  “Hey, I’m gone!” Josh raced out of the suite.

  Mogul collapsed into a nearby chair. At last! It’s over! He sat with his head thrown back, resting, recovering from the tension of the ordeal. He began to wonder about Josh’s chances. He did attend military school like I did when he was growing up. That’ll help some. But I don’t think it will be enough. . . . Well, I’ve got more important things to worry about.

  His thoughts turned unbidden toward the massacre of his company, torn from the depths of his memory by Josh’s harsh comment. He considered again how unfair it was for him to have been blamed for that unfortunate affair. Why shouldn’t I have saved myself at the expense of the others? After all, I’m destined for greatness. Yes, I must keep that firmly in mind: Carl Mogul is destined for greatness.

  He rose and buzzed for a servant to attend to his needs.

  7

  The com transmissions Brogan managed to pick up from main base indicated that the situation was critical. But the ubiquitous, corrosive mist that clung to everything prevented supporting fire from the orbiting laser platform. It wasn’t that the fog concealed targets from the ship, it was that laser beams would be so diffused by the water vapor as to have little or no effect. Secure in this knowledge, the rebel forces were launching a blistering attack with chemical explosives by means of old-fashioned artillery weapons. Unless somebody did something, the base was sure to fall by morning.

  Brogan examined the map. As near as he could make out, the artillery weapons were located some twenty-five clicks from main base. The location was between Brogan’s position and the base, a little to the left of a straight line. “But who can travel in a straight line out here?” mumbled Brogan.

  Examining the map further, Brogan noticed a trail of some kind that led more or less in the direction of the rebel base—a march of fifteen clicks. About ninety men were fit to fight. A forced march might enable them to reach the rebel artillery by midnight.

  It would be a risky operation, thought Brogan, but it may be the only chance main base has got.

  Only one sled was operational. But it was no advantage to the march. It had to be used to transport the wounded.

  “Well, Top,” Brogan said as he turned away from the map and faced Sergeant Dombrowski, “looks like we have a long march ahead of us. The men aren’t going to like it, but it’s got to be done. At least we’ve got plenty of food and null-grav units to tow our gear. Break the news to ‘em, Top, and organize the survivors into some semblance of a company.”

  The Top had become the acting XO, and Brogan left it to him to appoint other sergeants as temporary platoon commanders. Meanwhile Brogan planned the marching order. The droids would advance ahead of the main force, scouting the trail and acting as flankers. As each platoon advanced, they would maintain a minimum distance of two hundred meters from each other. Radio silence was a given, but with the helmets equipped for night vision, visual communication would be no problem.

  An avid reader, Brogan had devoured several volumes on ancient battle tactics and guerrilla warfare at the academy. How to get to his objective was second nature to him. His main concern was to achieve complete surprise once within range. Without this strategic advantage, it was highly questionable that his small force would succeed.

  He decided to be upfront and candid with his men. But he must also project all the confidence he could muster. Once the acting XO had organized the remaining units and the men were assembled for their briefing, Brogan began his speech.

  “Men, the success of the Empire’s entire mission on Peru II may be riding on our shoulders at this moment. Although we’re tired and beaten up, we still have a job to do. I won’t try to deceive you about what lies ahead. But many a fighting force has entered combat situations under worse conditions.

  “Main base is right now being bombarded with chemical artillery. Without relief, they can’t last much longer. Therefore, we are going to march on the enemy artillery, and we are going to capture it tonight! We will rest ten minutes out of every hour. The wounded will ride the one functioning sled and bring up the rear. Tie down your gear for silent marching and disable your comsets until we reach our objective. Complete surprise is our only hope of victory. Our ETA is midnight. The droids move out in five minutes, and each platoon will follow in three-minute intervals. Get ready to move out!”

  They made good time while the sun shone. But by dusk the men were weary, and even with night vision, the progress was slower. Minor injuries were becoming major impediments because of the stress factor. Brogan’s injured foot was agony despite the medication. The rest stops stretched to fifteen minutes. Brogan soon discovered the disadvantages of being in command. For him and the platoon commanders, the rest stops did not provide much rest. They were busy attending to the men, checking for blisters and injuries.

  A couple of hours after dark, a runner approached Brogan. “Sir,” he panted, effecting a half-hearted salute, “November Eagle 3 regrets to report that the prisoner has escaped. Sergeant Manazes is in pursuit with a squad of men.”

  Brogan stiffened and fear began to clutch at his heart. His mind raced. If the rebel captain succeeds in beating us to the battery, we’ll lose our surprise. Then reason reasserted itself. But we can still make it. He’ll have to take a circuitous route, and he’s not equipped with a helmet.

  “Sir?” the runner asked, waiting for a response.

  “Thank you, soldier,” Brogan finally replied. “Report back to November 3 that we are pushing on with all speed. And make sure the other platoons, as well as the sled, get the same message.” The runner left on his mission.

