Colonel (UC)

by Rick Shelley

  Lon scanned the various command frequencies, eavesdropping on reports from company commanders to their battalion commanders, even from platoon leaders to their captains. The New Spartans had used the time well, forming lines facing in both directions, closing the gap on either side, preparing what defensive protection they could. The shuttle carrying Colonel Hayley and two dozen other wounded men from 15th Regiment got off the ground, trailed by the Shrike Us that had attacked the New Spartan rocket artillery.

  "Been a long time since we fought a pitched battle this soon after grounding," Phip commented in one of the rare silences on the radio. "Offhand, I can't remember ever fighting this soon."

  Once or twice, Lon thought, but he remained silent, switching channels again and again, stopping just long enough to catch what he could. Offhand, he couldn't remember where or when those instances might have been either. There had been too many fights on too many worlds… and far too many deaths.

  "I make it three hundred yards 2nd Battalion has moved," Phip said a moment later. "A long way short of the half mile we hoped. They've dropped, using fire and maneuver now." The advance slowed dramatically, one platoon of each company moving forward a few yards while the rest laid down covering fire. The next platoon would leapfrog them, and the next, and…

  "Right, Phip. Let's get our people moving," Lon said. He waited until the order had been passed, then got up and starting moving toward the location he and Phip had chosen for their next sanctum. The distance was only about two hundred yards, but before Lon had run half that distance, he felt as if he had run a mile. Lon paused for no more than twenty seconds, sucking in a couple of deep breaths. His chest was heaving as he gasped for air. He was a little light-headed. For an instant his vision blurred, then cleared after he blinked several times, quickly, and shook his head.

  This is ridiculous, he thought. I know damn well I'm not this far out of shape. He shook his head again and trotted the rest of the distance, moving more slowly now. At least there was no incoming fire to worry about. Yet.

  The rock outcropping that he had spotted was nowhere more than eight feet higher than the ground just north of it, rising abruptly on the left and dwindling away gradually on the right. On the far side, the south, the rock fell sharply into the edge of a shallow, narrow creek—five feet wide and two feet deep—that meandered across the entire 2nd Battalion front. Much of the stone was covered with a mosslike growth. Vines climbed up over the top from the creek on the far side. A number of bushes hemmed the rock in on either side.

  Lon did not simply collapse against the rock and slide to the ground, though the notion tempted him until his breathing got back to something approaching normal. He remained on his feet, protected by the rock, looking around to see that all of the men who were with his headquarters detachment made it to their new positions. Without instruction, they formed their new perimeter and started scooping out slit trenches, working quickly in moist soil, taking advantage of the terrain to give themselves what protection was available.

  Before Lon had a chance to say anything, he heard two explosions, separated by five seconds or less, well separated, almost blanketing other explosions farther away.

  'They've got that rocket artillery working again," Phip said on their private channel. "Most of it's still going against 15th, but that's two aimed toward our people, near both ends of the line, in 1st and 3rd Battalions."

  Junior? screamed in Lon's head like the stab of a severe headache, but what he said was, "Get reports on casualties when you can, Phip." His voice sounded almost calm.

  What do we do next? Lon asked himself. He wasn't too disconcerted by the fact that the preliminary plan of attack had proven inadequate, obsolete almost before it could be begun. Once we get on the ground, we start with a blank page. It was all too frequently like that. Few enemies were considerate enough to do exactly what the Dirigenters hoped they would do.

  Lon's musings were interrupted by a call from Fal Jensen. "We've got to do something about those rockets," Jensen said. "They've got us zeroed in. We're taking casualties from those and from the enemy on the ground in front of us." There was no hint of panic in Jensen's voice now, but there was tension.

  "Keep pushing forward, Fal. Get close to the New Spartans on the ground and they'll have to quit firing rockets at you. It's going to be at least twenty minutes before the next flight of Shrikes can get in, longer than that before we get our heavy weapons on the ground and out of the box. We've still got to deal with the enemy on the ground between us."

