by Rick Shelley
In less than another minute, all but two of the shuttles were back in the air, burning for orbit. Lon had intended to keep his command shuttle on the ground, but the crew remained aboard, ready to use its weapons or try to escape if enemy fighters targeted it. One shuttle from 1st Battalion's Delta Company had experienced trouble landing, being flipped on its side when it skidded and hit a rock. No one aboard was seriously injured, but they were slow getting out of the box. By that time, 2nd Battalion and regimental headquarters had moved into their initial defensive posture, ready for any enemy attack on the ground or from the air. Lon was receiving reports from his three battalion commanders. All had hit their designated LZs north of University City. The lost shuttle had carried half of 3rd Battalion's Bravo Company, including the company commander and one of its two lieutenants.
Reports from CIC indicated that the enemy fighters that had come after the Dirigenter shuttles had broken off the pursuit. Instead of going after the empty landers heading back toward their ships, the New Spartan fighters were racing to protect their own ships. One of the New Spartan transports had been severely damaged by rockets fired from Shrike II fighters. The attacking pilots reported that one of the transport's Nilssen generator pods had been blown off the ship, meaning that it would be unable to jump to Q-space.
Three minutes after he had left his shuttle, Lon contacted Colonel Hayley. "We're on the ground, in position exactly where we're supposed to be, Bob. I lost one shuttle and the men it was carrying, one other shuttle damaged on the ground, no one lost from it. We've set up our initial perimeter and are not, repeat not, under attack. My 3rd Battalion reports that they can hear gunfire at a distance, closer to University City, but they're not part of it."
"I expect they're hearing the Elysian Defense Force. The EDF was to mount diversionary attacks to cover our landing," Hayley replied. "You were lucky, losing only one shuttle. Five of mine didn't make it in. That's more than half a battalion. Between us we've lost three companies before the fight even started. I've lost two company commanders and Tony Falworth." Falworth, the newest lieutenant colonel in 15th Regiment, had commanded its 2nd Battalion. "But we're on the ground, also in position, and not under attack. I'm going to need fifteen or twenty minutes to get the holes in our deployment covered, then we'll proceed as planned, start moving against them while we bring in the heavy-weapons people." Hayley hesitated. "And your 4th Battalion to make up for some of the losses."
The plan was for the two regiments to move in concert, toward each other, attempting to pincer the New Spartans, fragment their line, cutting as many holes as possible through the center. Seven battalions were to move toward the line of New Spartans, meshing like the teeth of a zipper.
"If this goes as planned," Lon told Phip Steesen, "the New Spartans won't have many options, and none of them good. If they try to withdraw one way or the other, we've still got them cut in two and can take our time rolling up their lines. If they bring men in from the sections we're not attacking, they still don't have the people to even the odds, and they leave themselves open to an easy flanking movement."
"I don't think they're going to fall in with our script," Phip replied. "They've made it clear they're not going to just roll over for us. That rocket artillery, they might start aiming it at us anytime if it's dual-purpose stuff, and I'd bet a month's pay it is."
"They can't keep it hidden while it's firing," Lon said. CIC had located the batteries that had fired at the incoming shuttles, but those batteries had gone silent, cutting all electronic emissions, as soon as they had launched. Undoubtedly they had started moving as well. Fire and move, or fire while moving, then cut emissions to make tracking more difficult—standard maneuvers. "And once we get our heavy weapons on the ground, we'll negate their advantage."
"If we get our guns and rockets in soon enough," Phip said.
They didn't. Two minutes later, CIC broadcast a warning that enemy rocket launchers were active. Lon warned his people to stay down, but none of the rocket fire came toward 7th Regiment. A heavy bombardment was directed entirely at 15th, located between the New Spartans and University City.
"At least six launchers involved," Lon told his battalion commanders, relaying word from CIC on Peregrine. "Looks like four-rack self-propelled carriages, and they're popping missiles out as fast as they can. So far 15th is catching all the hell, but don't let anyone get careless. The enemy might switch targets any minute. Be ready for anything. We might have to go looking for them."
