Steel Gauntlet

by David Sherman

  “Assault gunners, aim up. We’ll try to discourage them when they come down again.” He didn’t know at what altitude the Raptors opened fire, he hadn’t even seen how low they got before they stopped their plummet. He suspected it was beyond the effective range of the assault guns. Still, seeing fire coming at them might make the pilots lose concentration on their aiming and cause them to miss. One might even lose control and crash.

  He saw the Raptors break orbit.

  “There, that didn’t hurt, did it?” Lieutenant Commander Ragrun asked when all of his Raptors were orbiting. “Any educated guesses as to how many we killed?”

  “I think we got them all,” Ensign Prowel said.

  “I don’t know. They’re awful tough,” Ensign Franks said. “They’ll probably be ready next time and flame some of us.”

  Ragrun gritted his teeth. He really should relieve that Franks, he thought. But a man deserved every possible chance. So far he hadn’t allowed any bad guys to get away. Ragrun was about to give the order to make another strike when Lieutenant Cehawk’s voice broke into the circuit.

  “Hellcat Leader, this is Hellcat Two. We found the main body. They’re approaching the east entrance to the pass.”

  Ragrun thought for all of a second. Their orders were to hit the division’s van. Well, they’d done that. One damaged company wasn’t going to be much threat to the Marines at Oppalia. They could hurt the enemy more by striking the main body. If the main body was close enough to the entrance of the pass, they might be able to destroy enough of the front tanks to block the entrance, and that would do the most good.

  “Hellcats,” Ragrun ordered, “break orbit and form on me east. We’re going after the main body.”

  Chapter 17

  The admirals and generals assembled at fourteen hours for an updated situation report.

  “Benny,” Admiral Wimbush said to Rear Admiral Benton Havens, the Fleet Air Arm commander, “your Raptors went in first, so you begin. What have your attack planes done, what are they doing now?” Wimbush carefully avoided looking at the Marine generals; he didn’t want to face the glares they were giving him.

  “Thank you, sir,” Benton said. He stood and walked to the map display. “As you can see”—he pressed buttons on the display’s console, and a map appeared showing the 420,000-square-kilometer theater of conflict—“we effectively destroyed the Diamundean air forces during the two-day air campaign prior to the amphibious landing.” A chart appeared on the right side of the display. It showed an hour-by-hour tally of contacts between navy Raptors and Diamundean aircraft and the results of those contacts. The numbers were impressive. In two days of conflict, Fleet Air claimed 230 contacts that resulted in 539 Diamundean aircraft shot down against the loss of only six navy Raptors. Equally telling was the frequency and spacing of contacts—they were most frequent during the middle of the first day, then declined until there weren’t any at all during the last ten hours before the Marines landed. Havens pressed more buttons, and symbols appeared on the map. Yellow dots indicated contacts that resulted in no kills; red and yellow flames showed enemy aircraft shot down; red X’s showed navy Raptors that were knocked out of the air. There were almost as few yellow dots as there were red X’s.

  “Well, Benny, it certainly looks like your people have done their job.”

  The grinding of General Aguinaldo’s teeth was quite audible in the briefing room.

  “What are they doing now?” Wimbush continued, as though he hadn’t heard Aguinaldo’s teeth.

  “Sir, I have eight squadrons on combat air patrols looking for any Diamundean aircraft foolish enough to take to the air.” He pressed more buttons. The contact symbols disappeared and eight curving lines representing the combat air patrols took their place. “The CAPS aren’t having any luck, so they’re being diverted to attack Diamundean armored columns whenever one is spotted moving toward Oppalia.” He pressed another button and seven red and yellow flames appeared. “That’s where we made interceptions.”

  “How many tanks have your Raptors killed?” Wimbush asked eagerly.

  Havens paused before replying. Should he give the possibly inflated numbers his squadron commanders reported, or should he give the probably more realistic numbers his intelligence chief developed? He decided to look good. “Sir, my squadron commanders report 157 tanks killed, mostly TP1s. “ He paused again, this time for dramatic effect. “Gentlemen, that’s an entire battalion of armor destroyed from the air before it could get into position to engage our Marines.”

  “And they’re still hitting the tanks?”

  “When I left my command center to come to this meeting, three of my squadrons were engaging enemy armor. I did not include those engagements or their results in the report I just gave.”

