Steel Gauntlet

by David Sherman

  The fight was over. They’d been in the butcher shop for ten seconds.

  Claypoole rose to his feet and shuddered. It had been close, closer than it should have been. He looked at the man in the back of the shop and saw Linsman’s knife being pulled out of his throat.

  “He saw you, didn’t see me,” Linsman said as he wiped the blood off his knife on the man’s gray shirt. “I threw my knife. He was sure surprised. So was I. That trick hardly ever works, even in the gym.”

  Claypoole shook his head, smiled.

  Then Linsman got on the comm unit to report their kill. Third platoon successfully killed all seven of the observation posts assigned to it. Killed: all twenty-seven of the Diamundean tankers were dead, no prisoners. The infantrymen of 34th FIST assembled in platoons a block beyond the arena’s surrounding open areas, and platoon sergeants checked their platoons’ loads of antitank weapons. Company L was the main assault force and would approach from the south. If they needed help, K Company was to the west and would come to their aid. Mike Company was stationed east of the arena to kill any tanks that broke out and tried to escape. The Marines heard tank engines rumbling from the direction of the arena.

  There was no time now. They didn’t know how often the OPs were supposed to report in, or where they were in the reporting cycle. As soon as the platoons were all assembled, Company L moved out at a trot, straight down the streets toward the arena. Each platoon carried a dozen Straight Arrows. Not enough to kill an entire company, but Commander Van Winkle didn’t think the Diamundeans would stand and fight to the last tank. Either they’d surrender or they’d try to run. If they ran, there were two more companies of tank-killing Marines waiting to stop them.

  But the tanks of Company F, 687th Tank Battalion weren’t going to simply wait in the arena for someone to show up. Before Company L was in position, tanks began pouring from the arena.

  “Take cover!” Vanden Hoyt ordered on his all-hands circuit. He dropped next to a wall and stared forward in horror and disbelief. The tanks were rolling out of the arena. A whole platoon, maybe more, was already in the open space between his platoon and the building they were supposed to assault. A squad of the tanks were already entering the street in front of his lead men.

  “First squad, kill the point tank,” Vanden Hoyt said urgently. Sergeant Hyakowa, directly behind Corporal Leach and the first fire team, said, “Chief, kill the point.” He used his infras to see where the first fire team’s rocket carriers were, then rolled into the middle of the street to get out of the way of the Straight Arrow’s backblast.

  Schultz was already up on one knee, his rocket tube resting on his shoulder. “Mine,” he said.

  “Get him,” Leach agreed.

  Dean dove away from Schultz. He’d already been scorched by an S.A.’s backblast, he wasn’t going to let it happen again. The tank was almost too close to safely fire the rocket, but Schultz ignored the behemoth and took careful aim at the seam where the gun mount met the front glacis. He fired. The rocket struck the front of the tank. The depleted uranium casing of the warhead punched straight through the 300mm-thick armor and spewed globules of molten metal into the interior. The driver was densely speckled by the fiery liquid all up and down one side. His death was agonizing but quick. The gunner got the full force of the round when it bored through his belly, so he never knew he was dying. The tank commander, standing up in the hatch, was hit repeatedly in the front of his legs. He screamed and tried to lift himself out of the turret, but was flamed by a shot from Hyakowa’s blaster. Hyakowa leaped to his feet and raced away from the still moving tank. The tank’s other two crewmen lived a tiny fraction of a second longer before the exploding ammunition box tore them apart. The tank bounced up from the force of the explosion. Its turret was jarred loose when it hit the ground and it canted but didn’t come off.

  On the other side of the street Eagle’s Cry shouted, “Let’s go,” as soon as he saw the turret wasn’t going to land on anyone running by it. He broke past his second fire team and led the way. “Here!” he ordered, and stopped in the middle of the street directly in front of the dead tank. The five men of his squad who were on foot joined him. Directly in front of them the second tank in the column, a TP1, was trying to back up but was blocked by the tanks behind it.

