Colonel (UC)

by Rick Shelley

  "That's okay," Lon said. "If we can get them all away from the city, past the main farming belt, and far enough in the wild to let the Elysians get back to business as usual, we've got the time. Three months, six, even longer. Keep the New Spartans occupied until the General can send another regiment and a fighting ship or two. If it comes down to it, Dirigent has more resources to call on than New Sparta does—men, ships, and everything else."

  "Yeah, but even Elysium doesn't have bottomless pockets," Phip said. "And I doubt their patience will be endless either. You think we're going to be able to bottle up that one batch of the enemy yet? The ones who broke out from the port."

  Lon tilted his mapboard so Phip would be able to see it clearly. "I'm not sure. Right now I'll be happy if we can make them keep moving on their current route. If they take a right turn and head into the city, then we could have more serious problems. They're only two miles from the main campus of the university. If they get in there, the Elysians will really get their tail feathers ruffled."

  "Can we stop them?"

  "It's close, too damned close. The EDF is on that side, about six hundred men, doing what they can. Parker can get maybe two companies in the way, and we're still using our artillery to harass the New Spartans, but they're zigzagging enough that we can't be too… profligate with the artillery. Too much chance of destroying Elysian buildings now that they're right on the edge of the urban district, and I'm not sure that all of the civilians are out of that area."

  "The way we're moving here, we might force the New Spartans farther into the city," Phip said. His finger moved across Lon's mapboard, tracing the route. "If I were commanding that unit of New Spartans, I'd sure as hell want to get out of our way."

  "That boxes them in, sooner or later," Lon said. "They've already shown they don't like boxes. They're like us, Phip. They want to be where they can maneuver, where they have freedom of movement." Lon tilted his visor down just enough to view the timeline on its display. "Speaking of movement, it's time for us to get on our feet again."

  "Yeah, I'd better get back where I belong." Phip got to his feet and pulled his faceplate into place, then jogged toward his position fifty yards away.

  Lon was slower to get to his feet, using his rifle to help him. We can't go forever without taking more time for rest, he thought, shaking his head. That forty-minute nap he had taken seemed weeks ago, and he doubted that many of his men had managed much more sleep than he had. Some of them had probably had much less, and a few—especially among his junior officers and noncoms—likely wouldn't have had any. Not yet, he told himself after giving the order to start moving again. We can't afford the time until we either catch this batch of the enemy or drive them away from the city.

  It was 0300 hours. The left-hand column was stopped again. The platoon on the point had run into an ambush set by a squad or two of New Spartans. Jaz Takers was moving the rest of his company up to finish the firefight as quickly as possible. It gave the other companies in the two columns a couple of minutes to rest—though everyone remained alert in case there were more of the enemy nearby hiding, ready to pounce.

  Lon did not sit this time, but rested on one knee, using his rifle to help keep his balance while he waited for Taiters' company to finish the firefight. Rotate them off the point when it's done, he told himself. Give them a break. Rotate the point on the other side, too. He tried to focus on the few reports he could hear on the radio, eavesdropping on the platoon frequency to get some sense of what was going on. Hear the sounds of fighting, the rifle fire that occasionally sounded like strings of small firecrackers going off in quick succession. Mostly he tried not to think about Junior. It had been one of his two platoons on point, though he had been farther back with the other platoon—which had quickly moved to support the first—when the ambush was sprung.

  "Captain! The lieutenant's been hit. He's down!"

  The words hit Lon like a hard blow to the gut. The first coherent thought that came after that was, Not Junior; the other lieutenant, but it was a vain hope. At the moment, Lon couldn't recall the name of the other lieutenant in Junior's company. He held his breath, waiting for something else… and dreading what it might be.

  "How badly is he hurt?" Lon recognized Jaz Takers' voice.

  "I don't know. The medtech just got to him." That was one of Junior's platoon sergeants. There seemed to be an impossibly loud rushing noise in Lon's ears. "I've got two other men down, too; one of them dead."