  Admiral Wimbush nodded. “Impressive numbers, Admiral. Thank you.” He sighed with relief. At least Air was doing its job. He turned to Rear Admiral David Johannes, the Fleet intelligence officer.

  “Admiral Johannes, can you give us an update, please.”

  Davey Jones Johannes cleared his throat and touched a finger to his collar as though he meant to loosen it, but changed his mind at the last instant. He stood up facing Wimbush, but didn’t step to the front of the room to operate the map display console or look at the admirals and generals while he give his report.

  “Sir, the First Armored Division at the Tourmaline mining complex has come out as we suspected it might. But either it is weaker than we thought or it didn’t sally in full force. It seems to have only two brigades instead of the three we expected.” He flinched when Major General Daly, the Marine assault commander, snorted, but went on. “The Second Armored Division has not moved from its defensive positions around New Kimberly. Another unit, which we have tentatively identified as the Fourth Armored Division—” Professor Benjamin barked a laugh. Johannes flicked his eyes in his direction but didn’t turn his head far enough to see him. “—has moved from its concealed positions in abandoned mines in the Crankshaft sector and is moving toward Oppalia. It is currently stalled 250 kilometers south of the landing beaches, where two of Admiral Havens’s squadrons are engaging it. What we think is the Ninth Armored Division is rounding the north end of Rourke’s Hills and is about six hours from Oppalia. I believe Admiral Havens has a squadron on its way to intercept that division.” He looked at the air commander, who nodded. “The 15th Heavy Division, which is comprised of tanks and self-propelled artillery units, is moving into position to intercept any forces that land at Debeers Drift.” He stopped talking and waited uncomfortably for a question.

  “Thank you, Admiral,” Wimbush said somberly. He still refused to look at the Marine commanders. “General Han, how are your landing preparations proceeding?” Admiral Johannes sat greatly relieved at not being asked about the origin of those four additional divisions.

  The army commander rose to his feet and stepped to the front of the room. The intelligence screw-ups weren’t his fault, he didn’t need to be afraid to face the Marines. “Sir, I have every expectation that at dawn on the day after tomorrow, Third Corps will have its first elements on the ground. By the end of the day, Third Corps will be driving the four—” He looked at Johannes. “It’s four now, isn’t that right? Third Corps will be pushing the four divisions now closing on Oppalia back into the hinterlands. Or I should say the remnants of those four divisions. Between Benny’s squadrons and my soldiers, four divisions will have a very short life expectancy. Two days later, Ninth Corps will be on the ground. If Third Corps hasn’t had the opportunity to do it by then, Ninth Corps will destroy the Second Armored Division and occupy New Kimberly. I believe that should end this war.”

  “So nothing has changed in your plans or preparations?” Wimbush asked hopefully.

  “Nothing, sir. Everything is proceeding as expected.”

  “Thank you, General.” General Han resumed his seat.

  Admiral Wimbush could no longer avoid looking at the Marines. “General Aguinaldo, the seaport
and spaceport have been secured, is that correct?”

  General Aguinaldo stood and marched to the front of the room; Major General Daly marched with him. The Marines assumed positions of parade rest, feet spread, hands clasped behind their backs. Aguinaldo fixed the assembled admirals and generals with the kind of look that general officers normally only use on incompetent subordinates who they are about to relieve of command.

  “Sir,” Aguinaldo began, “the 13th and 34th FISTs have occupied the spaceport. The 19th and 225th FISTs have the seaport.”

  “Thank you, General—” Admiral Wimbush began, but Aguinaldo spoke over him and continued.

  “Admiral Johannes, get your people on the stick!” he snapped. The intelligence commander jerked as though struck, and his face turned a deep red. “The First Armored Division is neither weaker than previously believed nor did it leave part of its strength in the Tourmaline mining complex. The First Tank Brigade of the First Armored Division is in Oppalia. It greeted the first wave of my landing force. The four FISTs on the ground are fully engaged with a superior force of enemy armor.”

  He looked at General Han. “My Marines haven’t had a chance to break out their golf clubs yet.” Han had the grace to blush.

  “Ge-General, we—” Admiral Wimbush tried to interrupt. Aguinaldo shot him a look that shut up the top commander. Wimbush looked thoroughly flustered.