Heavy artillery fire, either rockets or shells, was something that Lon had never been on the wrong end of. The closest he had come was mortar fire, so long ago that he had nearly forgotten that the incident had ever happened. Was it on Calypso or Aldrin? he asked himself. It was inconsequential at the moment, but he could not avoid thinking about it. Aldrin, I think. In between two colonies fighting to dominate the world.
Men were scraping out shallow trenches and piling the dirt around the edges. They worked quickly, knowing that every inch down they could go improved their chances of survival if their turn did come at the receiving end of enemy artillery fire.
Lon kept glancing at the timeline on his helmet's head-up display, waiting to hear that the order had been given to launch the shuttles carrying the HW battalions and 4th Battalion of 7th Regiment. I thought Bob was going to order them in right away, he thought, but he waited, not wanting to interrupt Hayley while his people were under bombardment. He won't forget. But as the minutes ticked past, Lon grew more concerned. The faster we get our guns on the ground, the faster we can go after those rocket launchers.
"Colonel Nolan?" The voice was a shout in Lon's ears, someone almost screaming into his radio transmitter. "Colonel Nolan, are you there?"
"I'm here. Who is this?"
"Fal Jensen, XO of 15th. Our regimental headquarters took a direct hit from one of those rockets, maybe two.
We're still trying to get to the casualties. Colonel Hayley is down. I'm not getting any signal from his helmet, not even vital signs. I don't know if he's dead or alive, but it looks like you're in command now, at least until… whenever." Jensen's report came out in one long burst, ending when he had to gasp for air.
"Okay, Fal. Take it easy," Lon said. "I'll link to CIC and get things going again. You take care of 15th. Let your battalion commanders know what's going on. Find out what shape Bob Hayley and his people are in and get back to me when you know something definite. I'll keep you in the loop, fast as I get things sorted out."
Lon heard the sound of someone gulping air before Lieutenant Colonel Jensen replied. "Yes, sir. I've got my sergeant talking to the battalion commanders now. The regimental lead sergeant is down, too, with Bob Hayley. I don't know how many others. I think two rockets must have hit pretty close together. Knocked out a lot of helmet electronics. That's why I can't be sure who's dead and who's alive. We've been hit hard, Colonel."
"Listen, Fal, I'm going to postpone the start of our offensive, give you more time to get set, but we can't wait too long. Twenty minutes from now, we move as planned. Give the enemy something to think about besides plinking us where we sit."
"Yes, sir, twenty minutes," Jensen said. Lon squeezed his eyes shut. Jensen still did not sound as if he were totally in control of himself. That could be a major problem.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A deep breath, let out slowly. Lon opened his eyes and looked around, a quick scan. I wasn't ready for this could not be an excuse, only a confession. He had to deal with the situation he had inherited, whether he was ready or not. Lon passed along the new timetable to his battalion commanders, then linked through to CIC aboard Peregrine. Four Shrike II fighters had already been vectored in to try to knock out the enemy's rocket artillery. Lon gave the order for the rest of the troops—and the weapons of the two heavy-weapons battalions—to be launched as quickly as escorts could be assembled. The tanks and self-propelled artillery were already loaded aboard their shuttles on Patton and Rommel. Their crews, and the men of 7t
h Regiment's remaining battalion, were moving toward the shuttles. It would be fifty minutes before they were all on the ground, and the heavy-weapons people would need five minutes to get their vehicles out of the shuttles and ready for action.
Call it an hour before everyone's on the ground and ready, Lon thought. The heavy-weapons battalions Would be landed west of University City, thirty miles from the nearest enemy units. At that distance, only the rocket batteries—ten vehicles in each battalion—would be able to take the enemy under fire immediately. The self-propelled howitzers needed to get within twenty miles, and the tanks' 125mm cannons had a maximum range of nine miles. Each heavy-weapons battalion had six 225mm howitzers and eight tanks mounting 125mm cannons.
