by Rick Shelley
Ten minutes past eleven was when the first report came in from Fal Jensen. "The New Spartans are heading northeast, as we expected. Their rear guard and flankers are keeping us occupied at the moment, resistance in strength. The time they've had, I think we can count on a few nasty surprises if we try to go through where they were camped, so I'm going to start angling my men around their flank, on the south."
"You have any people in front of them to slow them down?" Lon asked.
"Not enough, just a one-platoon patrol, and they're not directly in front."
"Have them do what they can. I don't want to call in an artillery strike yet. We may need the rockets and shells later. I'll turn my people to the north a little, and push the pace as much as I can. We're a bit farther from them than you are."
It's a good thing we had a day to rest, Lon thought after he gave the orders to his battalion and company commanders. We're going to have to race to get anywhere near the enemy. And if the New Spartans pressed their own move, it might be impossible to close with them before they reached ground they might choose to defend… or before their reinforcements reached Elysium.
It was impossible to just wheel the entire formation around to march on the new heading the way it could be done on a parade field in garrison. Advance scouts had to move onto the new route first to look for any surprises left by the enemy and to mark a trail. Flankers had to be moved as well. Then, company by company, the rest made the thirty-degree turn. After fifteen minutes everyone was moving in the right direction, and Lon gave the order to the point platoons to pick up the pace. Lon passed orders to keep active electronics use to a minimum, as close to electronic silence as possible, to make it that much more difficult for the New Spartans to track their progress. Not total electronic silence: An occasional blip on their tracking systems would not tell the New Spartans if the target was a squad or a battalion, and it might lull them, while total electronic silence would simply make them more wary.
How hard can we push the march? Lon asked himself. If they went too slowly, the New Spartans would keep their distance, even increase it, postponing battle until… whenever. If they went too quickly, the men would get exhausted, be unready for the fight when it came. There was also the danger of losing men to land mines or booby traps if the pace was too rapid to allow the men on point enough time to spot concealed devices.
Take a little more time between breaks, and keep the rest stops as short as practical. Don't push the pace too much to be dangerous. Lon shook his head. He really had little choice, at least during the hours of darkness. At night, the trip wire for a mine or a booby trap would be nearly invisible. Once morning came, there would be a chance to reassess, depending on how far the New Spartans had traveled, how fast they were moving.
If we have to, I can order a few rockets fired at their van then, Lon decided. In the morning. Slow them down at least a little, or goad them into changing direction to something more favorable for us. He hoped that would not be necessary. He still wanted to husband the finite supply or artillery munitions as long as possible, save them for the battle he hoped to force before the New Spartans could be reinforced from out-system.
It was not until just before one o'clock in the morning that Lon signaled for the first rest stop, and he held that to only five minutes. He sat down in place, stretching his legs out in front of him. After taking a quick sip of water, he massaged his calf and thigh muscles through the rest of the break, easing the aches that had started, and hoping to prevent cramps later. Lon was ready to get back to his feet when Phip came over and squatted next to him and raised the faceplate of his helmet.
"You know, we can't go on forever like this, two and a half hours hiking, five minutes resting," Phip whispered. "We'll end up going slower rather than faster."
Lon lifted his faceplate. "I know, Phip," he said just as softly. "There aren't many legs here older than mine, and they're talking loud and clear. I just wanted the fast start. If we can travel just a little bit faster than the New Spartans think we can, it gives us a little extra edge, maybe. We've got a lot of distance to cover and we can't expect them to sit still and wait for us to catch up. We'll go for maybe an hour and a quarter this time, then take ten minutes. After that… well, after that depends on what the situation is later."
Phip grunted. "Give it our all now, then fifteen percent more later. I know how that works." He got back to his feet. "Just remember, it won't do us any good to catch those buzzards if we're too tired to fight when we do."
"How could I forget when I've got you for a conscience and memory bank?" Lon laughed as he stood and adjusted the straps of his backpack. "Between you, my legs, and my feet, I'm not likely to forget. Come on. It's time to start hobbling forward again."
The next break came twenty minutes sooner than Lon had planned. The point men on the left came across a series of explosive devices that had to be deactivated before the march could resume.
"They weren't concealed very well," the sergeant leading the point squad reported. "It's almost as if they wanted us to find these. Makes me think maybe they've got a second set hidden better, to get us when we think we're in the clear."
"Take whatever time you need to make sure," Lon said. "If you can do it safely, just deactivate everything instead of detonating it. That way we avoid giving the enemy an easy marker for our progress."
"No problem, Colonel. That's what we had already started doing."
The delay gave most of the men time to eat a meal pack and get off their feet for a little longer. Once the mines had been cleared, Lon ordered a slight change in the direction of the advance, hoping to avoid any further traps that the New Spartans might have left.