  "Are we getting any help from the Elysians?" Jensen asked.

  "Very little so far, but they weren't supposed to be doing much more than harass the enemy away from our positions."

  "If we've got any liaison, the more they can do right now, the better off we're going to be, Lon."

  You know what liaison we've got, Lon thought. Jensen should know better than anyone. He had been aboard Peregrine, privy to the discussions between Bob Hayley and Chancellor Berlino.

  "Just as soon as I get a chance, I'll put a call through to Berlino," Lon said. "But don't expect much, not soon. Even if they have forces available, it's going to take time to get them in position to act. We've got to sort out this mess on our own."

  "I was afraid you were going to say that," Jensen said before signing off.

  If he doesn't pull himself together, he's going to be no

  help at all, Lon thought, frowning in the privacy of his helmet. Maybe he's spent too many years in staff jobs, not enough on the line. Lon had known Jensen, casually, for years, as he knew all the senior officers in the Corps. But he did not know him well, and what he had heard so far did not give him great confidence. I'm going to have to find out who else is left over there, just in case, he thought. But, like so much else, that would have to wait until the immediate situation was in hand.

  "Lon." Phip waited for Lon to acknowledge the call before he continued. "I've been checking with the non-coms up front. I think we underestimated the number of New Spartans here, maybe by fifty percent. They must not have left all their transports in orbit. Maybe some of them had to make two trips to get everyone here. There could be as many as eight thousand of them on the ground between us and 15th Regiment. We sure as hell don't have them outnumbered two to one. Even when we get the rest of our people down here, the numbers won't be much better than even."

  "The way they've hit us so far, I can't say that surprises me," Lon said. "How good are the estimates you're getting?"

  "I wouldn't bet against them no matter what odds you offered," Phip said. "I've sorted through the usual exaggeration, cross-checked, everything. One other thing. One of Junior's platoon sergeants says the New Spartans do have those needle guns we heard about, at least a few. Says they can turn a tree to mulch in ten seconds, but the effective range doesn't seem to be much past a hundred yards."

  "We get the chance, I'd like a look at one of them, and a little ammo—something to take home and let the R&D people play with," Lon said. "But I don't want anyone taking foolish chances to get it."

  "I already passed the word, Lon," Phip said.

  Lon sat with his back against the rock outcropping and took out his mapboard, a specialized complink that unfolded for use in the field. He put as much of the area around University City on the screen as he could to get a feel for the battle that was developing. The New Spartans were not being shy about using active electronics. There were so many blips that they blended into smudged lines—red for the enemy, blue for the Dirigenters, yellow for the few members of the Elysian Defense Force who were involved in the fight.

  I hope someone on Peregrine is going through this, trying to get a solid estimate of enemy numbers, Lon thought. By increasing the magnification and going through the area one small grid at a time it would be possible to tell exactly how many enemy soldiers were using helmet electronics at any given time. Something we can report back to Dirigent on with reasonable assurance. As soon as possible, he was going to have to send
an MR out, report to the Council of Regiments on what they had found and what had happened—including the fact that Bob Hayley was out of action for at least the next several weeks… if he survived. I might not even know that for another hour or more, Lon thought, glancing at the timeline on his visor display. I guess I need to wait until I get something from the medtechs about Bob, if he's going to survive.

  He looked up from the mapboard. And I'm going to have to make a recommendation on whether or not we need another regiment to reinforce us. His immediate impulse was to say, Yes, we need help, but it was too soon to make that call, and—in any case—it would be at least a month before help could arrive.

  By then it might be far too late.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "We're at a stalemate here, Lon," Lieutenant Colonel Vel Osterman, CO of 2nd Battalion of the 7th, reported. "The New Spartans are dug in. We can't break through their lines without taking unacceptable levels of casualties, and I'm not sure we could do it even if we weren't worried about losses."

