by Rick Shelley
"And vice versa," Lon said. "We can't get Shrikes in to help us either. That end of it is a stalemate, at least until the new force gets close enough to use its fighters. Then our fleet is in trouble, too. Maybe the New Spartans don't have any rockets left for their self-propelled launchers, but we're also out of ammunition for our rocket launchers and artillery, and getting close to out of ammunition for the tanks as well."
"Is getting the New Spartan commander on the ground to surrender going to be enough?" Tefford Ives asked. "That new fleet might still attack our ships. We might end up being stranded without a way off. If that happens, the New Spartans can land whatever troops they're bringing and give us as much trouble as we can handle."
"One step at a time, Teff," Lon said. "The troops on the ground are the only ones we can do anything about. If we force them to surrender, strip them of weapons, ammo, and communications gear, we'll have a chance, no matter what the newcomers do. If the enemy can't provide replacement equipment, the men won't be much use. We'll get in another ammunition resupply before the new fleet gets close, maybe risk shuttles to bring in food and ammunition for the heavy-weapons battalions." He paused. "We'll have to risk that, as long as there's a possibility we'll have to keep fighting. After that… we'll do whatever we have to do."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Lon took time to visit the treatment center the med-techs had set up on the western slope of the ridge the New Spartans had blown. Twenty trauma tubes were in use. Another forty men were lying on blankets spread on the ground. Those were men whose injuries were not serious enough to need time in a trauma tube… or who had to wait their turn because their injuries were not as critical as the men already in the tubes. Lon stopped to say a few words to each of the wounded who were not in tubes but were conscious—words of encouragement, comfort. He asked the medtechs about each man in a tube, and stopped hardly longer next to the tube holding Phip Steesen than any of the others.
Get better fast, Phip, Lon thought, resting his hand on Steesen's tube before moving to the next casualty.
"We're okay for the moment, Colonel," Major Norman said during their tour together, "but I can't answer for how much longer. One more major firefight and we could run low on medical supplies, even critical components for the trauma tubes—assemblers and controllers. I talked with 15th's acting SMO an hour ago, and they're much closer to that point than we are. They lost a third of their medical stores in the shuttles that were destroyed. And, of course, the one thing there never seems to be enough of is trauma tubes."
"We can't do much about the tubes," Lon said. "Set things up to use resupply rockets to bring in consumables—whatever can survive a landing in one of those rockets. We'll do double drops in case some of the rockets don't make it."
"Even if all the rockets are brought in on target, we'll probably lose some cargo, possibly thirty percent of the most delicate items," Norman said. "The molecular controller units are particularly fragile. They can't take a hell of a lot of hard treatment. That's why we've never really considered the resupply rockets as a routine means of bringing in medical stores."
"I know, but since we don't have any viable options, we have to use what we've got," Lon said. "I'll give CIC authorization. You get on with Peregrine's SMO on what you want and any tips you can give him on how to pack it to minimize losses."
Norman nodded. "Lon, there's one other thing I have to bring up as senior medical officer. How long do you plan to push the men without sleep? We're not to the critical point yet, since a lot of our people had a chance to get some sleep yesterday afternoon, but we're on the move, heavily loaded, and looking for a major engagement at the end. If the chase goes on until dark tonight, with a fight after that, we'll be getting critical. Tired men make more mistakes, and mistakes in combat get men killed and wounded."
Lon Va>sitated before he replied. "I know the situation, Dan," he said, very softly, "but… we just don't have many realistic options. I hope we'll be able to get enough men behind the New Spartans that they won't be able to keep running, or that they'll get tired enough that they have to make a long stop to let their men sleep. But with that new enemy fleet coming in, we don't have time for luxuries like sleep. We can't stop until the New Spartans already on the ground stop. Once we get the enemy main force locked into position, I'll try to give us enough time to let everyone get a few hours' sleep. If possible. A lot depends on how long it takes us to force mem to stop—and whether they try to force a breakout when we do."
"My concerns about sleep extend to you as well, Lon."
Norman said. "You need enough to be able to function at your best as well. Maybe more for you than for the younger men in the line companies. You've been at this business since before a lot of them were born. If you're a glutton for punishment, I can get the exact percentage for you in about five seconds."
"I know how old I am, Doc," Lon said, his voice showing a harsh edge. "And I've already got a pretty good idea about the other. No need to rub my face in the obvious." He shook his head. "I do that myself every time I look in the mirror."
"Tell me, did you ever get a chance to meet Warren Greavy?" Norman asked.
Lon laughed. "Old Prune Face himself? Yeah. I was introduced to him at a Founders' Day ball, back when I was a fairly new lieutenant. Matt Orlis told me that Greavy was a hundred and thirty years old, and he looked twice that."
"He was fifteen years older when I met him, not long before he died." Norman shrugged. "I was surprised when I heard about that. Old as he was, he had looked fit enough to last another ten or fifteen years, and you couldn't get a bet that he wouldn't reach a hundred and fifty. My point is, he remained on active duty until he was well past ninety, set all kinds of records, commanded 4th Regiment twenty-three years, served three terms as General—and flatly refused a fourth term. He took his annual physical qualification test just before he finally retired, and passed it with numbers to spare, not a hell of a lot worse than you did on your last qualification. He was eighty-nine the last time he led a combat contract, and from the reports I read, it was no beer run. He managed to get himself shot on that one, but kept fighting for twenty minutes before a medtech got to him."