On through the night the Dirigenters hiked, nearly silent, advancing toward the retreating New Spartans, moving to flank them on both sides. Men from 15th Regiment ran into two enemy patrols, occasioning brief and indecisive firefights; the New Spartans broke contact as quickly as they could. Second Battalion of the 7th encountered slightly heavier resistance, an ambush manned by perhaps half a company of New Spartans. That fight lasted nearly forty minutes and ended with most of the ambushers withdrawing safely. An hour before dawn, the point squad for 4th Battalion of the 7th tripped an enemy mine. Two men were killed. Another man was seriously wounded and had to be transferred to a trauma tube.
Overall, 7th Regiment averaged nearly 2 xh miles per hour through the night. Not bad, Lon thought, though he would have been happier had they managed better. By dawn they were near where the New Spartans had been camped before this pursuit had started. The enemy was nine miles east-northeast of most of 7th Regiment, and continuing to move away from them. Fal Jensen's regiment was two miles closer. A battalion of Elysians was also on the move, on the right flank of 15th Regiment, almost even with them, pushing themselves to try to get in front of the New Spartans.
As the sun peeked over the eastern horizon, Lon called a halt for his regiment. "Thirty minutes," he said on the channel that connected him to his battalion and company commanders. "Make sure everyone eats."
Lon was halfway through his own breakfast when he received a call from Peregrine that completely killed his appetite. "Five New Spartan ships have just emerged from Q-space, four transports and one fighting ship, one of their heavy cruisers with room for maybe another twenty fighters. We estimate that they're seventy-four hours out from assault orbit."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"Okay, gentlemen, we've got our deadline," Lon told Fal Jensen and all of the battalion commanders. He had just passed the news from Peregrine about the New Spartan ships that had arrived in-system. "We need to get the issue settled on the ground before this new fleet can land its troops, and we'll be a hell of a lot better off if we finish with the enemy we're chasing soon enough to let us get some rest and get any wounded back to duty before we have to face the reinforcements. Four transports means a full regiment, or close to it. We don't dare let them land before we take care of what we're already facing." That much was
obvious. No one on the channel questioned it.
"Fal, you've got troops closest to the New Spartans. That means you'll be the first to face them unless the Elysians set some kind of record moving around in front of them. I'm going to use thirty percent of our remaining rocket artillery rounds and half the howitzer munitions to try to slow them down enough to let you catch up with them by dark tonight and launch your attack. We'll pull the tanks from both heavy-weapons battalions forward to coordinate with your assault. My 4th Battalion shouldn't be more than half an hour behind you, and they'll join the fight as soon as they arrive. The rest of 7th will close as quickly as it can, but we're probably looking at two hours or more after you begin the action before we're all committed."
"Are you going to hold any troops as reserve?" Jensen asked.
"No line units," Lon said. "The rocket and gun artillery will stand by for possible fire missions. If things get too rough, we might end up using their crews as infantry." In the DMC, every man was a rifleman first. "The only other reserve will be the headquarters detachments, and they might get into the fight as well. We have to put everything we can into this."
"No argument on that," Jensen said. "Since this is an all-out offensive, will you try to bring in Shrikes to help?"
Lon hesitated. "Probably not. Realistically, the most we might manage is four to six, with the rest trying to keep the New Spartans occupied defending their ships. Captain Thorsen will undoubtedly argue against using even four fighters for close air support, especially with more enemy ships approaching. On balance, the good that four Shrikes might do isn't worth the risk, except in extremis"
"So we're on our own." Jensen did not bother to give that the inflection of a question.
"We're on our own," Lon agreed. "The next order of business is resupply of small-arms ammunition. We'll set that up for our next rest periods, have the ships gang-launch the resupply rockets while our Shrikes are out to keep the enemy from trying to intercept them. That way, maybe most of the ammunition will make it down intact. We'll want to have the men who are going to guide each rocket in out in the open to give them the best view for the work. Get the rockets in and get the ammunition distributed as quickly as possible. We'll bring in as much as we can. Any surplus will be used quickly, I think." Besides, no soldier ever complained about carrying too much ammunition when a fight was expected.
"No one's ever tried to resupply two whole regiments at one time," someone said on the circuit. Lon did not recognize the voice. It was one of 15th's battalion commanders.
"We're spread out enough that it shouldn't be a major problem," Lon said. "There are more than enough control frequencies to avoid having the wrong rocket respond to commands. The men running the controls will have an acquisition blip on their head-up displays. After that, it's pretty much the same whether there's one rocket coming in or a thousand, as long as the controllers are paying attention. And bringing them all in at once buys us a measure of safety from enemy interception. There'll be too many rockets in the air for them to have any hope of targeting even ten percent of them."
It sounded good, and Lon had not been able to find any reason why it might not work, but the anonymous voice had been right. It was something that had never been tried before. Operations this large are so rare, the need has never come up, Lon consoled himself. It was, of course, still one more thing to worry about.
His primary worry, at the moment, was forcing the enemy on the ground to fight. There was no guarantee it would be possible. Both regiments pushed as hard as they could through the day. The rocket artillery and, later, the self-propelled howitzers forced the New Spartans to stop three different times, and slowed their pace for nearly three hours before the artillery exhausted the percentage of munitions that Lon had allotted to the task.
