The Fighter King

by John Bowers

  Henry sat back and stared at the wall. He knew the Sophia Alps, had vacationed there when his dad was Ambassador to Vega. They were treacherous and rugged. A well dug-in army should be able to hold off a force several times its size for a very long time. Would the Sirians be dumb enough to tackle those odds?

  He shook his head and returned to the report. Somewhere inside he hoped to find more information about Federation citizens. Maybe there would be a clue as to Oliver's whereabouts. So far, nothing in the report had pertained to him.

  Chapter 27

  Saturday, 31 October, 0195 (PCC) — Natalia, Sophia Alps, Vega 3

  During the short months after the Sirian invasion, the Vegan Guard had been busy. Anticipating an assault on the Alps, engineers had brought in large robo-diggers and set to work building fortifications. In a matter of weeks, hundreds of miles of trenches had been dug, bunkers and pillboxes constructed, and minefields laid.

  Oliver Lincoln III got his first good look at the trench works when his special op ended. After ten days of sniping at SE targets, he was returned to the 49th Volunteers, an irregular unit led by regular Guard officers. The 49th was stationed near Natalia, a small town in the Alpine foothills only a few miles from the Southern Plain. If the Sirians did try a push into the mountains, there was a good chance it would begin here.

  To Oliver's untrained eye, the trenches looked like a marvel. They were eight feet deep and dug into the contours of the mountainside, twisting and winding for miles in each direction. Ledges were built into the side of each trench to allow soldiers to step up and fire; a wooden railing capped the edge. Bunkers were embedded at crucial points, each bunker enjoying an unrestricted view of the terrain. Fields of fire had been cut into the surrounding timber whenever possible. Medical stations were located every half-mile, and field kitchens every mile.

  On the higher hills, parallel trenches had been dug every few hundred feet of elevation, providing defense in depth.

  All in all, Oliver was impressed.

  * * *

  Artillery had been pounding them all day. Bumblebee spy drones had located a mass of enemy troops less than a mile away, but were detected and shot down before details could be sorted out. Clearly the Sirians were planning to attack, possibly at dusk, less than two hours away.

  Oliver huddled in the bottom of the trench with hundreds of other men, sweating out the bombardment. The artillery wasn't as intense as he'd expected, nor was it surgically directed. It fell randomly across the hillside, spraying the trench with fragments and occasionally scoring a direct hit. At least thirty men had been killed and dozens wounded. Even so, morale was surprisingly high.

  As the ground rocked under him, Oliver mentally kicked himself for the hundredth time for joining the Guard. What was wrong with hiding at the Fed embassy? What the fuck had he been thinking?

  Back home, today was Halloween. He wondered if that was significant, then wondered how everyone there was doing. Did his family know he was still alive? Had Viktor ever sent that subspace message?

  He looked up, aware that the barrage had suddenly stopped. All around him, men were blinking at one another. Oliver stood and peered over the edge of the trench. The air was dirty with dust and smoke from the artillery, but he could see nothing moving. No sign of the enemy — yet. Surely they would be making their move soon. Why else would the artillery have stopped?

  "Lincoln!"

  He turned to see Sgt. Sandquist approaching. In the four days since he'd joined the 49th, Oliver had avoided everyone who didn't have the authority to give him orders, but that didn't include Sandquist. Sandquist stopped in front of him.

  "Rabbit 6 isn't responding," he said briskly. "Maybe their radio is dead, or they may be in trouble. Take two men and go check it out." He handed Oliver a portable helmet radio. "If they need this, give it to them. If they're hurt, call for medical evac and take over for them."

  Oliver frowned. "Doing what?"

  "Watching for the enemy. Our spy drones have been knocked out, so we need eyes and ears down there to warn us if the Sirians are coming this way. I'll send you a relief in a couple of hours."

  Why me? Oliver didn’t ask. "What do I do if the enemy shows up?" he asked instead.

  "Sound the alarm and then get the hell back here." Sandquist held up a pocket computer with a map of the area and pointed out Rabbit 6. "Move out," he said.

  Oliver nodded. "Who should I take with me?"

