David Sherman & Dan Cragg - [Starfist 12]

by Firestorm (lit)

  “Go beyond?” Schultz asked on the squad circuit.

  “Five meter intervals,” Kerr said. Hammer, go twenty meters farther. When we’re all on line, I’ll give the word to go forward.”

  Kerr’s position was in the middle of the squad’s line. When he reached the midpoint of the sound of fire from the ambush, he looked to his right and left, along the line of the squad, then ordered, “At a trot, go! Watch your dress.”

  Second squad moved out as commanded and quickly came in sight of the former south end of the ambush. Farther ahead, they heard battle sounds suddenly reach a crescendo.

  “Ignore that, people,” Kerr ordered. “That’s probably reinforcements at the far end. Mike Company’s taking care of it, let’s worry about doing our own job.” Seconds later he saw the red splotch that marked an enemy soldier and called the squad to a halt. “Three Actual, three-two is in position,” he said on the platoon circuit.

  “Stand by,” Staff Sergeant Hyakowa said.

  Kerr told second squad to hold in place and hold their fire. He waited impatiently for orders to advance.

  Then Ensign Bass’s voice came over the comm. “Third platoon! Second squad is about to advance on the enemy flank. Watch for their fire, then roll yours in front of them. Be careful not to hit our Marines. Second squad, secure anybody who surrenders. First squad, stand by to move up and take control of prisoners once second squad passes you. Second squad, go now!”

  “Let’s go!” Kerr ordered. “Secure anybody who surrenders, kill anybody who doesn’t.”

  Second squad moved out at a brisk walk, firing at every infrared signal they saw. Here and there, a Coalition soldier threw his weapon away and raised his hands, shouting, “Don’ shoot, ah surrendah!”

  “Second fire team, secure the prisoner,” Kerr ordered when the first Coalition soldier surrendered.

  Corporal Claypoole led his men behind first fire team and got ties ready. Lance Corporal Little stepped over to the first soldier to surrender, and Claypoole pounced on the man before he could try anything, wrenching his arms behind his back to secure his wrists. Lance Corporal Ymenez went with Claypoole and secured the man’s ankles with another tie. After a quick glance to make sure the prisoner wasn’t going to try anything, Schultz ignored him, to keep watch on the squad’s exposed flank and rear. By the time second fire team had secured the first prisoner, third fire team had secured the next soldier to surrender. Second squad had to join in to help secure the surrendering soldiers as most of them gave up the fight when they saw their line was being rolled up.

  Fire died down on the far end of the ambush as Mike Company devastated the 319th Battalion’s George Company when it tried to advance around the flank of the ambush.

  Lieutenant Colonel Farshuck stood dumbfounded. He’d been certain his battalion could damage the Marine FIST badly enough to drive it off before it could fight back. Instead, his battalion was wiped out, nearly all of its soldiers dead or captured. He didn’t know how many of his men managed to escape once the battle was lost—if any. He was still standing there, a stupefied expression on his face, when a voice said out of the air, “Sir, I’m Captain Lew Conorado, Confederation Marine Corps. You are my prisoner. I would be grateful if you would hand over your sidearm.”

  Farshuck blinked in the direction from which the voice had come, then numbly reached for his sidearm. He briefly considered firing it rather than handing it over, but he couldn’t be positive of where his target was. Shooting at a ghost would be a futile gesture that wouldn’t benefit himself or his men. He shook his head sadly, and handed his weapon over.

  “What would you have me do, sir?” he asked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Major, are you telling me—?”

  “Decimated, wiped out, dead or prisoners. All of them, sir.” Major Applegrate, late the operations officer for the 319th Battalion of Brigadier General Josephus’s 222nd Brigade, shook his head wearily. “All,” he added. He put his head into is hands. “All,” he repeated.

  General Josephus was speechless for a moment. “Colonel Farshuck?”

  “I don’t know, sir. H-He went out to one of the companies and we didn’t hear from him afterward. We lost contact with all the companies, sir.” He looked up and his expression pleaded with the brigade commander to try to understand what it had been like out along the coast road. The 319th had been sent there to block any advance by the enemy from the 7th MPs’ overrun position along the coast. They had left Phelps with confidence high, not quite bands blaring, but with total confidence that they would successfully block the highway. Now Major Farshuck was telling the brigade commander the battalion had been wiped out?