"So he was an ornery old goat. So?"
"So don't get yourself hooked on thinking about how old you are, or how long you've been in the Corps," Norman said. "Don't rub your own face in it, or beat yourself over the head with the calendar, any of that nonsense. With all the nanotech floating in our systems, age is more a state of mind than anything else." Lon smiled. "Point taken, Doc."
When he returned to the ridge, Lon moved his command post into the valley between it and the next line of hills—which the New Spartans had already abandoned. His 1st and 3rd Battalions had already pushed past the creek that marked the lowest line through the valley and were climbing toward the next ridge. The point companies were within two miles of the enemy rear guard. The situation on the flanks was better. Dirigenters were level with the New Spartan point, closing in from north and south. Lon concentrated on getting updates from CIC, Fal Jensen, and the commanders of each battalion. They were making definite progress, as much because the New Spartans had slowed down as for the increased speed the Dirigenters were attempting.
"Unless they pull another rabbit out of the hat, we should have them pretty well encircled by sunset," Jensen said. "And the smaller force is just about taken care of. The reports I'm getting from my company commanders is that those New Spartans seem to be running critically short on ammunition."
"Critically short, or just saving it for when the situation gets critical?" Lon asked, noting the change in Jensen's tone. He sounded optimistic now, not worried that disaster was only moments away. He was growing into his command.
"That's the point, of course," Jensen said. "No way to be certain. I've got two eager young officers—one who's been a captain less than a year, and a lieutenant commanding half his company because the shuttle carrying the rest was blown apart before landing, with the
ir captain and the other lieutenant—who think we can overrun the five hundred New Spartans they're facing without too much trouble. I've told them to continue as they have been, keeping our exposure to a minimum."
"And they want to charge right in and finish it off?"
"Isn't that the way it always is?" Fal said, almost a hint of humor in his voice. "If I could be anywhere near certain that their estimate of the situation is right, it might work. Both men are good officers, but—"
"Are you asking me to make the call?" Lon asked.
"You're the boss," Jensen said. "I've told them, for now, to keep pressuring the enemy without doing anything, ah, foolish. No empty heroics. Personally, I think it's a little soon to try to finish that batch. They haven't taken all that many casualties since they crossed the river and we diverted the tanks to handle their rocket launchers. There could be five hundred New Spartans left there, and I've hardly got that many men around them. It is, as I said, your call, if you want to overrule me."
"Who's your battalion commander on the scene?"
"Captain Jim Binnes is acting CO. Marty Turin and his entire staff were lost coming in."
"Binnes the captain urging a full-scale assault?" Lon asked.
"No. Binnes just passed the request to me without comment. Jim is adequate for the job for now, but…" Jensen snorted. "If I had someone else I could move into the job___" He didn't need to finish that statement.
"I think you've made the right call, Fal. We'll play it your way, at least for the next couple of hours. Put as much pressure on them as we can without forcing a last-stand brawl. We go in before those New Spartans are ready to call it quits, and it could come down to bayonets. Keep a watch on the situation and let me know if you see enough to want to go ahead."
"Right. My estimate right now is that another two or three hours of constant pressure might be enough, but I'll keep an eye on things there, as best I can."
Two or three hours. The phrase kept running through Lon's head as he hiked east. If we could spring a couple
of Shrikes loose, we could turn the situation over faster, he thought. But if we could spring Shrikes for close air support, everything would go a lot easier. We could finish the business on the ground in no time at all. But bringing Shrikes in would draw the New Spartan Javelins as well, or put the ships at hazard.
If it comes down to it, we'll have to take the risk, Lon decided. Soon enough to give us time to recuperate before the new fleet gets in range. Can we do it a little sooner, take out the smaller enemy force, then go right into the main force? He kept walking east as he turned the question over in his head. A captain temporarily thrust into command of a battalion in combat might be excused for indecision, after a time. A colonel commanding a regiment—two regiments—would not. I'm the contract officer. I'm the one who has to make the final call, Lon reminded himself. I've got to make a decision… and it had better be the right decision.
Another fifty paces forward, with his security squad ranging in front and to either side, weapons at the ready. Lon continued to listen to the continuous updates from CIC, interrupted only when he received a report from someone on the ground. There were no surprises in any of the messages. The situation was moving—slowly, but in the right direction.
Just not fast enough, Lon thought. This all gets down to timing. Hit at the right time, providing we can hold the New Spartans in place long enough. Timing. Lon kept walking. I'd like to have the situation on the ground resolved within twenty-four hours, soon enough to give us plenty of time to rest up for the new people coming in.
Time to rest. We need to rest our people before the big fight, if we can. And we'd better find a way. Tired soldiers became casualties more easily. They made stupid mistakes. They quit caring enough to be careful. When things got bad enough, a bullet seemed a small enough price for the luxury of four hours of rest—even in a trauma tube. If we can lock the enemy's main force in place, by sunset
or so, then move everyone into place and take a few hours for sleep. Hit the New Spartans maybe an hour or an hour and a half before dawn. And bring in a few Shrikes to help, despite the risk.
