By Blood Alone

by Dietz, William C.

  Incensed by the pilot’s lack of professionalism, and prepared to give the youngster a piece of his mind, Harco opened his mouth. He never got to speak.

  A tone warbled, Jameson gave a war whoop, and the plane flipped onto its back. There was no way to tell whether the officer had a reason for flying that way or simply wanted to.

  Harco, still strapped into his chair, felt his feet flip over his head. A stylus fell out of his pocket and clattered to the floor.

  The infantry officer felt the chair jerk, knew air-to-surface missiles had been launched, and heard Jameson’s casual drawl. “Blue Six to Blue Leader. Feet dry ... enemy engaged. Over.”

  “That’s a roger, Blue Six. You are green for target one-niner-four. Do your shit. Over.”

  The Lance flipped right side up, shuddered in response to a near miss, and jerked as two additional flights of ASMs raced toward a preselected target. The sticks continued to pound out their rhythm.

  Harco forced himself to think, to switch himself away, to “ride” someone else.

  He was a platoon leader this time. The hard metal seat slammed into the base of his spine as the transport hit the bottom of an air pocket and lurched forward. The voice was calm and measured. “We are five to dirt. Passengers can collect their baggage on carousel six. Lock and load.”

  Harco jumped again. The fort passed below. A two-thousand-pound bomb exploded on the northern scarp. Dirt and rock flew into the air. White paint turned black, but the heavily reinforced walls continued to hold.

  The officer jumped, found himself aboard one of the Trooper IIIs and watched his heavily armed analogs fly, wriggle, and roll away. Something shoved from behind. The cyborg fell, hit, and rolled.

  The borg climbed to his feet and turned toward the sound of another explosion. Flames belched from the recently emptied transport. A crew person staggered out through a hatch and collapsed on the ground. Her flight suit was on fire. She lay without moving.

  The cyborg turned his back, spotted what looked like a mobile radar platform, and fired a shoulder mounted missile. The target exploded. Assault Team Victor was on the ground.

  Booly would have preferred to be up on the walls, or out with the troops, but couldn’t afford the luxury. Not with half a brigade of still questionable troops under his command.

  No, like it or not, the Sit Room was the right place to be. Thanks to the advance work carried out by Sergeant Ho and her staff, he had plenty of intel. Nearly too much.

  It was difficult to keep up with the back and forth radio traffic, the video feeds provided by squad and platoon leaders, the eye-in-the-sky stuff beamed from unmanned drones, tiny robocrawlers and remote sensor packages stationed up to fifty miles out.

  That being the case, a technician named Motke had been assigned to assist Booly by switching appropriate images to the bank of three monitors located in front of his command-style chair. Not the same as a full-blown VR rig ... but good enough.

  The initial stage of the attack had gone pretty much as Booly had expected it to. A wave of fighter-bombers came first, followed by the surviving transports, and landings in force at Hol Hol, Damerdjog, Ali-Sabieh, and Arta.

  War involves tradeoffs, so while the assault team had multiple landing zones to defend, the strategy would allow them to deploy quickly and force the defenders into a complicated response.

  The strategy seemed familiar somehow, as if Booly had seen it before. But where? The question continued to nag at Booly’s mind as the officer sorted his forces into response teams and struggled to stay on top of the incoming intelligence.

  Then he had it... Harco! A younger version of whom had successfully split a frog offensive into six separate elements, thereby enabling the planet’s security detachment to fly from one fire base to the next and attack the phibs one pod at a time. “Divide and conquer” was one of the oldest military axioms around, and one of the best.

  Not satisfied with running the Legion from North America, the traitorous sonofabitch was leading the raid himself! Talk about balls... Maybe they could nail the bastard and really deal the enemy a blow. Satisfied that he knew whom he was up against, Booly turned to the matter at hand.

  Harco’s forces had broken out of three different landing zones, picked up the old Dire Dawa railroad bed, and were on the move.

  Captain Hawkins had orders to cut them off while Major Judd brought Delta company into action. If the XO could manage to flank the enemy, Hawkins would have a chance. But how likely was that, given the officer in question?