  “Marines, you say?”

  “Y-Yes, sir. They-they came at us out of nowhere! It had to be Marines, with those special camouflage uniforms they wear.” Major Applegrate beat a fist against his knee. He was almost in tears. “I-I pulled the command post out of action to avoid being overrun, sir. It was all I could do! We didn’t have infra capability, sir! We were not prepared to go up against them!”

  “You estimate they were battalion-strength?”

  “Yes, sir. Based on the volume of firepower they used against us and the lack of supporting arms, I’d say a light-battalion-size element.”

  “Major, I know you’ve been through hell this morning, but pull yourself together, man! We’re going up to report this to General Sneed.”

  Corporal Puella Queege had always wanted to be a military policeman. In her own mind her service as a company clerk with the 7th Independent Military Police Battalion actually qualified her to be an MP. She’d picked up a lot about MP operations during her time with the battalion’s 4th Company. So once sobered up, cleaned up, and presented before Major General Sneed to receive her Bronze Medal of Heroism, she had told everyone she actually was a military policeman. What the heck, she thought, it was only a tiny white lie.

  “We need brave, quick-thinking soldiers like you, Corporal,” the general had said as he pinned the medal on her tunic. He turned to a lieutenant colonel standing by, the CO of the division MP battalion. “Colonel, get this gallant soldier some gear and put her out there on the streets and back to work. You’re going to need every man—and woman—you’ve got to keep order during this evacuation.” Sneed smiled at Queege, shook her hand, looked at the cameras, and departed.

  Queege did not think it would be very wise to admit to her new company supply sergeant that she did not know how to use half the equipment he issued her. Somehow, though, she got it all on her in the correct position. She knew what the stuff was intended for; handcuffs, stun sticks, and so on, but she’d never been taught how to use any of it in an actual confrontation. Likewise the huge M26, 10mm semiautomatic caseless fléchette handgun strapped to her equipment belt. No one showed her how to charge the weapon. She knew she had to work the slide to chamber the first huge round of the ten in the weapon’s magazine. She also knew the weapon had a decocking lever and a magazine release stud, devices common to the older handheld weapons, but she’d never fired the thing. But, she reasoned, she’d probably never need to use it on any of the civilians in Phelps, so what the heck. Just having it should be deterrent enough. Besides, the huge MP brassard on her left arm was probably all she’d need to assert her authority.

  Her new platoon commander introduced her at roll call and the other MPs were suitably impressed. None of them had ever been so close to a winner of the Bronze Medal of Heroism; besides, she’d seen real action, which none of them had. If only they’d served alcohol at roll call, Queege would’ve been in heaven.

  “Men—and lady—our job is to keep order in the streets while the civilians are being evacuated,” the company commander said, “make sure there’s no looting, no vandalism.”

  The platoon sergeant gave out the individual patrol assignments. Queege was left for last. “Corporal,” he told her, “I want you to position yourself at the Bank of Phelps, it’s on the corner of Quimby and Cruller streets, h
ere”—he pointed to a trid display of the Phelps street system—“five-minute walk from here. Don’t let no one in; anyone already in there, roust ’em out and secure the doors.” He gave her a heavy lock and chain. “Oncet you done that, stay on guard until yer relieved. Anyone gives you any shit, call for backup.” He indicated the tiny radio attached to her equipment belt. “Otherwise, do not hesitate to open fire. Here”—he handed her another magazine of 10mm fléchette ammo—“two mags ain’t enough fer patrollin’ anywheres, but mos’ likely you won’t need all three. Now git up to the bank. I’ll be roaming around me-self. I’ll bring you coffee later.” He grinned.

  The walk to the bank was, as the platoon sergeant had said, a short one. The streets were full of people hurrying to get under cover or out of town. Queege strutted along importantly, wondering what all the civilians thought of her in her new role as a law enforcement officer. She paused before a bar. The door was open. She hesitated, looked around, and then stepped quickly inside.

