Colonel (UC)

by Rick Shelley

  We could do it without much difficulty, Lon thought. We have to assume that the New Spartans can. But there was little, if anything, he could order done that wasn't already being done to discover any surprises the enemy might have. Patrols were being run. Electronic snoops had been set out in almost spendthrift fashion. The ships had the terrain under constant surveillance, from several angles, scanning from infrared through ultraviolet, and throughout the usable spectrum of radio frequencies. If they do have anything, we'll get at least a few seconds'

  warning before anything hits, Lon told himself. It was not much consolation.

  I could bring Junior here and keep him close tonight, out of the way of trouble. That thought, unbidden and unexpected, was something of a shock. Junior had not been in Lon's conscious thoughts for some time. He shook his head. I can't do that, for many reasons. Junior would resent it, and too many people would see it for what it would be, an effort to keep the younger man away from the greatest danger.

  Doc Norman would shake his head and cluck his tongue just at the suggestion, Lon thought. He shook his own head. I guess I haven't completely put all my worries to sleep. I guess I never will, not as long as he's in the Corps and in harm's way. I'm still not completely a Dirigenter in my head. Lon sighed, softly, and shook his head again. But I wouldn't be a proper father if I didn't worry about my only son.

  Fal Jensen launched his attack, supported by 15th Regiment's tanks. At first the attack made some progress, but it was stopped three hundred yards short of the New Spartan line by concentrated—and extremely accurate—small-arms fire. Too much fire for the manpower they have? Lon wondered. Farther east and south, the companies of Elysian soldiers raced to join the fray. They had hardly begun to contribute when CIC relayed the news that the other contingent of New Spartans had started to cross the Styx. As planned, Lon committed most of the rockets his artillery still had to making the crossing as expensive for the enemy as possible.

  Lon's 4th Battalion was the next unit to join the fire-fight. The rest of 7th Regiment remained too far away to participate. Lon had those three battalions on the move, though, heading for the northern flank of the New Spartans. The enemy had high ground behind him, and secondary positions, allowing them to withdraw into even better defensive posture, higher.

  "We're about forty minutes from engagement," Lon told Fal Jensen. "Keep them occupied."

  Lon did not hear Jensen's reply. That was when the New Spartans chose to spring their surprises.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  That the New Spartans still had self-propelled rocket launchers and missiles for them to fire was not the most startling surprise possible. What Lon was not prepared for was the sheer volume of fire and the area where it originated—south of the river, and farther east than the area near the ford that had been under closest scrutiny. In less than a minute after the first crew-served rocket was fired, it appeared certain that the New Spartans had at least eight and perhaps a dozen or more launchers across the Styx, platforms that had not been spotted—or even suspected—before they started firing at the Dirigenter positions. The missiles came with profligate abandon, the launchers moving as they fired, following courses designed to be too random in appearance to permit successful counterbattery fire. Some of the rockets targeted the Dirigenter artillery, but most were directed at the infantry units pressing the attack against the main New Spartan force.

  At the same time, obviously coordinated, the New Spartan cruiser in orbit launched all of its aerospace fighters on an attack against Agamemnon and Odysseus, ensuring that the Shrike II fighters could not be used for ground support.

  "We've got to do something about that artillery!" Fal Jensen shouted into his radio connection with Lon. "They're right on target, tearing us to pieces."

  "There's not much we can do, Fal," Lon said. "We don't have enough rockets yet to saturate the areas they're firing from, they're too far away for the howitzers, and it's going to take forty minutes or more to get the big guns close enough. The best we can do is close with the enemy infantry fast, get right in with them so their artillery can't hit us without hitting their own people."

  "Can't we use what rockets we do have?" Fal asked.

  "We've used almost every rocket to hit that short battalion of infantry crossing the river," Lon replied. "We'll put one or two rockets in the area where they're shooting from, but we don't have anything more. Keep your men down and dispersed until you can close with the enemy. As much as possible, passive electronics only. Don't give them anything they can home in on."