Fourth Battalion of Lon's regiment would be put on the ground to link up with the regiment's right flank, not quite directly in front of the heavy weapons but close enough to be able to move south to keep the New Spartans from attempting to intercept the big guns on the ground.
By the time we get the rest of our people down, the fight should be fully involved, he thought. The New Spartans should be too damned busy to be able to do anything about our heavy weapons. That was the hope, anyway. The shuttles carrying the big guns were slower and less maneuverable—more vulnerable than the attack shuttles that brought in the infantry.
For ten minutes Lon was continuously on the radio, going from one channel to another, receiving reports and giving orders, occasionally involved in two conversations simultaneously. Then Lieutenant Colonel Jensen came back on line.
"Colonel Hayley is alive," Jensen reported, sounding only marginally more in control than he had ten minutes earlier. "But the medtechs aren't sure he's going to make it, even though they're putting him in a trauma tube right now. If he does survive, he'll be out of action for weeks, maybe months. On top of everything else, he has massive head trauma that's going to need extensive time for regeneration of brain tissue."
"Get him and the rest of your most seriously wounded men ready for evacuation to Peregrine," Lon said. "Use whatever shuttle you can get them aboard, fast. We've got Shrikes coming in to target the enemy rocket artillery, and our best bet is to get the shuttle off while you've got that cover. Understand?"
"Yes," Jensen said. "We'll move the colonel as soon as he's in the portable trauma tube. As many of the others as we can manage, too. How long do we have until the Shrikes get here?"
"Three minutes."
"We can't be ready that fast."
"I know, Fal, but the Shrikes will stay on station as long as they can, until they run short on munitions. Get that shuttle loaded and ready for takeoff as quickly as you can. Try to have them ready before we launch our attack." Lon glanced at his timeline. "That leaves just over eight minutes."
"We'll manage somehow," Fal said.
"I know you will, Fal. Keep this channel open for me. Once we start hitting the enemy, we'll need to stay in touch. One more thing. Who's your second-in-command?"
Jensen hesitated several seconds before he replied. "I guess that would be Cooper McBride of our 1st Battalion. He's the senior battalion commander."
"Make sure he knows he's your backup, and have him contact Tefford Ives directly to make sure we've got two liaison channels operating. You'll have to patch together a staff as best you can, once you know who you have left."
After ending the conversation with Jensen, Lon had a few seconds of silence on his radio, a chance to take another look around to double-check the deployment of his headquarters detachment. Men who were clerks or drivers in garrison manned their rifles with every bit of competence that the men in the line companies possessed. In the Corps, everyone was a rifleman first. A secondary perimeter had been established around Lon. Seventh Regiment had moved out of the open field where they had landed, under the cover of trees and wild shrubbery, improving their positions as the terrain permitted.
What an unholy mess, Lon thought. More than six percent casualties before we get our first licks in. Six shuttles meant three companies, six hundred men, plus the casualties on the ground from the enemy bombardment. There'll be hard questions to answer when we get home, even if we don't lose another man in the campaign. And that was an unlikely possibility.
"It's not working out the way we thought it would," Phip Steesen said on a private channel to Lon. They were forty yards apart, in a standard dispersal pattern. There wasn't anyone above the rank of corporal within ten yards of Lon except for his aide and driver, Sergeants Howell and Dorcetti.
"You've been reading my mind again," Lon replied, no trace of humor in his voice. "We thought we'd come in, show them we had them outnumbered, outgunned, and outclassed, and they'd be ready to cut their losses and run. I haven't heard an offer to surrender and leave coming from the New Spartans yet."
"I think we're in for the fight of our lives," Phip said. "All that stuff Jenny told me about the economics of this, why neither side can afford to lose."
"Yeah, I remember. We ready to move out?"
"I've talked with all the battalion lead sergeants. We're ready. The consensus is that it's time to start getting a little payback. Can't say that I have any argument with that."