  “My Marines have been planetside for ten and a half hours. They have suffered nearly fifteen percent casualties.” He looked at Admiral Clark; nobody could tell if he was looking for confirmation or defying the Fleet surgeon to dispute his figure.

  “That’s right,” Clark said.

  Aguinaldo nodded at him. “At this point, the Diamundean forces have suffered worse casualties, but that’s only to be expected when anyone goes up against Marines. Our best intelligence, not my FIST commanders’ initial reports”—he looked pointedly at Admiral Havens, who flinched—“indicate we have destroyed 103 of the First Tank Brigade’s tanks. However, that leaves about three hundred more that my Marines are facing. The problem we have is, the assault waves went ashore with only 240 Straight Arrows. The four FISTs planetside only have ninety-seven S.A.’s remaining—not quite enough to kill one-third of the remaining tanks they’re sharing the city with.

  “If Major General Daly commits his remaining two FISTs, and I commit my Straight Arrow reserve, that will give the Marines planetside enough power to kill all but about thirty-five or forty of the remaining tanks—provided every shot scores a kill. Which leaves the landing force with nothing other than antipersonnel weapons with which to face the Diamundean armor that gets past Admiral Havens’s eight squadrons.

  “Gentlemen...” The way he said the word clearly indicated he thought they were anything but. “There is no way eight squadrons can stop three armored divisions—let alone however many more there may be that we don’t know about.” He glared at Johannes.

  “Now, at this moment, the Diamundean forces have broken off. We suspect they don’t realize how lightly armed my Marines are. But if they do sally forth, the infantry and Raptors of the four FISTs can probably defeat them, albeit with heavy losses. If they remain in hiding, I don’t have enough strength to dig them out, so the FISTs must remain in position waiting for the enemy to move. While they are waiting, the enemy gets reinforced. Those reinforcements will be powerful enough before D plus three for them to mount an attack, even if they think every Marine on the ground is carrying a tank-killing rocket. If that happens, I dare say Third Corps will be unable to make its landing.

  “We,” he dipped his head toward Daly, “are open to suggestions as to how to proceed.”

  None of the admirals or generals had any suggestions other than for the Marines to hang in there for another two days. But before the meeting was over, Rear Admiral Havens agreed to commit twelve of his sixteen squadrons to slowing down the advance of the three known divisions. General Han, believing they wouldn’t be needed later, offered to strip five hundred Straight Arrows from the IX Corps and give them to the Marines. “In a straight-up trade for golf clubs,” he added in what sounded entirely too much like gallows humor. Those promises secured, the Marines marched out without waiting for Admiral Wimbush to dismiss them.

  At sixteen hours the resupply of Straight Arrows reached 34th FIST. It took less than half an hour for the new rockets to be distributed to the infantry units. By then, third platoon was whole again, and Sergeant Hyakowa and the two squads with him had rejoined the company an hour earlier.

  Ensign Vanden Hoyt shook his head after he took delivery of sixteen tank killers. “Typical. They don’t give us enough to do the job until after we need them the most.”

  “And even then they don’t give us enough to finish the job,” Gunnery Sergeant Bass grumbled. Still, he was pleased by the delivery. Third platoon had only used four of its initial issue of twelve rockets. The platoon was down to twenty-eight men, including the two of them, after losing Corporal Lonsdorf and Lance Corporal Van Impe. Bass took one Straight Arrow for himself. The command element should be too busy with running the platoon to actively engage enemy tanks, he decided. Still, it was always possible they’d find themselves in a situation where they wouldn’t have a choice in the matter. “How do you want to distribute them?”

  Vanden Hoyt didn’t comment on the S.A. that Bass appropriated for himself. “The gun squad has the most to carry with its own weapons,” he said. “And it’s short a man. They still have one, right?”

  Bass nodded

  “Give guns to two of them. That way every man except the squad leader and the gunners will have one. Split the others between the blaster squads.”

  “Leaves us an extra.”

  “Who’s the best shot with them?”

  Bass thought for a moment. “Probably Dean and Claypoole.”

  “They’re in different squads. Give it to Eagle’s Cry, he hasn’t lost any men, right?”