  “Oh, shit,” Corporal Saleski exclaimed. Bladon had a tank, he wanted one too. “Second fire team, let’s take that tank.”

  “NO!” Eagle’s Cry shouted, but Saleski ignored him. Watson and Clement ran with their fire team leader. None of the three believed that even if the tankers had infras and could see them that they’d be able to bring their guns to bear and shoot them before they were on the tank.

  The tankers didn’t bother with infras or aiming, they just started firing their plasma guns. A burst from the commander’s gun turned Saleski and Clement into ash. The turret gun swept the back of the dead tank and around its right side. It flamed Eagle’s Cry and sent Linsman and Claypoole, who were just rounding the left corner of the tank, staggering back. Leach was leading his fire team along the side of the tank when the gun fired and he took the full force of the plasma spray.

  Claypoole, who had been behind Linsman, recovered first. He quickly glanced to his rear to make sure no one was in his backblast area, then fired his rocket. The second tank belched loudly, then burst at its seams. Watson barely jumped off it in time. The concussion from the explosion slammed him down and rolled him violently into the gutter, where he lay still.

  Behind the rest of the platoon, Bladon stood tall in the hatch of his tank. Coolly, he directed Goudanis to fire the main gun and gave him aiming adjustments as the medium’s main gun drilled rounds into the tanks trying to exit the arena.

  Six more men from third platoon managed to reach spots where they could fire their Straight Arrows. They killed five more tanks. First and second platoons didn’t have tanks coming up their streets. They reached open ground without resistance and fired all their rockets.

  The fourteen tanks of Company F, 687th Tank Battalion, that weren’t killed by the Marines in the first three minutes of the uneven battle tried to run. They ran right into Mike Company. None of the tanks or their crews survived the encounter.

  Chapter 21

  “Admiral,” General Aguinaldo said late in the afternoon of D plus one. The Marine commander had bulled his way past the phalanx of officers and enlisted men who were supposed to keep people—most particularly, angry Marine generals—out of Admiral Wimbush’s office. “I have committed all of my infantry and aircraft to the fight in Oppalia. All I have remaining to commit is my artillery, which the rules of engagement forbid me to use. So far my Marines have killed close to half of the armored brigade that was holding the city. But the cost has been severe.” He planted his fists on Wimbush’s desk and leaned dominantly over the senior officer.

  Wimbush leaned back in his chair and did his best not to look cowed. He wished his chair wasn’t bolted to the deck so he could move it back a few inches.

  “One of my platoons has lost six men dead and two others so badly wounded they’re out for the duration,” Aguinaldo went on. “That’s eight men out of the thirty who were in that platoon when it went planetside.” He didn’t mention that no other platoon had suffered as severely as third platoon, Company L, 34th FIST, nor did he mention that this one platoon had killed at least fourteen tanks and captured three others. “My remaining Marines can kill the rest of that brigade, but there are three armored divisions within easy striking distance of the city. The navy doesn’t have enough aircraft left to stop them if they move. I need help down there, and I need it now. If the Diamundean divisions move on the city, they will overrun the landing force. Then we will have no planethead and this operation will fail. “Have I made myself perfectly clear, Admiral?”

  “General—” Wimbush began. His voice squeaked and he cleared his throat for another try. “General, Third Corps can begin feeding its divisions to the surface tomorrow. Can you hold out that lon
g?” He did his best to look like the man in command—which he didn’t feel he was—rather than a supplicant.

  “If those three Diamundean divisions don’t move, yes. But if they do, there is no way my Marines can hold. And those tanks can move at any time, even before the army lands its first soldier tomorrow.”

  “I understand this, General. I’ll have General Han get cracking on it right away.” Wimbush cleared his throat again to cover the swallow he took to ease the dryness.

  Aguinaldo stood up. “Tomorrow,” he said flatly. “At the earliest. I’m losing Marines even as we speak, Admiral. We might not have a planethead for those soldiers to land on tomorrow. I request permission to land my artillery.” Wimbush opened his mouth to tell the Marine he couldn’t do that, but Aguinaldo kept talking and wouldn’t let him speak. “Thank you, Admiral. I will have my artillery commence landing immediately. We can save the situation yet. Sir, when you need me, you will find me planetside, directing my forces. I will accompany the artillery down.” Without waiting for a reply, he made an about-face and marched from Admiral Wimbush’s office.