"Don't let it get anyone careless. Times like this are when it's most necessary to remember that we're professionals. Four minutes, Phip. Get back to the lead sergeants. Make sure they keep a lid on their people."
"I warned 'em all before, Lon. I'll do it again, too," Phip added before Lon could tell him to.
There were last-minute reports from CIC, Lieutenant Colonel Jensen, and the battalion commanders in 7th Regiment. Lon set up a command conference channel with the battalion commanders in both regiments. The order to begin the offensive would go directly to each unit. Seven battalions would attack simultaneously. There would be little air cover. The Shrikes that had come in to hunt the rocket artillery might be able to make quick strafing passes on enemy infantry positions, but they would have to burn for orbit again very soon, to replace the Shrike Us that would be escorting the remainder of the Dirigenter force in. The ships could not be left without protection, not even briefly, as long as the New Spartans still had capital ships and aerospace fighters to threaten them.
Two minutes. Lon glanced to his left, in the general direction of 1st Battalion's positions, though it was too far away for him to see anyone there. That was where Junior was, with the two platoons he led—on the left flank, with no friendly troops to guard it. The units of the EDF weren't all that close. Their job was to harass the sections of the New Spartan line that were not directly confronted by Dirigenters, to keep them from reinforcing the units caught in the middle. Any serious coordination with the local forces would have to wait until after this first battle was fought. Chancellor Berlino and his companions were still aboard Peregrine. They weren't scheduled to land until the Dirigenters could make that safe.
Will we both make it through the day? Lon wondered, still thinking about Junior. Hidden deeper in his mind, Lon was almost unaware of What would I tell his mother? nagging at his subconscious defenses. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force his thoughts away from that unpleasant prospect. I can't allow myself to be distracted, not now.
One minute. Time for a last hurried call to CIC for the latest updates. One of the enemy artillery units had—apparently—been hit by the Shrike Us and put out of commission. The shuttles carrying the three remaining battalions of the strike force were on their way in and would soon be out of reach of the weapons aboard the New Spartan transports.
Time…
Lon watched the last seconds tick off, then gave the command. "Move out." Only right in front of his own position was he able to see any movement directly. The men of 2nd Battalion got up and started moving forward. For the first half mile—barring any surprises—they would move forward in three staggered skirmish lines, closing in as quickly as they could. Then, once they were in range of rifle fire from the New Spartans, the troops would switch to fire and maneuver tactics. That would be slower.<
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How much slower would depend on the level of enemy resistance. With seasoned mercenaries on the other side, it might be very slow indeed. The corridors of advance for the battalions of the regiments on either side had been carefully calculated to minimize the chances for friendly-fire casualties.
Watch out for mines and booby traps, Lon thought, as if he were instructing his men. Watch for enemy electronics, not just helmets but also snoops. Remember that they're good, damned good. We've got no room for mistakes.
"Phip, we'll let the advance move three hundred yards, then move my command post to just this side of that creek out there, behind that patch of heavy undergrowth. We'll set up there, close enough to see some of what goes on, far enough back that we shouldn't have to scramble to get out of the way."
"Right," Phip replied. "I had already marked that spot. There's a rock outcropping to give us a little protection from stray shots, too well concealed by the trees for there to be much chance the enemy registered it for their artillery."
Both of them could hear gunfire, just starting. At first there were just scattered shots from three or four points, quickly answered by Dirigenters, but within thirty seconds the firing became general. "They didn't wait for us to come to them," Lon noted, still with a channel open to Phip. "We sure didn't move a half mile before the action started."
"Suits me," Phip said. "The sooner we start, the sooner we can make a finish of it."
That's easy to say when we're this far away from it, Lon thought. He knew he was where he belonged, out of immediate danger, in position to direct the entire fight, but he couldn't banish a nagging guilt at being relatively safe while sending thousands of men into imminent peril, knowing that some of them would not live through the engagement. It wasn't just that his only son was one of the men in danger. He had felt this way before, long before Junior joined the Corps.