  "Have your men dig in as best they can until we get the situation sorted out, Vel," Lon said. Less than an hour and a half had passed since the Dirigenters had landed. So much had happened so quickly that it seemed impossible. "I'm getting the same kind of reports from other units. For the moment, I'm more concerned with holding what we've got and keeping the New Spartans contained until we can bring our full force to bear.

  "Our 4th Battalion and all the heavy weapons will be down in a few minutes. I'll put the rocket batteries to work as soon as they're out of the box, the long guns should join in about fifteen minutes later, and the tanks will head full tilt toward the enemy, along with our 4th Battalion. I just got off a link to Chancellor Berlino. He's going to see if more of the Elysian Defense Force can move against the New Spartans, but that's going to take time, probably several hours."

  "I hope we can shake something loose sooner than that," Osterman said. "Anyway, so far the New Spartans haven't shown any inclination to try to push us back. They're in improved positions, dug in well. They've had three days to get ready for us. That's part of the problem."

  "We get all our people down, it'll be more their problem than ours," Lon said. "They're geared toward mobile operations, the same as we are. Static defensive positions rob them of a good part of their strength. As long as we're on the outside with freedom of movement, the advantage is still ours."

  "We'll hold on," Osterman said.

  Well, I've got him convinced, Lon thought. Now, if I can just convince myself. The trouble is, we can't use our mobility yet, not without unpinning the New Spartans in the process.

  The heavy-weapons battalions would come in first. Lon's final battalion would land a few minutes later. There would be four Shrike Us in for those few minutes as well, to proteet the shuttles and make a few passes at the New Spartan defenses. With a little luck they might knock out one or two more of the enemy's rocket artillery launchers.

  We've had one break. The New Spartans haven't been able to bring any fighters down to hassle us, Lon thought, glancing skyward. He had received several updates on the continuing struggle in orbit. Both sides were moving ships, trying to stay out of each other's way, taking stabs at the other as best they could. The one New Spartan transport that had been damaged was moving farther from Elysium, under only partial power. Since it would be unable to jump to Q-space, it could only hope to escape further damage—or destruction—by putting as much normal space between it and danger as possible.

  Don't let this settle into a long-term static front, Lon reminded himself. The first side to get truly mobile should have the advantage. He had already decided how he wanted to use his 4th Battalion and the heavy-weapons units. The artillery—howitzer and rocket—would take the enemy under fire as quickly as possible. Lon would aim the tanks and his 4th Battalion at the enemy line, just south of where the units already in place faced each other.

  Punch a hole in the line and turn up the middle, like closing a zipper. It sounded good.

  The last three Dirigenter battalions made it safely to the ground. No shuttles or men were lost. The New Spartans launched rockets toward the LZs, but by the time those rockets arrived, the men and vehicles were out and the shuttles were back in the air, burning for orbit. Separately, one shuttle was coming in with equipment to get the lander that had tipped over upright. Those shuttles could then both be used to evacuate wounded.

  That was the good news. The bad news was that the opposing fleets had moved far enough apart that the New Spartans had aerospace fighters heading in to provide close air support for their troops. And they would arrive a couple of minutes ahead of the Shrike II fighters that Agamemnon and Odysseus were dispatching to counter them. Lon's rocket artillery and the shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles would have to hold the enemy fighters off until help arrived.

  "Well, Colonel, we've got holes to flop in at least," Jeremy Howell said, lifting his helmet visor partway so he wouldn't need to use his radio to talk with Lon. Howell and two privates from Lon's security squad had been "fixing up" the area behind the rock outcropping for Lon's command post—mostly digging slit trenches, piling the dirt up around them.

  "Thanks, Jerry," Lon said, looking around and nodding. "Let's hope we don't need it for long." Everyone was on the ground. The Dirigenter rocket artillery had joined the fray. In another three or four minutes the howitzers would be in range. It would take nearly an hour before the tanks could join in, and after that it would only be a few minutes before the tanks and 7th Regiment's 4th Battalion would hit the enemy line.