  “I was just leavin’,” someone said from the back of the bar. “We’re gettin’ the hell outta town!” A middle-aged man emerged from the shadows at the back of the bar, his arms full of things. “Oh, Officer, I own this place,” he said quickly, seeing Queege silhouetted against the bright sunlight in the street. The man was fully aware of the penalty for looting.

  “Thass okay,” Queege responded in her most convincing command voice, which sounded to her like a squeak, “but I was wondering if I could get something to drink. It’s mighty hot out there—”

  “Oh,” the man said, relieved he wasn’t going to be arrested for looting, which is just what he was doing in the bar. “Hep yerself, Officer, hep yerself!” He grinned and pushed past her out into the street.

  Queege stepped behind the bar. Whiskey or beer? she pondered. Well, it was a hot day in Phelps, so beer should do the trick. She found the robo-server, punched in her request, and the machine duly poured her an ice-cold liter of ale. Queege drank thirstily. With a deeply satisfying belch, she wiped the foam from her upper lip, leaned against the bar, and burped contentedly one more time. She wondered what had happened to her first sergeant and the others in the 4th Company. She shrugged. Dead or POWs, she figured. Nothing anybody could do about that! But she’d liked her first sergeant. When he wasn’t verbally abusing her, which was a game they played, he was amusing her, and they both loved their beer. She drank two more liters before she felt good enough to finish the walk up to the bank.

  When she arrived at last at the Bank of Phelps she found the massive front doors wide open. Someone was inside, that was for sure, making quite a racket too. Probably depositors, demanding their accounts be cleared. Strange, though, they were laughing. Well, she squared her shoulders, burped loudly, mounted the steps and walked into the cool interior of the building. She squinted, getting her vision back after the bright sunlight outside. She thought she saw three men with large bags coming from the vault. One was huge, struggling to drag several bags behind him.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the huge man rumbled, stopping in the middle of the gallery. Queege burped loudly by way of response. “I am Cardoza O’Quinn, the mayor of this here town, ’n’ I am removin’ the municipal funds to a safer location, so I’m tellin’ you, get yer skinny ass outta my way! Gawdam,” he exclaimed suddenly and turned to the men behind him, “this’n smells like a brewery!” He turned back to Queege. “Now git out’n muh way!”

  “No, you ain’t,” Queege squeaked, undoing the flap on her holster, but someone else fired first.

  “A light battalion, you say? Our entire battalion rendered combat-ineffective?”

  Major Applegrate nodded affirmation. “Yes, sir. Judging by the volume of fire, they had at least a third fewer men than we had—and no supporting arms.” He shook his head now. “If we’d only had infras, sir—” General Sneed waved him into silence with a gesture.

  “Marines for sure,” Brigadier General Josephus added.

  General Sneed drummed his fingers on his desk. “This changes the whole situation, gentlemen.” He addressed his entire staff, or those he was able to assemble on such short notice. “G2, what’s the word?”

  Brigadier General Burton shrugged. “Recon reports only the Marines that the 319 ran into, sir. It seems to be only the infantry battalion from a single FIST.”

  “Am I to believe they landed only one Marine battalion just to harass the 7th MPs?” General Sneed looked in turn at each officer.

  “They’ve done it before, or at least they’ve sent in limited forces to harass us. We all remember the attack on Gilbert’s Corners—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know all that. But is this the spearpoint of a major invasion? That’s what I need to know, gentlemen, and right now.”

  “I’d say no to that, sir,” the division operations officer said, while several other officers nodded their agreement. “In the first place, if this were an all-out attack, they’d be coming at us with a lot more than a battalion. I’d describe this more as a reconnaissance in force, sir. I doubt frankly they’ll proceed much farther down the coast road now they’ve brushed the 319th aside.”

  “But more could be coming? This is just a probe?” General Sneed looked at the other officers and they all nodded their heads.

  “That’s my opinion, yes sir,” the G2 responded.

  “Very well, then. Triple Deuce,” Sneed addressed Brigadier Josephus, commander of the 222nd Brigade, “I am very sorry about what happened to the 319th. I knew Colonel Farshuck, a gallant officer. Now, infras.” He nodded at Major Applegrate. “This was a ‘come as you are invited’ war, gentlemen. Most of us left our home worlds short of a lot of authorized equipment. We all know that and we all know how much we’ve had to scrounge to make up the differences. I want what infra devices we do have redistributed immediately. I don’t know what the inventory is, but I want those devices in the hands of the maneuver units ASAP! Depending on how many you can lay your hands on, I want them distributed at least to company level if that’s possible.