  The men on either side of him suddenly tried to look invisible, but Sandquist pointed twice, and Oliver had his team. He hefted his Scandi and eyed the two men, who carried laser rifles. They both looked about nineteen.

  "What's your name?" he asked them.

  "Gustafsen."

  "Danmark."

  "I'm Lincoln. Let's go."

  Rabbit 6 was an observation post several hundred yards down-slope and to the right of where Oliver was standing. Gustafsen and Danmark followed as he picked his way down the slope and found a foot trail that twisted off to the right, nakedly aware that he was visible to anyone on the opposite ridge. After a few minutes the trail led them into the lee of a low, rocky finger ridge that paralleled the main trench line and offered cover from enemy eyes. Above them, the Vegan lines were clearly visible.

  Ten minutes later, panting from tension, he stopped and looked up at the outcrop where Rabbit 6 should be. He could see nothing moving, but that meant nothing. He glanced at his two companions, who stared back at him with wide eyes.

  "On your toes," he said, and they both nodded.

  Oliver gripped his rifle tightly, the sling wrapped around his left wrist, and began the short climb to the OP.

  They were probably all right, he told himself. Maybe a little shell shocked, maybe just scared. Maybe…

  He climbed to within ten feet of the observation post and stopped.

  "Princess!" he called, hoping to hear the countersign. He waited a moment, then repeated the password. "Princess!"

  No answer.

  He glanced at his companions again, gave them a hand signal to be alert, then pulled himself up the last few feet and looked into what had been designated as Rabbit 6. It reminded him of the nest from which he'd sniped his first SE men; originally it had been camouflaged, but artillery had blown the cover away.

  He saw four men lying sprawled in violent death. A nearby shell crater told the whole story. One of those random artillery shells had done its work; the blood was so thick he could smell it.

  "Christ!" he muttered.

  He waved the other two forward and crawled into Rabbit 6, trying to keep from getting soaked in blood. By the time Gustafsen and Danmark joined him, he'd checked all four bodies. They were dead.

  Feeling slightly sick, Oliver chinned his helmet mike and reported back to Sgt. Sandquist.

  "Okay, Lincoln, you take over that position," Sandquist told him. "Report anything you see, no matter how trivial."

  Fuck! Oliver turned to the Vegans.

  "Move those bodies into a corner and shovel some dirt over the blood. We have to stay here until they send us relief."

  Pale with horror, the two youthful Vegans set to work. Oliver knelt against the side of the OP and peered across the ravine below. Rabbit 6 sat on top of the finger ridge that protected the trail he'd followed. The finger extended another hundred yards to his right before dropping off sharply. The ravine below was wooded and obscured; a thousand men could be hiding in there without being seen. Oliver wished he had a spy drone to send out, but …

  Wish in one hand and shit in the other, he thought.

  He shouldered his Scandi and peered through the scope, carefully traversing the terrain in search of enemy activity. He saw nothing.

  After a few minutes he settled down and closed his eyes, wondering what the hell to do now. The two Vegans finished shoveling dirt and turned their eyes on him.

  "All done, sir," one of them told him.

  Oliver opened his eyes. "I'm not a sir," he replied. "I'm just a private."
/>
  "Yes, sir."

  It must be the age difference, he decided. When you're nineteen, anyone over twenty looks elderly.

  A sharp electronic beeping made him jerk upright. His heart pounding, he traced the source of the noise and, digging in the blood-soaked dirt, uncovered a portable alarm. He recognized it as a spy-drone detector, and realized the dead Vegans must have brought it with them. Oliver brushed it off and peered at the screen. A flashing pinpoint of light indicated where a spy drone had been detected, and he twisted around to look in that direction. He saw nothing.

  But he remembered the last time he'd been in an outpost that was detected.

  "Over the side!" he shouted. "Quick!"

  Gustafsen and Danmark hastily followed him down the side of Rabbit 6 to the trail. Oliver looked around quickly, then bolted to the left, away from the OP toward the point where the finger ended. The trio had barely made forty yards when an artillery salvo ripped into the observation post, the concussion forcing them to the ground.