  "Hang on, we're in position."

  Over the radio, Lon could hear a sudden massive increase in the amount of gunfire. That lasted for nearly a minute, and when it ended, there was… something approaching total silence.

  What's going on?! Lon's mind screamed at him. It took total concentration to keep from yelling over the radio for news about his son. He didn't even notice that he had gotten to his feet and taken a couple of steps in the direction of the firefight—half a mile away. It must have been another two minutes before Lon received a call from Jaz Takers.

  "Junior's been hurt, Colonel," the captain reported. "The medtech says he should be okay. They're moving him to a trauma tube now."

  Lon did not acknowledge the message. His knees buckled under him and he fell, the weight of his combat pack pulling him over backward. He hit the ground hard, butt first, stunned, but did not quite lose consciousness.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The flush of embarrassment was worse than anything else. His fall had knocked the air out of him, but as soon as he recovered from that—twenty seconds or less—he started to get back to his feet. It was not quickly enough for him to escape notice. Frank Dorcetti and Jeremy Howell were both at his side before he could stand, and Lon saw Phip hurrying toward them as well.

  "I'm okay," Lon said as Dorcetti and Howell moved to support him. "I just lost my balance and fell. Nothing's hurt." Nothing but pride.

  "Maybe you'd better let a medtech check you out anyway," Howell said. "I knew a guy got a concussion falling that way."

  Lon took a deep breath and closed his eyes for an instant. "The medtechs have enough to do with real casualties. I'm okay."

  By that time Phip had arrived, and Lon had to tell him the same thing. "I'm okay. Come on. We've got work to do. First Battalion has squashed that ambush. Get the companies moving again. Everyone back in place."

  Howell and Dorcetti moved away from the colonel, but Phip didn't. "I heard about Junior," Phip said softly, with his visor up so his words weren't transmitted. One of Junior's platoon sergeants had called Phip directly. He had also received an update from the medtech. "His wounds aren't life-threatening. They've got him stabilized and on his way to a trauma tube."

  Lon nodded abruptly. "I know, Phip. He'll be okay, and so will I. We can't let this interfere with what we've got to do." His voice sounded harsh, but Phip just nodded and headed back toward his own position in the line of march.

  We can't let this interfere, Lon told himself as he watched Phip move away. He felt anger, but it was directly entirely at himself. It had been difficult not to snap at his aide and driver—even at Phip, his best friend—but that would have just been to cover how foolish Lon felt, and he would have felt even worse if he had. He was certain his face had flushed bright red, but that was something the others couldn't have seen through the tinted faceplate of his helmet. Get a grip on yourself. The anger had not faded. If anything, it had grown stronger, and the more rational part of Lon's mind noted that as well. Take a deep breath. It's done and over. Concentrate on what you've got to do now. You're responsible for more than eight thousand men. You can't let worry about one of them paralyze you.

  One deep breath, let out slowly. A second. Lon started walking, his head moving from side' to side, his eyes scanning. Get back in the rhythm. Junior will be okay. Make sure you don't do something stupid and get yourself hurt, or show everyone that you're falling apart. Years of worry about Junior joining the Corps and then about his safety once he did had all hit him at once, kn
ocked him for the proverbial loop. I'm still not thoroughly Dirigenter, he thought. I can't take something like this in stride.

  Jaz Takers called to say that the enemy ambush had been wiped out—twenty New Spartans dead, or wounded and captured; no more than two or three had escaped. If Taiters hadn't added his assurance that Junior would recover, the routine message would have helped Lon bring his mind fully back to the necessities of the moment. As it was, the comment made it that more difficult, reminded him how vulnerable he had become through worrying about his son.

  Lon forced himself through another series of breathing exercises, designed to help him relax. He called each battalion commander in turn, to ask about position and progress, and added an unnecessary reminder to be especially watchful for ambushes. Then he called Fal Jensen to check on 15th Regiment. Finally, he made a routine check with the duty officer in CIC aboard Peregrine. Concentrating—fiercely—on the minutiae of routine helped. Lon could feel his body adjusting, coming back down to the "normal" level of tension for a field situation with combat possible but not probable at any minute.