  “Signals.” He turned to his communications officer. “Send this message to General Lyons immediately: 319th Battalion, 222nd Brigade, engaged enemy on coastal road. Heavy casualties. Enemy estimated to be a battalion-size element from a Marine FIST. Feel this is a probe of our strength in this sector. Send infra equipment if can be spared. Am prepared to defend this position. Will keep you informed. Send it at once.

  “Gentlemen, eyes and ears open, fingers off your triggers until we know precisely what we’re up against. Major Spinoza,” he said to his civil affairs officer, “how goes the evacuation?”

  “Badly, sir. The 222nd’s MP battalion’s been a great help, but most of these people do not want to evacuate. Following your orders, we have not forced them to.”

  “Well, do so now, Major. Get them all out of the way. Use whatever force you deem necessary. Goddammit, I’ve lost a battalion of my men! We’ll turn this miserable town into a fortress and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a bunch of candy-ass civilians muck up my battle plan!”

  “Sir, we’ve managed to keep looting at a minimum, but something’s going on at the Bank of Phelps—”

  “Probably just O’Quinn withdrawing his ill-gotten gains.” General Sneed chuckled. “Let the MPs handle it. All right, folks, hop to it! It’s gonna be a long day in Phelps.”

  General Davis Lyons read Sneed’s message a second time and looked up at his staff. “An attack by an element this small has got to be a probe. Is there any sign of seaborne activity?”

  “None, sir, at least none we’ve been able to detect,” the G2 responded.

  “Ummm.” Lyons drummed his fingers on his desk. “All right. Get what infra equipment you can scrounge and send it up to the 4th Division, priority. Christ on a shitter, if a single Marine battalion without supporting arms can wipe out one of our battalions in such short order, we’d better hope there aren’t more on the way, or that our guys have the equipment they need to see those boys in their cha
meleons.”

  “Shouldn’t we reinforce the 4th Division, sir?” the G3 asked.

  “No! Sneed is a capable commander. He hasn’t asked for reinforcements. Let’s not panic. Remember, we sent the 7th MPs down there to be a tripwire. Well, the wire’s been tripped, all right, but until I’m sure this is a full-scale maneuver against our rear, I am not going to deplete my army’s strength here.”

  General Lyons sat by himself after the staff had been dismissed. He remembered now all too well what someone on the Committee on the Conduct of the War had said when he appeared before them at Gilbert’s Corners, that the 7th MPs on the coast-watch were the army’s Achilles’ heel. Well, that pesky committee was no more and the government had been transferred to the Cumber Mountains. And now the 7th MP position had been overrun. Were things beginning to fall apart? No! The bulk of the army was still intact, full of fight, ready to move against the fortifications out on the bay! Lyons’s opposite number, this Jason Billie, had proved himself to be an idiot so far, playing right into Lyons’s hands. He was just not bold enough to mount a backdoor assault on Phelps. What was happening down there was a diversion, nothing more.

  General Davis Lyons sighed. “Well, I hope so,” he quietly murmured.

  Corporal Queege was not sure what kind of weapons were being fired at her. All she saw in the dim light were several brilliant flashes. Something, the first round, glanced powerfully off the chain the platoon sergeant had given her, which still hung around her neck. It struck so hard she was momentarily stunned and fell to the ground. The rest of the rounds went zipping through the air where she’d been standing, screeching and caroming off the walls in a shower of sparks and chips of masonry.

  The Bank of Phelps did business the old-fashioned way, with paper, despite the fact that throughout most of the Confederation member-worlds electronic banking was the preferred way to store and access funds. So at intervals in the lobby there were convenient marble-topped writing tables stocked with styluses and various forms for deposits, withdrawals, and so on. Not knowing what else to do, Queege crawled under one of these. The fire directed at her now ricocheted off the marble, shredding the paper like confetti. The noise was so terrific she could not hear her own voice shouting into her radio for assistance.