  Brogan moved out his unit. He increased the pace, wincing from the pain in his left foot with each step. His men began cursing and fuming as they attempted to keep up over the slippery terrain. Noticing this, Brogan resisted the impulse to plunge madly ahead and reduced his speed. The assault must go ahead as planned, he knew. For, even if it ended in failure, it might give main base the time it needed to mount its own offensive. But he could not launch an attack if his men were completely exhausted from the march.

  Periodically the night was lit by the blast of the big guns, and their thunder rolled across the sodden countryside. Both were helpful in keeping them on course and masking the sound of their approach. As they drew nearer the emplacement, the vegetation began to thin out. Eventually the forest came to an abrupt end. Brogan halted his unit, selected two other men, and crept to the edge of the jungle.

  They found that the area around the rebel encampment had been cleared to a distance of about two hundred meters. This gave the enemy an excellent field of fire, but it also meant that Brogan’s forces would not have to burrow through the jungle when they attacked. The three men made a crude map of as much of the emplacement as they could see, taking special note of strategic positions. Then they crawled back to the unit.

  Brogan selected some runners and sent them to the
other commanders with detailed instructions for the assault. It was now 0017, not much after midnight. All platoons would attack simultaneously at 0045 along the western third of the perimeter. For now, all they could do was get ready and wait. And that could well be the hardest part.

  Brogan ordered more pain killer for his burned foot, then briefed his men and moved them into position. Lying flat on his belly, Brogan crossed his arms in front of him and rested his head on them. Too many “ifs,” he worried. If only the platoons can get into position without being seen . . . if only they’d beaten the captain . . . if only they could cover most of the cleared ground before being spotted.

  Second thoughts began to surface. Would it have been better to play it safe and set up his decimated force in a defensive position to await rescue instead of making this forced march? No one would have blamed him. It was the sensible thing to do. Was this a venture of pure folly? Was it presumption to believe that he could save his beleaguered base with a decimated rifle company? Maybe so, thought Brogan, but maybe they have assumed that the ambush was successful enough to eliminate threat from this direction. If so, they won’t be looking for us.

  So far, the men had responded well to Brogan’s assurance and bold strategy. They were gaining confidence in his leadership. But their dependence weighed heavily upon his inexperience. It began to rain, gently at first, but quickly turning into a torrential downpour. The fog had made visibility bad enough; now it was down to about a meter. The deluge would make the advance more difficult, but it would also make early discovery of their attack next to impossible, even with heat and audio sensors fully deployed.

  Brogan looked at his watch . . . 0043. He passed the word to get ready, to hold fire until his command, and to keep contact with the man on the left. At 0045 Brogan jumped to his feet and yelled, “Let’s go!”

  Cautiously the men moved in ragged formation up the hill, picking their way carefully over the broken jungle. Night assaults were difficult to control under the best of conditions. Brogan remembered the practice assaults at CIO School. Sometimes, even those performed under ideal conditions went awry. And woe to the acting CO of a snafued attack. He recalled one in which two platoons got separated and attacked the wrong hill. But that was just a game . . . this was cold—and wet—reality. He prayed quietly that everyone knew what to do. It was up to the squad leaders now. Neither he nor the platoon leaders had much control over what happened from here on.

  An explosion and subsequent scream ripped Brogan from his reverie. In spite of the personal mine-sensing equipment employed by each soldier, someone had apparently stumbled onto one. Brogan peered in the direction of the enemy position, but there was no response. The incessant firing of the big guns must have masked the explosion. It seemed incredible to Brogan that no one would be defending the western side of the enemy base.

  Soon they had made their way to the edge of the encampment without further mishap. Here they found a row of wire spread out in a lackadaisical manner, making clear to Brogan that the rebels had prepared for assault from this direction in only a token way.

  Thank you, Lord! Brogan muttered without thinking. With rising hopes, they dispatched the obstruction and began to move on. At that moment, however, a star shell burst overhead, emitting a stark, glaring light and eerily illuminating the whole western side of the encampment. Rebel soldiers began running toward them in a disorganized fashion.

  “This is Eagle 6,” he yelled into his comset. “Open fire!”

  A blaze of light erupted from the assault line, and the rebel troops disappeared. Charging into camp, they began routing enemy soldiers from their shelters, where they had taken refuge from the downpour. Then one of the gun crews, discovering the attack, alertly swung their gun around and blasted a hole in the line of assault. Brogan felt the concussion from the explosion and imagined that he could hear the shrapnel singing past. At a fever pitch, he and his men hurled themselves into the offending gun pit.

  In savage hand-to-hand combat, the men grappled in the rainy darkness, hardly knowing friend from foe. But within seconds, the attackers had no one left to fight. Looking around to size up the situation, Brogan saw a laser cannon at the top of a nearby bunker blasting away unmercifully at the attacking Fusiliers. Grabbing a nearby man, he yelled, “Get into that gun turret!”

