He rolled over and sat up. The dust and smoke continued to swirl around him, and the sound of the battle seemed more distant to his left and right than in his immediate position.
We cut right through them.
Bo stood and patted his holster; his pistol was missing. He searched the ground nearby but didn’t see the weapon. A round of some type whistled through the air above his head. Scared into action, he dashed forward to a rock outcropping only a meter high and flung himself behind it. He pushed up close to the rock and peered over its jagged edges.
There was nothing worth seeing in the nearby dust and smoke. Vehicles were burning. The sound of weapons firing and vehicles moving had almost faded to nothing. As elated as he was that the first stage of the attack had gone so well, Bo realized he was alone and unarmed amid an enemy formation’s route of march. He slumped against the rock, pressing his face against the warm, rough stone. His thoughts were a sudden whirl of recollected survival skills, escape and evasion techniques, and how to find his way back to the tableland. The intense heat of R’Bak’s stars hammered through the dust, but he didn’t move. Instead, he took a deep breath, and with his head throbbing, sighed dejectedly.
Well, shit.
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Seven
R’Bak
No sooner had the captured vehicles attacked when the first rounds of indirect fire fell across Saber Nine’s position on the high ground at the back of the draw. Aliza, with Sergeant Whittaker behind a rock outcropping, had a good view of their entire defensive front. The first rounds fell in the vicinity of the upper positions from which riflemen were laying down fire over and across the rest of the patrol. Shrapnel from the enemy shells ricocheted off the rock walls and caused little damage. Others missed their position entirely. A few made it to the more exposed positions at the top of the wall and tore them to bits.
As soon as the first barrage ended, Whittaker leapt off the front of their position to gather the wounded. His eyes looked back and caught hers as he dragged one soldier away from the forward positions; his glance was both a question and a summons. She jumped into action and helped the sergeant.
Working at different points along their line, they dragged three of the injured to more protected positions, finishing just as the second barrage fell. The enemy had improved their targeting, and the shells dropped with greater accuracy but still had little effect.
As the interval between explosions slowed, Aliza saw Sergeant Whittaker jump up from cover. As he began sprinting in her direction, a mortar round exploded ten meters behind him along the top of the escarpment.
Time seemed to slow. She saw, in terrible detail, shrapnel tear through his right leg as he ran. His next step with the left leg was fine, but as his right leg went forward to meet the ground again, it buckled and he crumpled to the ground, his shocked and anguished face just ten meters from hers. He panted, blinked—and another round detonated almost on top of him, flinging him in her direction.
Before he’d even stopped tumbling, Aliza dropped her pistol atop the rock and bounded toward him. Adrenaline flowing, she grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him backward, to her position. More rounds rushed down, sent shrapnel sleeting. It was as if she could feel every fragment passing through the surrounding sky. One passed close enough that she felt it tug on her hair. Another missed penetrating her left boot by a fraction.
Halfway to the outcrop, she looked down at Whittaker as she strained backward, her rush of adrenaline almost expended. His eyes were closed, and his mouth was a tight, white line. Then his eyes opened, locked onto hers for a moment, and then squeezed shut again. Blood seeped from innumerable wounds and turned his olive drab fatigues a slick, wet black.
She screamed before she had even registered the frustration and rage which sent the violent sound out of her. Tears blurred her vision as she pulled Whittaker into cover and collapsed by his side. Lungs burning with the effort, she blinked away her tears and reached for Whittaker’s first aid compress. His right hand touched hers, and she stopped.
“It’s okay, Aliza,” he wheezed. His eyes were bright and clear. Where there had been pain across his wrinkled face there was now acceptance, almost peace. “It’s okay. I lived…twice. Don’t mind dying twice. Not for—”
She took his hand, squeezed it. “Don’t…don’t leave me. Please!”
Whittaker smiled and there was a beauty to it she’d never imagined. She took his hand in both of hers. His grip weakened, failed, and his gaze became a sightless stare over her shoulder into the cloudless sky.