There had been no answering fire from the New Spartans. If they had any mobile rocket launchers left, they must certainly be out of ammunition—at least that was what Lon tried to convince himself of. But there was a nagging worry that the enemy might be reserving a few rounds for a more desperate situation. I would if I could, he thought.
Through the day, the only long stops the New Spartans made were those occasioned by the artillery fire, when it became simply too dangerous to advance. Other than that, they took no more than five minutes every hour and a quarter or so. "We'll take two breaks for every three they take," Lon told 7th''s battalion commanders. Fal Jensen pushed 15th even harder. It was a questionable trade-off, speed in catching the enemy against how tired the Dirigenters would be when they did.
"We have to take the risk," Fal Jensen told Lon. "We can't let these New Spartans evade us until their reinforcements land."
Lon had not tried to argue the point.
Still, an hour before sunset, both regimental commanders did allow a longer rest—time for a meal, time to let everyone get off their feet for an hour… and maybe get thirty minutes of sleep. "I think we're close enough to risk it, not that we have much choice," Jensen said when he and Lon conferred about the necessity. "The New Spartans are moving a lot slower as well. They'll have to take more time or have too many stragglers to be effective. We've already picked up a couple of them."
"The Elysians are almost on top of the New Spartans," Lon said, closing his eyes. He did not expect to get any sleep himself during the short stop. He doubted he would get a chance to try. A meal and coffee would have to be enough. "As soon as it's dark, they'll hit. That'll slow the enemy some more. The tanks will be in position to cover the fight by then as well."
"I've just had a report from one of my patrols," Jensen said, almost overriding Lon's final words. "The New Spartans have stopped and seem to be moving into a defensive perimeter. Maybe the chase is over. They're no more than two thousand yards out from my leading elements."
"The other batch of them, south of the river, are nearly to the ford," Lon said, after switching the view on his mapboard just long enough to check the latest position. Though none of those New Spartans were currently using active electronics, CIC had pinpointed the most recent sightings. That left room for error, or deception, but it was more reliable than guesswork.
"That still leaves them at least five or six hours away, no matter how hard they push," Jensen noted. "If we can handle the main force quickly, the troops south of the river will be pretty much irrelevant."
"Don't count on this being over that quickly," Lon said. "These are professionals, like us. They might still have a few surprises for us. I'll be surprised if they don't. We can't even be certain they don't have any rocket artillery left."
"Maybe," Jensen conceded, "but I think they'd have used that before now, while we were pounding them so hard before."
"Like they say, 'Don't bet the farm.'"
Lon made the rest of the calls he had to make, trying to keep each brief. The longest conversations were those with Jensen and Ives. Lon wanted each to be absolutely clear on what he planned. In case something happened to him before the night ended, there would be no lapse in command. Lon ate during the process, a mouthful here and there, spaced around the talk. Phip, Torrey Berger, Howell, and Dorcetti ran errands and brought messages as well.
Sunset came. In the next half hour Lon moved some of his companies nearer to their attack positions, closing possible avenues of escape for the New Spartans… who showed no sign of trying to escape. The artillery was alerted against the possibility—probability—that the enemy troops south of the Styx might try to cross within the next hour.
Finally, Lon had an all-too-rare moment to himself. He leaned back, rotating his head to help ease a strain in his neck, then closed his eyes—just for a few seconds. He rested his head against the tree trunk behind him. There was an ache over his right eye, and he felt the beginnings of a tic—pure nervousness, tension. It couldn't be anything physical; his nano HMS would correct any physical problem quickly, automatically.
What am I missing? What do the New Spartans have up their sleeves? He had no idea how many times he had asked
himself the same questions before. There had to be
something, something perhaps vitally important. The New Spartans wouldn't just calmly put their collective head in the noose without some plan, some realistic hope of turning the tables.
"They're not acting desperate," Lon whispered. He opened his eyes again. "What's their hole card?" What could it be? He shook his head. More ammunition for their rocket artillery than he thought possible? More launchers that hadn't been spotted yet? Both? Or did they maybe have more men on the ground than he knew about, men who had been observing strict electronic silence since the Dirigenters arrived? Maybe we're supposed to worry about the six hundred men south of the Styx, to keep us from looking elsewhere, Lon thought.
He called CIC on Peregrine again, to ask about movements of New Spartan ships—especially the cruiser that was close enough to interfere. It was maintaining position; the transports were still well out on their highly eccentric orbits, apparently doing everything they could to stay out of reach. Peregrine and the rest of the Dirigenter fleet were continuing a close scan of everything within forty miles of the DMC troops. There were no anomalies, no hint of additional enemy units, but most of the ground was tree-covered. Forest canopy could hide hundreds of troops as long as they did not use active electronics. Even thermal signatures could be concealed, or disguised, with the right kind of insulation and discipline.