Lon felt as if he had shed half the gear he was carrying. Tentatively, at least, he had made his decision, even if he was not ready to start issuing the orders. Now, if we can just force the New Spartans to halt so we can implement it, we'll be all set, he thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Morning. Daylight. Unlike the day before, this one looked to be only partly cloudy. The weather front had pushed through, leaving only scattered high clouds behind. There was a moderate breeze coming out of the northwest, holding the temperature down somewhat. The local forecast out of University City was for a high in the mid-eighties, Fahrenheit. The temperature that night might dip into the fifties, away from the city.
At dawn, the New Spartan fleet bearing in on Elysium was still fifty-three hours out from a standard attack orbit. A sword of Damocles, Lon thought after receiving the latest update from CIC, except we know when this sword is going to fall.
By the middle of the morning, Lon was beginning to feel confident that his men would be able to force the New Spartans already on Elysium into battle before dawn the next morning. If we can do that on our terms, I think the odds will favor us, at least a little, and we can force the issue before their reinforcements get in, he told himself. Even if we only have parity in manpower, we should have the edge in ammunition. After that, we trust that our men are better trained and that our officers are better leaders. Including me. He felt a tiny shiver of doubt. In the end, it might come down to which side had the better commander.
Lon started slowing the pace of 1st and 3rd Battalions just a little, allowing ten minutes for the men to rest after each hour on the move, instead of five. "Half an hour for lunch about noon," he informed the battalion commanders at eleven o'clock. "We don't need to push so hard here. It's the units on the flanks that need to hurry to surround the enemy."
Fifteen minutes before noon, the smaller band of New Spartans tried to break through the ring of Dirigenters, aiming to cut the siege on a direct line to their main force. The units of 15th Regiment that had boxed the enemy had been watching for the maneuver—some of the men had been hoping for it—and they met the enemy spearhead with a volley of rocket-propelled grenades and automatic rifle fire. The New Spartans kept coming, and the fighting in the northeastern quadrant of the sector quickly became hand-to-hand. The engagement lasted more than an hour, and casualties were high on both sides.
Lon extended the lunch break for the two battalions with him, listening to reports from the battle to his south, wondering whether he might have to send a company from 3rd Battalion to reinforce Lieutenant Colonel Jensen's men. Then that fight ended, suddenly, not ten minutes after Lon had given the order for 1st and 3rd to resume their movement east.
"They surrendered," Fal Jensen reported, sounding almost ecstatic. "I don't have a firm count yet, but it looks as if we've got nearly three hundred prisoners. It's going to take a time to get things sorted out, but we can put everything to taking on the main enemy force when we catch them up."
"Good job, Fal, and pass that on to the officers and men involved," Lon said. "Get the wounded cared for, ours and the New Spartans'." He did not have to specify that Dirigenters came first, and had first call on trauma tubes. "Strip the New Spartans of weapons, ammunition, helmets, and any other electronics. Destroy the helmets and other electronics and do the best you can to make the weapons inoperable. Dig a pit and burn the ammunition. Just in case we have to face the reinforcements they've got coming in and lose our prisoners, I don't want to leave anything for them to use against us."
The electronics were incompatible with DMC systems. In other circumstances, Lon might have ordered the weapons and ammunition held as a reserve for his own men—he had done that before—but here, he decided that the greater danger was that the enemy might recapture the munitions, not that his people might run short of ammunition. Having work
able resupply rockets erased any worry Lon might have had about running short.
"I'll take care of it," Fal said. "It's going to take most of the men I've got down there to treat the wounded, get rid of the enemy's gear, and guard the prisoners, unless we can turn the prisoners over to the Elysians. You want I should do that?"
"Not yet," Lon said after a very brief hesitation. "Maybe we don't have to worry about the Elysians mistreating prisoners, but they want to be in on the final fight, and all the soldiers they have available are moving around in front of the New Spartan main force." He had never quite forgotten about the companies from the Elysian Defense Force moving in on the southern flank, but they had not been at the front of his mind until Jensen mentioned them.
"I'd feel less nervous with us pushing the final attack and the Elysians away from the action," Jensen said. "We don't know how good they are, and we can't be sure what they'll do."
"I know the arguments, Fal, but this is their world, and they're our paymasters on this contract. They are good. We'll just have to keep an eye open. For now, just keep me informed on the progress your people make." Lon got to his feet and started following the two line battalions again, and his security squad moved as if they were physically linked to him.
"Hey, what's the big hurry?"
Lon stopped and turned at the sound of Phip Steesen's voice. Phip was hurrying toward him. Lon's eyes were immediately drawn to the sling Phip's left arm was in, the arm strapped tightly to his body. Phip also seemed to be limping a little, favoring his left leg. He carried his rifle in his right hand.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Lon asked when Phip finally reached him. "I know damned well Doc Norman didn't release you for duty with that arm strapped up like that. Why aren't you back at the field hospital, where you belong?"