  Bass nodded and spoke into the squad leaders’ circuit. “Squad leaders up. Hyakowa and Eagle’s Cry, bring a pack animal.”

  In a few moments the three squad leaders joined them. Hyakowa’s and Eagle’s Cry’s eyes lit up when they saw the stack of new rockets.

  “Now we get them!” Eagle’s Cry exclaimed. “Life would’ve been a lot easier earlier today if we had them to begin with.” He was both relieved and glad of the resupply.

  “Yeah,” Sergeant Kelly said dully. The death of Corporal Lonsdorf was weighing on him, even though he knew that having more Straight Arrows earlier probably wouldn’t have saved his life.

  Hyakowa was fully business. “How many do we each get?” He noticed that Bass had laid one at his side.

  “First squad, take six. Second squad gets seven,” Vanden Hoyt told them. “Guns gets two.”

  “Guns is the platoon’s heavy weapons,” Kelly snapped, suddenly angry. “How come we only get two? That gives me only three rockets for six men.”

  “Because you’ve got the guns,” Bass said calmly. “You’re already carrying extra firepower and weight.”

  “I’ve got four men who aren’t carrying the guns.” Kelly quickly scanned the stack of rockets and saw the odd number. “The guns are only good against tanks if they’re unbuttoned. There’s an extra. Let me have it.”

  Vanden Hoyt and Bass looked at each other. Bass gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  “You’ve got it,” Vanden Hoyt said.

  Kelly’s anger dissipated as quickly as it had overcome him. “Thanks,” he said.

  “That gives me eight rockets for my nine men,” Hyakowa said “Who doesn’t get one?”

  Bass fixed an eye on him. “If you don’t know your men well enough to decide that yourself, maybe I should make Leach the squad leader.”

  Hyakowa returned the look. “I know my men well enough,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t made up my mind for me.”

  Bass laughed.

  Eagle’s Cry turned to Godenov, the man he’d brought wit
h him. “Now you know why I needed a faithful gun bearer,” he told the PFC. “Pick up a load and let’s get back to the squad.”

  Godenov’s face twisted in a sour expression. Six Straight Arrows weighed more than fifty kilos. It wasn’t fair of Eagle’s Cry to expect him to carry all of that. But when he got to the pile of rockets and started to pick them up, Eagle’s Cry hefted three to carry himself. Godenov’s sour expression went away; his squad leader was an all-right guy.

  Twenty minutes later Vanden Hoyt was on the all-hands circuit giving the platoon the orders he’d just received. Thirty-fourth FIST was moving out. Now that they had enough tank killers to do the job, they were going to find where the 552nd Tank Battalion was hiding and kill it.

  Chapter 18

  Company B, 261st Tank Battalion, sped across the plain west of Rourke’s Hills, avoiding the highways and roads Captain Hormujh believed the Confederation Navy Raptors were searching. The forty operable tanks that remained in the company after the air attack in the pass would reach Oppalia in three-quarters of an hour. Every tank that had the capability—only seven of them—was searching the sky for aircraft, paying special attention to the swatch of sky directly overhead. Hormujh grew furious at the memory of that unexpected attack. Who would have suspected that anyone could strike that way? He wondered how many times a Raptor could survive the stresses of that maneuver before it began to fall apart. Enough, he decided—enough times to destroy his company.

  His tank’s communications man and that of his executive officer scanned the frequencies, searching for messages that would tell him what was going on elsewhere. He was particularly interested in the movement of the rest of the First Armored Division as it made its way through Rourke’s Hills. That movement was not orderly. He learned that the squadron that hit his company had moved off to attack the main body, and that squadron was relieved by two more squadrons. Many tanks—security concerns kept anyone from giving out numbers over the air—were killed by the attacking aircraft. Progress was piecemeal. Individual small units—battered companies, even platoons—made it into the pass and continued west, but the bulk of the two brigades was scattered east of the mountains, doing their best to evade fire from the attacking Raptors. A battalion or two had made it back to the base at Tourmaline and taken cover in the mines. Elsewhere, the Fourth and Ninth armored divisions were also having problems with Confederation Raptors. Only the Third Armored Division, slipping carefully along the west face of Rourke’s Hills, was moving unmolested. Somehow, Third Armor hadn’t yet been detected. Hormujh wondered how long that would last.