She lowered her face to her hands and cried. As she did, Aliza realized her tears were not just for Sergeant Whittaker, but for her family, her friends, and Ben Mazza. They were tears she’d never shed. They came with a force that surprised her, and in her grief, there was something new. In the months since Dachau—months a century and a half in the past—she’d experienced rage and frustration tinged with tiny glimpses of hope and love. Instead of clinging to those glimpses, she’d embraced the anger, tried to let it fuel her.
But tears? They were new. She could feel what they meant, what they were telling her: it was time to let them go. As she cradled Whittaker’s lifeless hand in hers, a warm trickle of blood ran down across her wrist and into the crease of where her slender hand clutched the hard, broad palm of the dead sergeant. Almost calmly, she realized her right arm was bleeding from the muscles in her forearm. The pain was considerable and getting worse by the second. She also realized the barrage was over.
Aliza stood, started unevenly toward the most heavily shelled positions, determined to do exactly what she and Whittaker had done before. There was risk of course, and they might all be trapped in a future none of them wanted, but they were here and the only way they’d ever see Earth again was to take care of each other.
And that, she decided as she scrambled forward, was better than rage and frustration.
* * *
Bo took off his uniform blouse and draped it over his head and shoulders. The sounds of the attack intensified in the north. Every report sent a bolt of pain through his head. As much as he wanted to follow it, he was alone and there were still enemy vehicles and personnel surrounding his position. Either they would retreat or move to re-consolidate with their surviving forces. It was a matter of time. Without a weapon, transportation, or water, Bo knew his best choice was to stay put even as the clouds of failure swirled through his mind. It hadn’t been a perfect plan, but he’d been confident in its success.
It could be succeeding. You’re just stuck out here because you fell off your fucking mount, Bo.
On cue, Sharron’s words came to mind. You always think things rely on you. You’re so self-centered sometimes I can’t even believe it. All I wanted was for you to care about me. About us. You cared more about things you thought had gone wrong or that slighted you somehow. My life isn’t about you, Bo. Not anymore.
He shook his head and strained to peer over the top of his rock-strewn position. Movement caught his eye in both directions. There was no way he could move. Not for a while at least. He settled back against the rock and hung his head to his chest in resignation. The breeze freshened slightly in his face and he raised his eyes enough that he saw his missing boonie hat caught in a cactus-like plant a few meters away. He crawled forward and reached for the hat—
The sound of several rifles firing nearby rang out. Bo flinched away from the hat even as his brain told him they weren’t firing at him. He leaned forward and snatched the hat away from the plant and heard a deep, throaty roar. A whinnie charged directly toward him at full gallop.
Not just any whinnie. Bo grinned and got up to a low crouch. He slapped the hat on his head and worked his arms through the sleeves of his blouse. There wasn’t time to finish buttoning it up before Scout reared up and bounced to a stop in front of him.
As Scout settled in front of Bo, streaks of dark purplish blood streamed from several wounds on the whinnie’s side. Bo stood a
nd went to him. The bullet holes were small, and he counted ten of them on the right side of Scout’s neck. His first impulse was to grab his field dressing and tear the package open to press it against the worst of the wounds.
Scout hooted and slammed Bo’s shoulder with his triangular jaw. The whinnie jerked its chin toward the saddle and hooted again, this time much deeper.
He wants me to get aboard.
“You sure, buddy?”
Scout made the deep purring sound and then shook his head and body, not unlike a dog trying to dry itself after a dip in a lake.
He’s telling you he’s okay, Bo. He’s shaking it off.
My God, we’re communicating.
Rounds impacted nearby, but Scout held his ground. A gun-shy mount would have bolted, but Scout stood resolute. Bo climbed aboard and patted Scout’s left forward shoulder, the one opposite of the wounds. “We can do this, buddy. Get me to Athena and the others.”