  He glanced at the timeline on his head-up display. Less than thirty minutes had passed since he heard that Junior had been wounded. We've only been on the surface twenty-four hours. That realization was startling. It seemed as if the Elysian campaign had lasted half an eternity. Lon squeezed his eyes shut for an instant. His head throbbed dully with the tension. He forced another deep breath, opening his eyes so he wouldn't stumble and have everyone on top of him asking after his health again. Though he tried to ignore it, the thought You'll be reminded about falling on your butt as long as you're in the Corps would not be denied. Lon growled, almost under his breath.

  The terrain the Dirigenters were crossing was tame, farm fields and orchards, country lanes, with occasional stands of "wild" trees. What fencing there had been had all been knocked down by the New Spartans during the weeks in which they had surrounded University City and raised havoc in the farming districts. There were no civilians around, and no intact houses or barns. No livestock, and not even much wildlife, Lon thought as his headquarters group crossed what had been a farmyard. The ruins of house and barn had already been checked to make certain they harbored neither enemy nor booby traps.

  The last of the night's stars had been occulted by the encroaching clouds. Lon heard talk over the radio that the men in the rear guard had already started to see rain, moving faster than the column, so he was not surprised when the first drops spattered against his faceplate. At first the drops were large but few. It was another ten minutes before the tempo increased significantly. Lon tightened the collar of his battledress blouse to ensure that no water would run off his helmet and down his back. The camouflage battledress was water-resistant. It would take a lot of heavy rain to soak through the fabric. Helmet and faceplate shed water so efficiently that there was scarcely any beading to obscure vision, rarely a need to wipe water away. And Corps boots were almost totally waterproof, so the rain should not prove too much of an inconvenience.

  Another distraction, Lon thought, but at the moment minor distractions were welcome. Lon stopped, stepping out of the line of march to watch men move past. Each glanced his way in passing, but no one said anything. Jeremy Howell dropped out of line as well, to stay near his boss. There was nothing unusual about that. Lon sometimes thought of Howell as "my shadow." Nothing was said just then, and after a few minutes Lon moved back into the line of march and Jeremy followed him.

  "Almost wouldn't know we were on contract if it didn't rain," Howell said once they were walking again. He had a private channel connecting him with Lon, one that was shared only by members of the headquarters staff. "The eternal foot soldier, rain above and mud below. I think there's something in the manual says that's the way it's supposed to be."

  Lon smiled. "Don't give up your day job just yet, Jerry. You're not ready to take the stage as a comic. But get used to the rain. The forecast says it will probably continue through most of the morning. When we stop for a long break, we'll be sleeping under the faucet."

  "That won't bother me, Colonel," Howell replied, "but one of these times Frank Dorcetti is liable to drown in his sleep. He sleeps with his mouth open, and his snoring through a mouthful of water is purely god-awful, if you know what I mean."

  This time Lon did chuckle. "I know what you mean.

  Lead Sergeant Steesen used to be the same way." He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He did feel better. It would be easier now to resist the urge to call the med-techs to ask about Junior. They'll let me know when there's something to say.

  It was just past 0430 hours when both Jaz Takers and Parker Watson called to report hearing a series of explosions. In each case the blasts were some distance away and not directed at their men. By comparing the direction given by the two men, Lon was able to pinpoint an area on his mapboard. A minute later, CIC confirmed the location of the explosions.

  "They're using surface-to-air missiles against civilian targets," Lon reported to his battalion commanders and Fal Jensen. "Buildings not being used by the Elysian Defense Force. I don't know if it's random or not. Yet. I don't even know if there were any civilians in any of those buildings."

  "You think they're trying to divert our attention?" Jensen asked. "Make us siphon off resources to firefighting and rescue work?"