  Booly watched from Captain Ny’s point of view as her energy cannons burped coherent energy, converged on a Trooper II, and blew the cyborg in half. The camera shuddered as a missile hit the quadruped, then steadied. The muties hadn’t put any quads on the ground, not so far, and that was good.

  “Look,” Motke said, momentarily forgetting to say “sir,” as he pointed toward monitor three. “They’re taking a run at battery one-sierra-echo.”

  The AA battery, which consisted of four 133mm SAM launchers and a Gatling gun, opened fire. It was located near Loyada. Booly saw four contrails and listened to the operator cheer on channel two. “Did you see that? We nailed the bastard!”

  It was the last transmission he ever made. Chunks of mutie aircraft still cartwheeled out of the sky as three enemy fighters rolled and dived toward the ground. The bombs knew where to go and went there. The monitor snapped to black.

  Booly swore and activated his mike. “One-One to One-Three... Where the hell is that air cover? We need it now! Over.”

  Given the fact that Winters had no control over the matter in question, she might have been angry or resentful. She sounded smug instead. “Roger that, One-One. Fast friendlies on the way—ETA one minute thirty seconds. Over.”

  Booly was speechless. Winters smiled.

  The flight of six Daggers entered the stratosphere, shed heat from their specially designed skins, and bumped through the quickly warming air.

  Tyspin checked her heads-up display (HUD), saw more red deltas than she cared to look at, but was grateful for the fact that they were still below. That was an advantage she was happy to have. The naval officer had targets, plenty of them, which meant they had her as well. Why no response, then? Were they blind?

  A voice sounded in her helmet. It was confident, verging on smug. “Victor One to incoming Daggers... Welcome to the party. Over.”

  Tyspin marveled at her luck. The idiot assumed she was friendly! Not surprising, given the circle jerk up in orbit ... but not very smart either. Her pilots followed as the naval officer rolled to starboard and dived towards the aircraft below. “Blue One to Victor One... Thanks for the hospitality.”

  Victor One watched the delta-shaped icons roll in behind his formation, heard a tone as the missile locked onto his plane, and realized his mistake. “Bandits at six o’clock! Break! Break! Break!”

  Three pilots escaped, but two assimilated the order too slowly and paid with their lives. Their fighters exploded, tumbled out of the sky, and splashed into the Gulf of Aden.

  Tyspin smiled grimly, switched to a secure frequency, and gave her orders. “Blue One to Blue flight... The muties have transports on the ground. Hit ’em hard.”

  A chorus of “Roger” s echoed in her ears as the aerospace fighters started to make their runs. They came in over the Gulf of Tadjoura and went straight for the enemy.

  Tyspin spotted one of the bulky aircraft, “thought” her ship to port, and removed the safeties from her guns.

  “Watch your six, Blue Leader,” a voice cautioned as Tyspin focused on the target. She saw the delta and fought the urge to abort the run. “Roger, Two... Keep the bastard off my tail.”

  The ground came up, blurred under the belly of the fighter, and disappeared to the rear. The transport had been warned of the danger and was four feet off the ground when Tyspin fired.

  The 30mm cannon shells ripped through the transport’s relatively thin skin and hit the power plant. The ship shuddered, sideslipp
ed, and struck a civilian radio mast. The transport fell like a rock.

  Tyspin heard a tone, fought the weight of the gees, and checked the HUD. The delta was right on her tail. The fighter vanished as Lieutenant Alvarez blew it out of the sky. “Thanks, Two.”

  “De nada, boss.”

  “Blue Leader to Blue flight... Form on me. Over.”

  Only three pilots answered the call. Her wingman brought her up to speed. “Blue Two to Blue One. Three went into the gulf ... and Six ejected. I saw her chute. Over.”

  Tyspin swore under her breath. She had lost one, possibly two pilots, not to mention their planes. Maybe Pratt was right. Maybe she should have stayed in orbit. A new voice broke her train of thought. “Mosby Control to Blue One. Over.”

  The fact that the transmission had been encrypted and transmitted on her command channel implied that the Gladiator was in contact with loyalist ground forces. The response was automatic. “This is Blue One... Go. Over.”

  “We’re real glad to see you, Blue One. That transport is toast. We have three columns of borg-reinforced infantry approaching the fort along the road from Hol Hol. Anything you can do? Over.”