  "They don't need electronics to home in on us. The New Spartans in front of us know exactly where we are."

  "So don't help them. And we're not all in sight of the enemy. I'm going to make the order general. No radio or any other active electronics emissions unless absolutely essential," Lon said. "Pass that to your battalion and company commanders while I do the same for mine."

  Lon had not finished passing that order along when the New Spartans unveiled their next surprise, an attack against the rearmost units of 7th Regiment. Since Lon's headquarters was, at the moment, very near the rear, he did not need reports to know about this attack. It seemed to be aimed directly at him.

  Jeremy Howell almost bowled Lon over, trying to get him flat on the ground. The headquarters detachment had been on the move with the rest of the regiment, so they did not have slit trenches or any other cover available. The two men were scarcely down, and turned to face this latest threat, when a rocket-propelled grenade exploded eighty yards from them, quickly followed by several others along an arc, all at about the same distance.

  "Maybe they're wasting rounds," Howell shouted near the side of Lon's helmet, "but there's no need to take chances. Give the rear guard time to deal with them, sir."

  "I know, Jerry. Now will you kindly get off me?" Lon said, shrugging his entire body to move Howell's weight off his back and side. "I'm not so old I can't fall down on my own." Howell slid sideways.

  "Sorry, sir," Howell mumbled, but both knew he would do the same thing again without thinking past the need to keep the Old Man safe. "Things sure went to hell in a hurry. Where'd they all come from?"

  Lon didn't even try to answer. He adjusted his position, bringing his rifle to the ready, jacking a cartridge into the chamber and switching the safety to off. At least I still know how to use this, he thought. There was no need for him to start issuing commands to deal with the attack. The trailing companies of 1st and 3rd Battalions were already moving to isolate and eliminate the attack against the rear of the formation. Within three minutes he had a preliminary estimate of the number of New Spartans involved—no more than a single company, two hundred men, and more likely only half that number.

  Those men did only minimal damage directly, but they were close enough to call in accurate ranging information to their supporting artillery, and rockets started falling by the time Lon knew how many of the enemy there were west of him. "That means we've got to move, and now," he told Howell before broadcasting the order to the affected commanders.

  The two companies on rearguard duty would do what they could to hold the enemy in place while the rest moved north and east, hoping to escape direct observation. Lon's security detachment formed up around him—not a human shield, except for Howell and Dorcetti, but a properly dispersed infantry platoon adopting fire-and-maneuver tactics, using their rifles and rocket-propelled grenades to suppress enemy fire. The security troops were more heavily equipped with RPGs than line companies were, two per squad rather than one.

  It was an orderly withdrawal and, since they were moving in the direction of an even stronger enemy force, it could not be properly called a retreat—an ironic thought that flittered through Lon's mind as he moved from one tree to the next, running bent low, zigzagging as erratically as he could. Leaving others to do the dirty work. There was no time to pursue that thought. He would be derelict in his duty if he did get involved in a minor skirmish at the edge of the main battle, distracted
from his primary responsibilities.

  After he had covered forty yards, Lon did stop momentarily, mostly to catch his breath. He sank to one knee, the trunk of a massive tree covering him from much of the enemy fire. Before he got up to start moving again, he did loose several short bursts of rifle fire toward the enemy, more for his own satisfaction than because he hoped to seriously contribute to the effort. He looked around, noting the positions of Jeremy Howell and Frank Dorcetti—never too far from him.

  "I'll take care of this end of things, Lon," Phip Steesen said on their private channel. Lon noted Phip's position, by a blip on his head display, as thirty yards away, somewhat closer to the New Spartans. "You get out of the line of fire and worry about the other end."