  "I don't know about you, Colonel, but I'd feel better if we could get under this rock," Howell said. "Those rockets are more'n I bargained for. This is beginning to look like one of those old wars from Earth, whole armies on both sides."

  "It's not that big, Jerry, but I know what you mean. This is the biggest fracas I've seen." Too big, he thought. A battle this size isn't always decided by which side has the better leader. It's the men up front, junior officers, noncoms, and men in the ranks who can make the difference. But it was the commander who would take the blame for any defeat, or for losing too many men in a victory. Too many ways to lose, not nearly enough ways to win, Lon thought, shaking his head.

  "We lost too many men coming in, Jerry," Lon said. "Nothing can make up for that." There had been years in which the entire Corps had not suffered as many contract deaths as 7th arid 15th Regiments had taken during the initial landings. Even a resounding victory would not balance the books. Almost as bad—the addition of insult to injury—it would probably be impossible to return the bodies of most of those dead to Dirigent. The shuttles that were blown apart in space would leave few remains to recover.

  "This is Jensen." Lon held a hand up to keep Howell from replying so he could concentrate on the radio call.

  "Go ahead, Fal," Lon said.

  'The New Spartans are attempting to break through my lines on the left, toward University City. I guess they've been told about our new landings. I'm not sure we're going to be able to hold them. If I move more men in front of this thrust, it'll just open the way for a breakthrough somewhere else."

  "Do what you can, Fal," Lon said, relieved that Jensen's voice sounded firmer now, more under control. Lon scrolled the view on his mapboard to show the center of this newest fighting. "We don't want to let them into the city. That'll make it a lot harder to take care of them, and we risk friendly civilian casualties. Don't forget, they're going to have fighter cover. Those aircraft will be on station in less than two minutes now."

  "We're doing what we can, Lon. Can you redirect some of our heavy-weapons fire into the van of this thrust?"

  "You've got it. I'll switch over and give the order now. The self-propelled howitzers should be just coming in range. We'll give you as much help as we can."

  Even at a distance, the rumble of the artillery shells as they exploded was unmistakable, the sound of thunder but far too regular for nature. For a few minutes Lon kept
his mapboard open, watching the pattern of explosions on a visual overlay. The targeting, using data fed from CIC and directly from 15th Regiment, was deadly accurate, hitting the point of the wedge that the New Spartans were trying to push through 15th Regiment's line. At first the New Spartans kept pushing forward, but soon the advance stalled and, finally, they pulled back into the positions they had held before.

  "We'll keep an eye on them, Fal," Lon said when he called Jensen back. "For now, I'm going to redirect our fire to support our attempt to roll them up. Our heavy weapons have to do some fancy moving, staying out of the way of the enemy's air cover."

  The New Spartans had sent in six aerospace fighters, Javelins. One was brought down by 15th Regiment's rocket artillery on its initial approach, before it had a chance to fire any of its own munitions. A second Javelin was blown out of the sky by a shoulder-fired rocket launched from 7th Regiment's 4th Battalion. After that, the enemy fighters tried to stay above ten thousand feet, to give them a chance to outrun anything else fired at them from the ground, which limited their effectiveness. And then the Shrike Us were on them, and the aerial fight moved away from the ground forces, drifting quickly to the east.

  I feel so damned useless, Lon thought as the last aircraft moved beyond University City. I'm not contributing anything. He had spent too many years fighting on the front lines, in direct contact with the enemy of the moment.

  This doesn't feel as real as the arcade games Junior used to spend hours playing.

  Reports and requests kept coming in. Questions and replies went out. Lon switched among more than a dozen radio channels, talking with others and trying to plot what he learned against what his mapboard snowed him. CIC tried to coordinate as much of the raw data as it could for him. His own staff put together individual pieces of it.