  The voice didn’t belong to a com tech. Tyspin felt sure of that. The commanding officer? Maybe. The naval officer glanced at the HUD, saw three deltas straight at her, and snapped a response. “Roger that, Mosby Control. Can you smoke the target?”

  The reply was instantaneous. “Roger that. Arty on the way. Willey Pete (WP) ten from now.”

  Tyspin spoke as she nosed over. “Blue One to Four and Five. The bandits are yours. Over.”

  “Roger, One,” Lieutenant Frank Norris answered grimly. “Over.”

  Tyspin didn’t even have to look to know that Alvarez hung above and behind her starboard wing. The ground rushed to meet her, WP blossomed below, and she fired her rockets. Explosions winked red, tracers streaked past the canopy, and something hit the fuselage. Alarms sounded, fire blossomed, and the plane started to shake.

  Harco had temporarily invested himself in a Trooper III. His chair lurched from side to side as the cyborg ran toward the fort. Blips appeared on the screen. The cyborg’s computer tagged the incoming aircraft as hostile. Two shoulder-launched missiles were prepped and launched. They wobbled, achieved lock, and started to track.

  Three rounds of WP dropped near the troops, detonated, and marked their position. Rockets exploded all around, cannon fire blew divots out of the ground, and someone started to scream.

  That’s when Major Vernon Judd, unarmed except for the pistol in his holster, scrambled up out of the concrete lined drainage ditch and waved his troops forward. “Vive la Legion!” He never looked back, never checked to see if his troops followed him, as he charged through the flying steel.

  And Delta company did follow, screaming like banshees, firing from the hip. Some fell kicking in the dust, some spun as bullets turned them around, and the rest ran.

  Already thinned by forces under the command of Captains Hawkins and Ny, and stunned by the attack from above, the muties broke and started to withdraw. They paused in and around a cluster of mud-brick shacks. Laundry flapped in surrender, a machine gun tore it to shreds, and muties fell back.

  Alarmed now, and intent on preventing a full-scale rout, Harco searched for Lieutenant Colonel Lo, discovered that she’d been killed, and assumed command. The ability to jump from one officer to the next was a godsend. Harco gave a series of orders, called for air strikes, and monitored the withdrawal. Three LZs had been reduced to two, but both were secure, and sufficient for the number of people he had left.

  Still, it took time to pull back, load the troops, and lift. Time and casualties, since the loyalist tube crews had coordinates for all of the remaining zones and fired mission after mission.

  Harco swore as 155mm howitzer shells swept the second LZ, hit a pallet loaded with ammo, and marched out the other side. A transport, loaded with troops, wobbled but managed to lift.

  There was one piece of good news, however, and that was the fact that the loyalist fighters had run low on fuel and had been forced into space. That left Harco’s aircraft in charge of the sky, which was an advantage they used to attack the quads, suppress Booly’s artillery fire, and protect the LZs.

  Finally, after the last transport was safely out over the gulf, Harco pulled himself out.

  His clothes were soaked with sweat, his jaw was clenched, and his fingers had a death grip on the chair.

  The tech entered, started to say something, and Harco waved him off.

  He waited for the numbers, not wanting to hear them, but knowing that he must. The preliminary report was even worse than he had feared. Fully fifty percent of Assault Team Victor was KIA, WIA, or MIA.

  Was Pardo at fault, for withholding the resources he needed? Or was he to blame, for attempting too much? The answer seemed obvious. The burden was heavy.

  Booly left the sit room the moment the muties cleared the coast. He summoned a Trooper II, climbed onto the cyborg’s back, and strapped himself in. The helmet jack entered a panel provided for that purpose. “Take me to the LZ located near Hol Hol. Condition five—assault speed.”

  The cyborg said, “Sir, yes, sir,” and started to jog. Booly could remember when the sideways, up-and-down motion had made him nauseous, but that was a long time ago, in what seemed like a different lifetime.

  Fykes swore any number of colorful oaths, commandeered a scout car, and followed behind. How many muties had missed the bus? One? Ten? A hundred? Whatever the number, they were out there, and Booly, with his ass literally hanging in the breeze, made a prime target.