  Wimbush sat for several long seconds, the fear and uncertainty he felt quivering his body. This Diamundean situation was totally out of hand. St. Cyr was far better equipped than anybody had any idea. The operation was about to become a disaster, if it wasn’t already. At best, the court of inquiry he was going to face would demand his retirement. At worst, they would recommend a court-martial. He cleared his throat again and spoke a couple of soft words to himself to make sure his voice worked, then called out, “Yeoman, get General Han for me. On the double.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” barked the petty officer first class who ran the admiral’s errands.

  Ensign Vanden Hoyt wanted to withdraw third platoon so it could lick its wounds and they could hold a memorial service for the six Marines it had lost. Four men dead in a matter of seconds. He shuddered. And he’d already lost two men killed and two others severely wounded. That casualty rate simply didn’t happen to a Marine platoon. The Confederation armed forces itself was almost the only power in Human Space that had weaponry capable of inflicting that level of casualties on shielded Marines. In the twelve years he’d been in the Corps, he’d never seen a platoon lose eight men on an entire campaign, much less four in one firefight. Vanden Hoyt dropped his helmet, then plopped down under a tree near the secured arena and hugged his knees to his chest. The veteran Marine found himself on the verge of tears. Six men dead in his platoon, and they’d been planetside for less than a day and a half. What kind of leader was he that he could lose that many men? He was the platoon commander, and his men and their lives were his responsibility. He had failed his men, he must have been somehow derelict in his duty. He should see Captain Conorado and get himself relieved of command.

  A short distance away, Gunnery Sergeant Bass said, “Take over the platoon, Wang. Deploy them for defense.”

  Sergeant Hyakowa followed Bass’s gaze, saw the platoon commander’s half-hidden head, and nodded. “Sure thing, boss.” Then into his comm unit: “Squad leaders up.” He swore at himself. Second squad didn’t have a squad leader anymore. “Bladon up,” he added, calling the senior fire team leader from second squad.

  Bass took off his helmet and sat next to Vanden Hoyt. For a long moment neither man spoke. Bass waited for the younger man to become aware of his presence, and to give him time to compose himself.

  “They were good Marines,” Bass finally said. “Good men too.”

  Vanden Hoyt’s nod was almost hidden from view.

  “Every man in this platoon lost friends today. Most of us have lost friends before.” He paused, wondering whether he should say the next thing on his mind, decided he should. “We’ll all lose friends again. We’re Marines. Marines fight. When men fight, men die. That’s the way it goes.”

  “It’s my fault,” Vanden Hoyt said, so softly that Bass almost had to ask him to repeat himself.

  “It’s not your fault. Eagle’s Cry got overconfident. So did Saleski. That’s why they died. For a moment, just a moment, they thought their chameleons gave them invulnerability instead of lending them invisibility. They exposed themselves to weapons that could overwhelm their shields.”

  “Right. And if I’d done a better job, they wouldn’t have made that slip. It’s my fault.”

  Bass nearly snapped. He felt the loss of the six as deeply as Vanden Hoyt did, probably more deeply—he’d known those Marines longer, been on more operations with them, pulled liberty and leave with them. They weren’t just men he led, they were friends as well, Marines he knew and respected.

  “Mr. Vanden Hoyt,” he said sharply, “neither of us was in a position to see what second squad was doing. Even if one of us had, it happened so fast we couldn’t have done anything to keep those Marines from dying. It’s not your fault, it’s not my fault, it’s nobody’s fault. Men get killed in combat, Marines get killed. That’s all there is to it.”

  “It’s the leader’s responsibility. That makes it my fault.”

  “The leader on the scene, the only leader with the immediate capability of controlling the situation, was Eagle’s Cry. Following your logic, that means it was his fault.” Bass hated saying that. “But that’s false logic.”