  Following him in, Brogan was once again thankful that he had been trained in the use of every known weapon. He directed the soldier in how to operate the automatic loader, then donned the headset for the eye-directed line-of-sight firing. He activated the targeting headset and swung the gun around in the direction of the laser cannon. By the time he had targeted the cannon, the gun was ready to fire. Pushing the soldier away from the breach and the line of recoil, he jammed his thumb against the firing stud.

  Nothing happened. Then Brogan remembered. He had forgotten the primer cartridge. Within seconds he was ready and banged the firing stud again. The blast was deafening, even inside the turret. The recoil of the huge gun left little room in the small compartment until it slid back onto its shock arresters. Brogan looked at his target. Not only was the cannon obliterated, the top of the bunker was as well.

  By the time they tumbled out of the gun and caught up with the action, His Majesty’s Fusiliers had the rebel base fairly well in hand. Only small pockets of resistance remained. Most of the defenders had been caught trying to stay dry and were totally unprepared.

  Soon a soldier trotted up to Brogan. “The base is secure, sir.”

  “Excellent work! Have we located the CP?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s the bunker over there that some guys shot the top off of.”

  Brogan grinned. “Tell Top to get the wounded moved out of the rain. Then have him see if he can scare up some com gear to contact our base with.”

  The man ran off, and Brogan, switching on his head com, called for the platoon leaders to report to the destroyed CP. Brogan made his way to the bunker and entered it. Even though it was badly damaged, the CP still held out most of the rain. The platoon commanders began to assemble.

  When all were present, Brogan said, “Congratulations, men, we did the impossible. All of you are to be commended for our success. Unfortunately, now that we have done the impossible, we have to do the really hard part.” Brogan smiled grimly. “We have to hold this place! Now, Third Platoon, you will see that the wounded are cared for wherever Top sets up the aid station. When you’ve finished with that, police up the dead. Get on it!”

  “Yes, sir!” The man scurried out.

  “First and Second Platoons, you will set up a perimeter defense. And make sure that you link up all the way around. We don’t want to make the same mistake the former tenants did. You’re dismissed.”

  Turning to another man, Brogan continued. “Fourth Platoon, find shelter for your men and get some rest. You will relieve Second Platoon in four hours . . . at 0600.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” the commander said as he turned to go. The night would be over in a matter of hours, and Brogan had only one platoon that would have had any rest at all in more than twenty-four hours.

  “Sir,” a bedraggled tech sergeant got his attention. “We have com with main base.”

  Brogan muttered his thanks, and he hurried off to the com bunker. As he entered, a harried corporal was trying to answer a series of rapid-fire questions coming over the com set. “Tell ‘em acting Eagle 6 will answer all their questions,” barked Brogan.

  The corporal delivered the message and handed the set to Brogan. “November Base, this is November Eagle acting 6.”

  “This is November Base, 6. Who in blazes am I talking to, and where are you?”

  “This is Lieutenant Timothy Brogan, formerly Eagle 3, now acting CO of Company Eagle. At present we are occupying the rebel fire base on Hill 731.” Brogan could hear a moment’s confusion at the other end, then the set went dead for a few seconds.

  “This is November 6. Where is Captain Jantsen?”

  “This is Eagle 6
. The captain is an escaped prisoner, charged with treason and murder. He betrayed the company into an ambush,” reported Brogan. He thought the com set would explode as General Nagamoto demanded an immediate and full explanation of Brogan’s activities.

  Brogan was too exhausted to be very concerned about anyone else’s agitations. He calmly, and as though by rote, summarized the last twenty-four hours, not caring what kind of response it generated. When he concluded, a response was not immediately forthcoming. But when it did come, it was in a much more subdued tone.

  “Eagle 6, you men have done an outstanding job. When the reports are all in, I’m sure you will all be properly rewarded. But now for more important matters. Lieutenant Timothy Brogan, serial number . . . uh, what is his number? . . .” Some mumbling could be heard in the background, then the general cleared his throat and picked up where he left off. “. . . serial number 15-315-706-12, I hereby promote you by the authority vested in me by the Emperor to the rank of acting captain of Fusiliers. Captain Brogan, I authorize you to appoint two battlefield commissions to second lieutenant, subject of course to my confirmation.

  “Here are your orders, Eagle 6. You are to hold your position with the men and supplies you have available. Under no circumstances are you to allow those artillery pieces to fall into enemy hands again. You will destroy them rather than allow them to be recaptured. Is that clear?”

  “That’s an affirmative,” said an elated Brogan.

  “Good luck, Eagle 6, and may God be with you. November 6 out.”

  Unknown to Brogan, General Nagamoto turned to his staff officers and said, “Poor devils have done a hellava job. I hope we get to see ‘em. But I’m not counting on it.”

  Brogan, feeling a bit dazed, put down the com set and turned to leave. He looked up to see the first sergeant reclining in a chair, grinning around a propped up wounded leg. “Congratulations, Captain. A promotion from second lieutenant to captain is almost unprecedented, especially for a third-class citizen from a backwoods world. We should give you a wetting-down party. And since you skipped a rank, we should make you buy twice the booze.”