  Hol Hol was a relatively small community located just southwest of Djibouti. Booly was struck by the random manner in which some streets had survived untouched while others were heavily damaged. Good luck, bad luck, all mixed together.

  The cyborg turned to the left, circled a wrecked hover bus, and picked his way down a fire-blackened boulevard. One of the mutie fighters had crashed a half mile to the south, sliced through two rows of palm trees, and slammed into a trash filled fountain.

  Booly could see the pilot as they passed, her helmet resting against the plane’s canopy, blood dribbling from her mouth. He requested an aid team and gave them the location.

  The colonial-era buildings started to thin after that, gradually giving way to pastel monstrosities, and a row of slovenly huts.

  Booly bent his knees to absorb the shock, allowed the harness to take his weight, and tallied the cost.

  There were muties, dead where the airborne guns found them, lying in a ditch.

  And there, in the field just beyond, a line of shell craters, ringed by smoldering grass fires, and chunks of partially cooked meat. A pair of vultures, their stomachs already full, lurched into the air.

  Then came a troop transport, guns threatening the sky, flames licking the hood. The driver’s hands were on the wheel, but his head was missing. One of his? One of theirs? Booly couldn’t tell. It hardly mattered.

  The radio crackled with casualty reports, requests for assistance, and ECM-related static. An aid station had been established next to a protective antiaircraft battery. POWs stood with their hands on their heads while a VTOL fly form lowered itself to the ground. It blew grit into Booly’s face as he freed himself from the harness and jumped to the ground.

  Captain Hawkins appeared at his elbow. Blood oozed from the abrasion on the left side of her face. Her helmet was missing, and she looked concerned. “It’s Major Judd, sir. He took a slug through the chest.”

  Booly listened as the leg officer led him into the aid station. “The major was something to see, sir. He took Delta company out of that ditch like the RMLE at Verdun! I never had much respect for him. Not till today.”

  Stretchers lined both sides of the tent. Judd was third back on the right side. IVs fed both arms, but he still looked pale. Booly glanced at a medic, and she shook her head. The executive officer was alive—but just barely. Booly knelt next to the officer a
nd spoke his name. “Major Judd?”

  The legionnaire opened his eyes, struggled to focus, and coughed. Blood spilled onto his chin. The words were little more than a whisper. “Sorry, Colonel, but I don’t think I can stand.”

  Booly felt a lump form in his throat. “At ease, Major ... and congratulations! You turned the tide.”

  Judd looked hopeful. “I did? Really?”

  “Yes,” Booly answered gently. “You won the battle.”

  Judd frowned and coughed. His eyes seemed to dim, and the words were barely audible. “Don’t forget D Company, sir. They were a credit to the Legion.”

  Booly swallowed, knew Judd was gone, and closed his eyelids. “Yes ... and so were you.”

  The officer stood and turned to find that a naval aviator was waiting to see him. She had green eyes and a plain, straightforward face. She held a helmet under her arm. A bloodstained battle dressing marked the place where something had torn through her flight suit as the ejection blew her free of the cockpit. Sergeant Fykes handled the introduction. “This is Captain Tyspin, sir. She flew one of the Daggers... and commands Gladiator.”

  Tyspin felt awkward about having witnessed Judd’s death, but was glad that she had. Here was an officer who cared about the people under his command and deserved their respect. She could see it in his eyes. Gray eyes that were filled with intelligence and brightened as Fykes spoke.

  “Captain Tyspin! We owe you a debt of gratitude. Hell, we owe you everything! Air support made all the difference. Medic! See to the captain’s arm.... We’d be hamburger if it weren’t for her.”

  Tyspin shucked the top half of the flight suit and sat while the medic cut the old dressing away, squirted some cream into the cut, and applied a self-sealing bandage. It seemed natural to tell Booly about the infighting among her peers, the problems with Admiral Pratt, and the trouble she was in.

  The legionnaire responded by laying out the strategic situation and what he saw as the almost inevitable outcome. He shrugged. “We bought some time... but that’s all. The muties will either return in force or whittle us down. There’s no way to stop them, not without help from the Navy, and more of everything.”