Scout took off again, this time back to the east and the distant tableland. From the very first time he’d galloped a horse at fourteen, Bo learned a valuable lesson. Moving that fast astride an animal, especially one built for speed, distorted time and distance. On the farm, he’d intended to only ride his first horse, Maverick, for two minutes at a gallop before slowing down. He’d judged that he could ride to the far posts of the main pasture and back in that timeframe. When it had taken almost double that time, and Maverick was surly at him for a few days afterward, Bo had realized what had happened. A full-out gallop took a lot of energy for a horse, especially when they weren’t used to running like that. Aboard Scout, he kept wanting to hold the big animal back, but Scout never relented. Though it seemed impossible, as Bo hunched over the saddle to be more aerodynamic, he thought the whinnie kept a pace far faster than they’d done on the tableland.
“Atta boy, Scout!” Bo called as they raced across the scrub. Branches tore at his boots and pants, but Bo didn’t care. His eyes remained locked on the high plateau. He turned once when the dust and smoke started to thin, saw the second enemy echelon approaching a draw that appeared to be where Whittaker and the others had prepared their defense. In that same direction but in the middle distance, Bo saw a pale whinnie standing and looking toward them. He didn’t immediately recognize the mount or its rider but headed toward them.
Less than a minute later, Scout skidded to a stop next to Private Morton, a gangly kid from New York with shockingly red hair. Bo smiled; Whittaker had indeed hung out a fire-topped lantern for him.
“Captain Moorefield? They reported you dead,” Morton blurted.
“Not yet.” Bo smiled. “Get us to Sergeant Whittaker and the others.”
The redhead grinned and tugged his mount up the trail. “Follow me, sir.”
They bounced up the trail for a minute, and the draw came into view. An escarpment spanned the back of it like a dried-up waterfall. About five meters tall, the wall it created was imposing and perfect for defense. At the top of the wall, and atop the nearly sheer valley slopes flanking it, Bo saw the soldiers of sections three and four manning hasty defensive positions. He smiled to himself. Whittaker had chosen those parts of the high ground with good observation and fields of fire. The experienced sergeant had also placed firing teams above them on the rocks for air defense and better geometry for the attacking force at the valley’s mouth. The position was utterly defensible despite the dust and smoke swirling about them from the enemy’s indirect fire attempts.
This might just work.
Whittaker had positioned the sections of four in multiple locations. Two were on the rocks above the tight valley in prone positions behind cover. They appeared to be in good shape as they opened fire. Bo couldn’t see the enemy infantry, but he could hear them screaming as they ran up the draw.
Several explosions drowned out the sound of battle for a few seconds. The OpFor’s indirect fire weapons weren’t dropping accurate fire on the position. They couldn’t see it from their position out in the valley and with no forward observer to actually plot and correct their firing solutions, they were firing blind and hoping to have some, if any, effect.
It’s meant to deplete us. Harass us. Rattle us enough that their infantry rolls all over us.
Not this time.
They kept moving toward the position as a new barrage of indirect fire came down. This time the fire was more accurate. Soldiers scattered in all directions as the small, powerful explosions rocked the draw. Morton had frozen in the saddle of his mount. Bo bounded Scout around the shocked pair and raced into the position as the enemy infantry came into view at the wall below.
* * *
The artillery fire ended abruptly, and she heard the forward positions engage the infantry again as she stood. A whinnie clambered down from the rocks above. She recognized the rider and felt fresh tears fall on her cheeks as he approached at a gallop. Moorefield dismounted his whinnie and ran toward her. Words failed her and all she could do was shake her head. The young captain knelt by the body of Whittaker and touched his neck. Finding no pulse, he simply put his hand on the sergeant’s shoulder and squeezed. She couldn’t see his face under the brim of his floppy hat, but she felt his grief. The crack! of a single rifle fired from the points above them snapped both of their heads back to the wall at the mouth of the tiny valley.
He stood and looked at her. “You’re in charge here, Aliza. Sergeant Cook is your platoon sergeant. I’m taking Stewart with me. Move everyone who can fire into position behind cover up here in case any of them get up here. Tell them to shoot whatever they can see and keep shooting until we come across the valley. Don’t hit us.”