  "If that's their intent, it won't work," Lon said. "The Elysians will have to attend to that. We'll have a better idea what the New Spartans are up to once we find out if they're hitting random targets to cover their withdrawal or specific factories, maybe munitions facilities or something similar." He scarcely hesitated before he said, "I know we all need a chance to get a few hours' sleep, but that has to wait. We have to keep pushing to get that one detachment of enemy soldiers away from other civilian targets first. That doesn't apply to the men you've got near the enemy main force, Fal. Let your men get what rest they can. You're going to have to be ready if those New Spartans try something."

  "I've already got those men on half-and-half watches," Jensen said. "When the main force settled in, I figured we'd have to be able to match them in the morning, whatever they decide to do next. Any good estimates on what that might be?"

  "I'm beginning to think they must expect massive reinforcement from New Sparta," Lon said. "How soon that might be, I can't even guess, but the longer they go without trying to go on the offensive, the more likely it is. What I'm looking for now is, mainly, what the enemy main force does this morning. If they start moving farther away from University City and not directly toward one of the other urban centers, we should have a pretty good indication."

  "If that's what they do, will you advise Diligent to send out our reinforcements?" Jensen asked, almost hesitantly.

  "I'm not going to make a decision on that yet, Fal," Lon said. "I'm leaning that way, but I want more information before I blow the panic horn. Assuming, for the sake of argument, that the New Spartans do have reinforcements on the way, we'll be a lot better off if we can force the issue on the ground before more players join the cast. By the way, Peregrine says Colonel Hayley is definitely out of danger now. He will recover."

  "That's good to know," Jensen said. "He's a good man."

  A good man who'll never be the same, Lon thought. A man who'll never be able to remember just how good he was. There are still some things a trauma tube can't fix.

  "We'll talk again later, Fal. You'd better try to get some sleep. I'll let you know if anything comes up, and we'll talk before I decide whether to ask for another regiment."

  Elements of 1st Battalion managed to close with the New Spartans moving east across the northern edge of University City just before sunrise. The firefight lasted twenty minutes before the New Spartans were able to disengage, still moving east. This time they had no assistance from their rocket artillery. Either we got all of them, or they just don't have the missiles to spare, Lon thought. He would gladly accept either option.

  Second Battalion had
settled in for a few hours' sleep earlier. Lon had decided to stop the pursuit of the small New Spartan force to the north, leaving just a few patrols to make certain he would not lose contact with them. Ten minutes after the end of the latest clash on the outskirts of the Elysian capital, Lon gave the order for the rest of 7th Regiment to find good defensive positions and settle in. "I hope to make it for at least four hours," he told the battalion commanders, "but no guarantees."

  Set up a perimeter. Dig minimal slit trenches. Put out patrols, electronic snoops, and a few land mines—just to keep the enemy on his toes. In each squad, one fire team would try to sleep while the other remained on watch against possible enemy activity. Make routine communications checks. Lon spoke with each battalion commander and with CIC. There was nothing urgent. Finally Lon yawned and lay back in the slit trench Howell and Dorcetti had fixed for him, with the camouflage tarp propped over it, arranged to catch the slight breeze from the northwest while keeping most of the continuing rain off.

  The rain had been almost constant since it had started, never heavy, sometimes little more than a mist. For the most part, Lon had been able to ignore it. The ground he had been walking over drained well. There had been few patches of mud, even after several hundred men had crossed. It was only when he lay down that Lon really thought about the rain, watching it. He was careful where he lay his rifle, keeping it close to his body, the muzzle propped up close to the tarp.

  Sleep, Lon told himself. He was exhausted enough that sleep would come without a patch. He had allowed himself thirty seconds to call the medtechs to check on his son. Junior was out of the trauma tube and back with his unit, so Lon had given himself another thirty seconds to talk directly to him. He sounded a little unsteady, Lon thought, but that's to be expected. It was his first time hurt. "Don't dwell on it," Lon had advised. "I know that's not easy, but it's the best way."