  "Just don't stick around too long. There are two companies back to handle this attack, so let them do it. Give me three minutes, then bring your people along. Let the rear guard do its job," Lon repeated. I don't want to lose you the way we lost Dean on Bancroft. There was no time for the pain of that memory to assert itself. There had been four of them originally, best friends as well as teammates, inseparable. Dean Ericks, Janno Belzer, and Phip Steesen had been the three musketeers of their platoon when Lon was assigned to their fire team. Lon had come under their collective wing, their D'Artagnan, a young officer cadet out to win his commission. Janno had quit the Corps and married. Lon and Phip saw him only infrequently these days, usually with his wife. Dean had died on contract.

  Lon started moving again, his escort keeping pace even though they kept their attention more on what was behind than on where they were moving. Use the terrain for

  cover and concealment. Don't follow a predictable pattern. Be as erratic as possible. Up and down. Side to side. The New Spartans were too occupied with the counterattack by the Dirigenter rear guard to pay much attention to a few dozen men at extreme range and moving farther away. Still, an occasional round did come close enough to hear—or to see it hit. Wood splintered from the trunk of a tree just before Lon passed it, a little above head high. Some of the splinters bounced off the faceplate and side of Lon's helmet. He ducked instinctively, though it would have been too late had the wood been able to penetrate.

  It was nearly ten minutes after the start of the attack on the rear before Lon was able to sink to the ground for more than a few seconds. The fight behind was dying away. He finally had time to turn his attention to the main battle again. There had been a few scattered reports before, but Lon needed to catch up… and quickly.

  "At least we seem to have lost the enemy rocket artillery here, sir," Sergeant Howell said. "Moved too much for them to keep track of us, I reckon."

  Lon took a moment to just listen. There was noise, including the explosions of heavy artillery, but none of it was nearby. "Maybe you're right, Jerry, but keep your butt down, just the same. Humor me. Now give me a minute to find out what's going on."

  At first Lon did no transmitting. He simply shifted from one command channel to the next, listening for reports from those closer to the fighting, more concerned with getting a "feel" for the action than with specifics. The New Spartan infantry south of the river was still moving across the Styx—more than two-thirds of the men were already on the north bank and moving toward the rest of the fight. The rocket artillery had not managed to stop the crossing or—from what Lon could gather—make it as costly for the enemy as he had hoped.

  "Brief me," Lon said on his link to CIC. While he moved, anxious to get away from the position he had—briefly—revealed through transmitting, he listened, gaining confirmation of what he had gathered from his eavesdropping. Ninety percent or more of the New Spartan infantry might make it across the river—more than five hundred men. The Dirigenter heavy-weapons battalions had had too few rockets left to seriously impact the crossing and the enemy artillery firing from south of the Styx. As a result, neither attempt had been particularly successful.

  "Our best estimate right now, Colonel," the duty officer in CIC reported, "is that you might not have much more than parity with the enemy on the ground, and that does not take into account casualties within the last quarter hour." He went on to give numbers—estimates—for both sides, along with updated position reports. The picture was not overly optimistic, but neither was it as bad as Lon had feared it might be.

  "I'm going to move the tanks in as close as we can," Lon said. "Run them and the other heavy weapons until they don't have any ammunition left, then pull the crews to fight on foot." He closed out that conversation, then linked to Fal Jensen and the commanders of the heavy-weapons battalions and gave them the same orders. It's a good thing we got the resupply finished, he thought. There had been no incidents, and only one supply rocket had been lost—due to a fault in its guidance system. Then it was time for Lon and the men around him to move again… before the New Spartans could target their new location.

  This time, the move was not as frantic. Lon and the people with him were not under direct small-arms fire, nor under direct enemy observation. The rearguard action had ended, with the few surviving New Spartans retreating, pursued by a single company from 7th's 1st Battalion. Not Junior's company, Lon noted. He wasn't certain whether he should feel relieved by that. No one was likely to escape danger for long this night.