“What are you doing?”
He smiled grimly. “Sounding the charge.”
She blinked. “You’re what?”
He pointed. “The whinnies can make it down the slope with us on their backs. We just have to hold on and trust them not to dump us. We’ll surprise the infantry and drive them toward our vehicles. You pin them down, and we’ll smoke them out.”
“But that’s crazy!”
“Not really.” He turned back to her. “We have the advantage of moving downhill. With speed and as much firepower as we can pour on them, we can pin their infantry between us and our vehicles down there. If the mortars are ready, we can rain steel on their heads and push their regiment back long enough so we can escape up the tableland and evacuate Camp Stark.”
There was a clinical logic to his thinking. Before she noticed it, she was nodding.
“You want us to stay here and harass the infantry below. Hold them in place for your charge to sweep them across to us, yes?”
“Precisely. Can you do that?”
She felt a genuine smile cross her face. “If you’d said to sit still and wait for rescue, I would have said no. We’ll hold them down, Bo. Go sound your charge.”
He grinned at her and reached down to Whittaker’s radio. He hesitated for a moment, grabbed and holstered the fallen sergeant’s pistol, and then picked up the handset. “Saber Six Romeo, Saber Six. You read me?”
“Holy shit, sir! We thought you were dead,” Sublete replied.
“Alive and kicking,” Bo replied. “I want you moving toward the valley entrance. Slowly. We’ll scare up the infantry in your direction with a little cavalry charge. When you see that, you call for contingency Charlie. My authority. Tell the vehicle commanders to lift and shift their fire until we find cover and then let anything escaping to the west have it. Over.”
“Roger, Saber Six. Good copy. Give ‘em hell.”
Bo dropped the radio handset and turned, shouting orders to all the riders. From up the valley, the whinnies ran back to the soldiers and knelt to be mounted. Something seemed off and after a second of staring wide-eyed, she could see there were more whinnies than riders. At least twenty had no saddles on their strong backs. They’d come with the herd.
To charge our common enemy.
The electricity of the thought spurred her to action. “Sergeant Cook!”
He looked over at her. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Gather the wounded. Everyone that can shoot gets in position behind these outcroppings. If we’ve got a few more who can get up on the high ground, get them up there. We don’t have much time to lay down fire for the charge.” She didn’t wait for a response. Instead, she spun and reached down for Whittaker’s radio, remembering their radio procedures by heart. “OP Two, Saber Nine, update on the mortars. Over.”
There was no response. She snorted. “Then we’ll just hope they get in position soon.”
She grabbed Whittaker’s M14 and spare magazines from his load-bearing equipment. The peace on his pale face had settled as slight creases and deeper wrinkles, like an old man who had fallen deep asleep in a hammock. She smiled and placed her hand on his. “Let’s hope you’re right about dying twice, my friend. Thank you. I will see you soon, but not today. Not if I can help it.”
No tears came, which surprised her. There would be time for more of them, but it would not be now. She stood, cradled the rifle at what the soldiers called the low ready and ran forward toward the wall. She took up a firing position and saw the enemy infantry dismounting their vehicles and rushing toward the opening.
A sharp whistle from above caught her attention, and she spun to the right. Atop the rocks and back from the upper firing positions, she saw Bo and the others. He waved at her, and she checked the soldiers to her right and left and those at the other outcroppings. She gave him a thumbs-up and turned to the soldiers under her unlikely command. It was time to do what she hadn’t been able to do for Ben Mazza and the others.
“Open fire!”
* * *
As Aliza’s defensive positions rained direct fire on the infantry below, Bo turned to Sergeant Stewart halfway down the poised line of whinnies. The ones without riders surprised him, but he said nothing. Scout and the others evidently understood the stakes and, given their intelligence and disposition, they had brought the rest of the herd into the fray. The wounds on Scout’s neck seeped blood, but there was no sign that the whinnie was in pain or even distracted by them. Several others had more serious wounds yet stood alongside the others on the upper surface of the eastern wall.
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