  "Goddess!" Gustafsen gasped, "what do we do now, sir?"

  Oliver grimaced as he picked himself up and looked at the mushrooms of smoke rising from Rabbit 6. They dared not return there, he thought, but he had a feeling Sgt. Sandquist wouldn't appreciate their return to the trench. He'd ordered them to keep an eye out for the enemy until relieved. He motioned for the others to follow him, and continued down the finger until the trail dropped off toward the ravine.

  At the end of the trail he crouched behind an outcrop of boulders, catching his breath while he surveyed the ravine. He still saw nothing …

  But he heard sounds not far away; the dull clank of metal on metal, the scrape of booted feet. Did he hear men panting from exertion?

  His mouth turned dry.

  He stared at his companions and motioned them to stay down. Carefully, he took two steps forward and peered around the boulders.

  The trail picked up again at the end of the finger, sloping steeply down toward the ravine. For about twenty yards the trail was exposed, flanked by rocks and deep grass. Struggling up the trail in plain view were at least forty Confederate soldiers, heads down, grunting with exertion as they scrambled upward.

  For one awful moment, Oliver was frozen by indecision. There was no time to turn back — if they ran, they'd never make it. He ducked back out of sight for a few seconds, twisted the strap around his left wrist and stepped out again, the rifle at his shoulder. The nearest Sirians were only ten yards away.

  He took quick aim and fired, killing the fourth man in line. Sirian heads sprang up, but before they could react, Oliver fired again, then again. The second and third men dropped; those down-slope began to scramble for cover, diving off the trail. But the point man was still on his feet, swinging his weapon toward Oliver. Oliver shot him in the face, then ducked back as laser rifles began to chip the boulder next to him. He could hear an officer shouting orders.

  Gustafsen and Danmark squatted beside him, uncertain what to do.

  "Grenades," Oliver told them. "Two each. When I give the signal, we all stand up and you throw." He shoved a fresh magazine into his rifle, then glanced at the others. "Ready?"

  The laser fire had stopped, but Oliver knew the Sirians would be making some kind of move any moment. He nodded.

  "Now!"

  All three men leaped to their feet. As Gustafsen and Danmark heaved their grenades, Oliver spotted two men creeping up the trail toward him, trying to get into a better position. He fired twice, dropping them both, then ducked again as fresh laser fire smoked past his face. The grenades erupted with a roar, and he heard screams.

  He chinned his helmet mike.

  "This is Lincoln. I need artillery support one hundred yards south of Rabbit 6. I have a platoon of Sirians pinned down, but I can't hold them."

  Sandquist's voice came back at once. "Stand by."

  Oliver stood up and fired again, no targets this time, just to keep the Sirians occupied. He ducked quickly as more laser fire chirped past, and ten seconds later the first salvo of shells from Vegan parabola guns thumped down on the trail.

  Oliver heard fresh screams from the Sirians, and a quick peek told him the shells had landed in exactly the right place.

  "Perfect!" he told Sandquist over his helmet radio. "Right on target! Fire for effect!"

  Fifteen seconds later the next salvo landed, then a steady rain of P-gun fire began to hammer the trail. Oliver quickly turned to his companions.

  "Let's get the fuck out of here!"

  As he hurried back up the trail alongside the finger, Oliver could still hear shells falling behind him. Ironically, he could also hear the muffled thumping of the P-guns from up on the hillside. The sun was behind the mountains now and shadow filled the valley between the ridges, the bunkers along the trench lines in sharp relief against the sky.

  Oliver was halfway back to where he'd descended from the trench, his companions hot on his heels, when the finger beside him suddenly erupted with explosions. He dove into a shell crater beside the trail and waited, panting heavily. Gustafsen and Danmark landed beside him, grunting with exertion.

  "Sergeant Sandquist!" Oliver said into his helmet mike, "those P-guns are hitting right above us! What the hell are they doing?"

  "Keep your head down, Lincoln," Sandquist came back. "Rabbit 4 called it in. The Sirians are coming up the other side of that finger in force. Rabbit 4 is pulling out."