  It used to be so much easier, Lon thought, his eyes

  searching a wide arc of ground in front of him, back when I only had to worry about two platoons, or a single company. I knew everyone better, what they could do, what to expect. The price of that intimacy had been that he had been closer to the men under his command. Every loss was a personal one. This operation was too big, spread over too much ground, for one man to stay on top of everything that was happening every minute. By the time he could get a complete picture from his subordinate commanders, the situation had changed. And there were too many men for Lon to know them as well, to feel as close to them.

  Lon stopped moving and went down to one knee. There had been a hint of movement ahead, and a squad was investigating. Before they had gone far, the movement came again. This time Lon saw that it was a large bird that looked something like an owl, getting away from the advancing humans. At least it's not one of those big lizards, he thought. Then: How can anyone keep track of this many people and what's happening to them?

  This was no time for philosophical pursuits. Inwardly, Lon shook his head. He blinked several times. He did not want to use his radio and give the enemy a chance to pinpoint his location. He listened, scanning the frequencies his officers would use. Those who were already in direct contact with the enemy had little reason to maintain electronic silence. And CIC was maintaining a constant update on a channel that the regimental and battalion commanders and staff could audit.

  Before long, 15th Regiment would have to divide its attention between the main enemy force and the group coming north from the Styx. Fal Jensen was aware of that. He had started to space his troops accordingly. One of his short battalions was moving to establish a line, and to space land mines and electronic snoops farther out to give warning of the enemy's approach. The tanks of 15th's heavy-weapons battalion also were moving in that direction, hoping to get close enough to strike at the New

  Spartan rocket artillery south of the river. Seventh Regiment's tanks also were moving that way, farther back. They would be able to take the enemy infantry under fire before they could touch the artillery. It probably won't do much good, Lon thought. Those rocket launchers can pull back until they're out of range of the tanks and still be able to hit us up here. But he did not countermand the order. The effort had to be made.

  At present, the main New Spartan force was being faced on three sides. If they wanted to, they could still retreat east, over the crest of the line of hills they were on now. If they're going to try moving, they're going to have to do it within the next half hour or so, Lon thought, taking a moment to glance at the display on his mapboard. They wait much longer than that and we'll have them effectively surrounded, able to cover the remaining gap
with small-arms fire from either side.

  Lon shook his head. If they were going to retreat any farther, they'd have started before now, not waited until we were close enough to make it too costly. They've got to be counting on that extra-short battalion and the rocket artillery south of the river. And any other surprises they might have left, he added. There was still that possibility, that the New Spartans had not yet shown all their cards. Still more than two full days before those new ships can get close enough to contribute anything. How do they expect to hold out on the ground that long? Do they even have enough rifle ammunition to hold us off if we keep pressing the attack?

  "That might be the key," Lon whispered. Unless they cached ammunition and chose that spot for their stand because of its location, they'll run short on ammo before the new force can land. He tried to focus on that, looking for flaws in his reasoning. What were the chances they had cached ammunition along that ridge? After a moment, Lon conceded they were pretty good. The New Spartans had not been driven to the site. They had picked it. In addition to the tactical advantages of the location, knowing they were sitting on a stock of extra ammunition might be a major bonus.

  Just means we'll have to press that much harder, Lon thought. We started action tonight with all the ammunition we could carry for our rifles and grenade launchers, and if we have to, we can get another resupply drop in before the new enemy fleet gets close enough to interfere. He was glad that there had been no indication that the New Spartans had the capacity to resupply men on the ground by rocket. We might find out soon enough if the intelligence on that is right, he decided.

  "Lon, this is Fal Jensen. I've got an idea you're going to think is totally insane, but hear me out."

  "Go ahead, Fal," Lon said, getting up and signaling his detachment to get ready to move.

  "The enemy rocket artillery isn't going to let our tanks sit north of the Styx and shell them. They can pull south, out of our reach, and keep on clobbering us. Why not send our tanks—from both regiments—across the river? The info I have is that the ford is shallow enough and has a firm enough bed to let them cross safely. Even if we can't destroy the rocket launchers, we can drive them out of range of our people up here."