  Vanden Hoyt turned red-rimmed eyes toward Bass. “In less than a day and a half this platoon has lost six men dead. I’ve never seen such heavy casualties. It doesn’t happen.”

  This time Bass did snap. He twisted to face the ensign, grabbed the front of his shirt and shook him. “Mr. Vanden Hoyt, straighten yourself out. It does happen. A couple of years ago I was with a reinforced platoon that was nearly wiped out in one firefight that didn’t last much longer than the fight we just had. Nobody got blamed for that one. Shit happens, Ensign. And when it does, we wipe it off and keep going.”

  Vanden Hoyt looked at him, shocked. He didn’t know whether he was more shocked by being grabbed and shaken or by what Bass said about a reinforced platoon being nearly wiped out. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. He didn’t know what to say. He shook himself, then sat erect, took hold of Bass’s hand and removed it from his shirt.

  “Gunnery Sergeant, is the platoon properly deployed?” he finally asked.

  “Properly deployed for defense, sir.” Relief was audible in Bass’s voice.

  “Then carry on. We have a job to finish.” He picked up his helmet and stood.

  “Aye aye, sir.” Bass also stood. He put his helmet on as he stood up, nodded at Vanden Hoyt, then looked around for Hyakowa.

  Vanden Hoyt watched Bass walk away. The platoon sergeant was right, he realized, they had a job to finish, and this was no time to quit. But the lives of his Marines were his responsibility. He still felt he had been derelict in fulfilling his duties. When the war was over, he thought that he might tender his resignation. He’d have to give that very serious consideration.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a call from company headquarters for the platoon commanders and platoon sergeants to assemble.

  “Artillery’s joining us,” Captain Conorado said as soon as his senior men were assembled. “The first batteries have already landed and are taking positions behind their respective FIST lines. Company L has been assigned security for the general support battery.” The general support battery had bigger guns than the direct support batteries that were part of the FISTs. By changing barrels and breech inserts, they could fire 75mm, 145mm, or 200mm high explosive or penetrating rounds. They could also mount assemblies to fire plasma bolts that were the largest science and engineering could make work under battlefield conditions. The general support batteries were the most destructive weapons in the Marine arsenal. The platoon commanders and platoon sergeants looked at each other with wonder. General support batteries were rarely committed to combat. “You will meet the Golf Sierra battery when it lands and escort it to its position. Here’s a map of where Golf Sierra is going to set up and your assigned positions around it.” Conorado transmitt
ed the HUD map. “Save it and pass it along to your squad leaders. We will be resupplied with Straight Arrows at the spaceport. Any questions?”

  “How soon will the Dragons get here?” the first platoon commander asked.

  Conorado cocked his head, listening to a growing drone. “Sounds like they’re arriving now. You better get back to your platoons.”

  They went.

  Captain Hormujh was exultant following the destruction his makeshift battalion wreaked on the two expeditionary airfields. He wanted to continue wreaking havoc on the invaders. Despite his impatience to keep bringing the battle to the Confederation Marines, he took his battalion to ground at Lieutenant Colonel Namur’s order. The brigade commander promised him that his battalions would shortly launch a counterattack. Hormujh’s battalion, Namur said, would best serve by attacking the enemy’s rear once it was engaged from the front. Hormujh had to agree with Namur on that. But it was the brigade commander’s plan of action, rather than his superior rank, that compelled Hormujh to quell his impatience and take his battalion into hiding.

  Finally, the order for the counterattack was given. Hormujh fought to slow his breathing, suddenly rapid from the adrenaline surge that met the order. He looked at his watch and tried to make the time move faster by force of his will. The minutes ticked by slowly until the fifteen minutes he was to wait passed and he could finally give the order to move out. His first objective was the spaceport, where there had been much activity for the past three-quarters of an hour. If the Confederation forces were feeding in reinforcements, their landing had to be disrupted as quickly as possible, and the reinforcements already on the ground had to be mangled before they got organized. If supplies were being landed, he would destroy them before they could be distributed.