  Shit!

  "What do you want us to do?" Oliver asked, feeling sweat crawl down his face like the tracks of a caterpillar.

  Before Sandquist could answer, a heavy laser began chirping rapidly from a bunker directly to Oliver's left, the bright bolts of light streaking into the top of the finger. Seconds later, two heavy machine guns joined in, their tracers arcing over his head like fireflies.

  "Use your best judgment," Sandquist said reluctantly. "If you think you can make it back, go ahead, but make sure our people know who you are."

  "Yes, sir." Oliver killed the connection. And how the hell do we do that? he wondered.

  "What do we do now, sir?" Danmark asked, plainly terrified.

  Oliver peered out of the shell crater in all directions, trying to see what they were up against. The climb to the nearest trench line from this point was at least five hundred feet, with very little cover. The little finger to his right was perhaps fifty feet, but the enemy was coming from that direction and it was under fire. The trail stretched out ahead and behind him, but if the Sirians were attacking in force, it could be overrun at any point in just a few minutes. With a chill of cold dread, Oliver realized they had nowhere to go. The shell crater, perhaps four feet deep, offered them the best hope for the moment. Oliver pulled a trenching tool off his belt and began digging.

  "Make this hole deeper," he said. He pointed back the way they'd come. "Anything coming up that trail will be Sirian, but don't fire unless you have to. They see your laser fire, it'll bring them right down on top of us."

  "Sir," Danmark gulped, "you mean we just sit here and do nothing?"

  "There's only three of us," Oliver pointed out. "So the answer is yes. For now, anyway."

  It was like a ringside seat at a sporting event. As the gloom gathered in the valley, the volume of fire increased. Several columns of Sirians — an indeterminate number of men — began to assault Vegan positions at various points. The situation changed from minute to minute, P-gun and laser fire shifting from here to there to meet the challenge. The shells falling on the finger above Oliver suddenly ceased; Oliver saw three men from Rabbit 4 scramble down from the top and begin running in the other direction. Minutes later, Sirians appeared against the darkening sky and began working their way down toward the trail.

  "Sergeant, this is Lincoln. I can see Sirians about sixty yards in front of me, on the trail right below Rabbit 4. If you can get artillery on them I can spot for you."

  "Stand by, Lincoln."

  Oliver waited, hardly daring to breathe. Behind him, Gustafsen was pra
ying to Sophia.

  Six mortar shells crashed into the trail barely thirty yards away. Oliver ducked as dirt cascaded down into the crater.

  "Drop your range forty yards!" he told Sandquist. "Fire for effect!"

  From higher on the hill to his left, he thought he heard the P-guns coughing, and seconds later a fresh barrage began to land. He heard Sirians yelling along the trail, and saw others scrambling back up the finger.

  "Shift your fire onto Rabbit 4 and keep hittin' 'em!" he radioed.

  The fire shifted a few seconds later and continued to drop for five minutes. When it stopped, he saw nothing moving around Rabbit 4, but it was almost dark and he couldn't be sure. He peered through his sniper scope, setting it to night vision, but still saw nothing moving.

  A half-hour passed. Full darkness settled over the valley, stars glittering in the sky. The entire experience became surreal, as if Oliver were in some vast amusement park, sitting on an island in the center, watching the special effects happen around him. A gentle breeze broke up the sounds, making things even more surreal. Flashes broke the darkness now and then, occasional gunfire sounded like firecrackers in the distance. The distant sound of yelling men faded in and out. Oliver realized he was hungry, but had no rations with him.

  "Sir," Gustafsen asked, "do you think we can make it up to the trench now? Things have quieted down some."

  Oliver had been thinking about it. A short time earlier he'd inserted an infrared contact into his left eye, ordering the others to do the same. Now they could see body-heat signatures as long as no powerful heat sources occluded them.

  "We might," he said quietly, "but I'm afraid our own people will think we're Sirians. If they do, we'd be history in a hurry."

  "The guys from Rabbit 4 made it," Danmark said helpfully.

  "How do you know?" Oliver asked pointedly. "Did you see them reach the top?"