Allenson wanted the regiment to feel comfortable in the Hinterland without being tied to supply chains. His experience with Chernokovsky’s expedition had taught him that mobility was about far more than speed of locomotion. He began to understand why regular soldiers were so obsessed with logistics. Lack of supply, and its favorite partner, disease, had killed more armies than weapons.
Hawthorn, being Hawthorn, took it training one stage further. He encouraged his squadrons to make mock-attacks on each other. The art was to sneak up on another company unobserved and then burst in on them. This usually led to a swirling duel before both sides broke off. Each night he looked at the data records and awarded virtual kills. Squadron Leaders that were continually surprised without any successes of their own were replaced. Hawthorn was forgiving of any squadron leader who showed skill and aggression but occasionally was too bold for his own good, but he refused to tolerate timidity or incompetence.
The system was so effective that Allenson made Hawthorn head of combat training and let him introduce it to the whole regiment. Transit times lengthened as the regiment’s squadrons stopped moving along predictable routes where they could be ambushed and became masters of using the energy turbulence of the Continuum for cover. But Allenson was in no hurry. He knew the Regular Army would be slow to assemble. He had time to kill and realistic training was never a waste of time.
* * *
Allenson surveyed the ranks of his Militia. It was a sight that would have brought tears to the eyes of a Regular Drill Sergeant. He did not mind that few of the men had full uniforms and those that they did were ill fitting. He did not even mind the black eyes and split lips and knuckles. They were there to fight, not look good. He did mind that many were wearing medical patches and that some even paraded with splints holding broken bones in place.
He waved his datapad at the troops. “Not a pretty picture, is it?”
There was silence.
“Well?” Allenson shouted.
Muttered “No, sirs” answered him.
“Who started it?” Allenson asked.
After a pause, a sergeant took one step forward. He was one of those men who provided living proof that human beings had interbred with Neanderthals—before wiping them out. He was not a tall man but had a barrel chest and forearms thicker than Allenson’s thighs. What remained of his face bore witness to many a violent encounter but none of the damage was recent.
“One of mine, colonel, platoon sergeant Voskov, he’s a pretty good NCO if you keep him off the tonk,” Rutchett said softly into Allenson’s left ear.
“And how did you start the fracas?” Allenson asked.
“Well sir, it was like this, i’n’it. One of them Brazzies, I mean Brasilians, sir, asked me if us colonial monkeys had our tails docked to fit into men’s clothes.”
“I see,” Allenson replied.
“So I asks him, like, if Brazzies have their pricks docked at birth or whether they’re born dickless.”
“And for some reason the Regular Army took exception to this comment,” Allenson said, drily.
“Spose so, sir. Anyhows, he takes a swing at me sos I belts him with a bottle and it sort of spread, sir.”
“Sort of spread?” Allenson asked, slowly. “Sort of spread? I give the regiment leave for one night—just one miserable night. In that time, Union Street is burnt to the ground, the civilian riot police forced to flee and several snowdrops hospitalized.”
Snowdrops were the Regular Military Police, so named because of their white helmets and gauntlets.
“In addition, a civilian security organization going by the name of the Jolly Boys . . .”
“A street gang that act as enforcers for the pimps,” Hawthorn said softly into Allenson’s right ear.
Allenson continued as if Hawthorn had not spoken. “are so badly beaten that three are dead and a number maimed for life. Fortunately, the civilian police do not seem minded to investigate that incident further. Much more seriously, a number of Regulars have also suffered injury. Sergeant Voskov hardly did all this on his own. Who else in the regiment is responsible?”
As one man the entire Militia took a step forward.
“Hmmpf,” Allenson grunted, secretly rather pleased at the esprit de corps displayed. “I am at least pleased that the entire regiment has mustered as fit for duty. If you must fight, I expect you to win.”
Actually, one man strategically positioned at the back of the parade was only upright because he was being supported by a comrade on each side.
“You obviously have too much time on your hands. I have therefore arranged a programme of intensive training in ground combat. In addition, in case you still have surplus energy to burn, General Levit has kindly lent me Staff Sergeant Hobbs.”
Allenson indicated a small thin man who stood to attention to one side of the line of officers. The creases on his uniform could have sliced cheese and his buttons and boots shone.
“Do you think you can teach them to drill, staff?” Allenson asked.
“You can teach fleeks to drill if you work them hard enough, sir,” Hobbs replied. “It’s just a matter of application and sweat: my application, their sweat.”
“No time like the present, carry on staff,” Allenson said.
For a small man Hobbs had an astonishingly loud voice that Allenson could hear for some way from the parade ground.
“Sounds like the men are having fun,” Hawthorn said, with a grin.
A Regular ran up, saluted, and handed Allenson a sealed note. He slit it open and read the contents.
“They won’t have to endure Hobb’s for long. This is from Levit’s Chief of staff. We ship out in three days.
* * *
Quartets of forty-seater vehicles slid ponderously along the trackway. Ten firing positions, armed with heavy spring guns on universal gimbals, ran along the top side, the other three sides being protected by carbon-fiber armor. The vehicles in a quartet were positioned in a circle, gun-side out, such that all firing arcs were covered. The troops inside were divided into ten man watches. At any one time, one watch peddled, recharging the powerful batteries, one was on overwatch, manning the guns, one available as replacements and one on downtime. Quartets followed each other at set distances in a long caterpillar. Each battalion was followed by lightly manned, unarmed transports containing the baggage and heavy equipment.
The vehicles were slow and unhandy. The formation would be unmanageable in the open Continuum, but in the smoother trackway it presented a bristling defense to any attacker. Levit’s army was a much more formidable force than Chernokovsky’s doomed expedition. It resembled a glacier, grinding imperceptibly, but remorselessly forward to the Terran base on Larissa.
Allenson rode at the head of a company of militia along the trackway, overtaking the quartets as they moved towards the lead battalion. The company was divided into ten squadrons that criss-crossed each other’s trails, spiraling around the convoy and moving in and out of the trackway to check the continuum. Four companies of militia were always on close escort around the convoy. They never saw a Rider or a Terran but Allenson was determined not to be surprised again.
One company were pathfinders, seeking out the next system to stop and set up the next link in the trackway. At each layover, Allenson was able to present Levit’s staff with a map of the Continuum ahead. His troopers began to be afforded a measure of respect by the regulars, as auxiliaries of course. No regular conceded that they would be of any value in combat.
The remaining five companies ranged independently into the Continuum on free-hunting missions. The militia troopers had reached such a level of expertise that this was seen as the plum mission. Allenson rotated the companies to keep the men sharp and avoid suspicions of favoritism.
The scouts reported finding abandoned Rider camps and occasional beast tracks but had no contact with Riders, hostile or otherwise. The clans appeared to be retreating from the advancing Brasilian column, not concentrating for an encounter. The
militia had orders to launch an immediate company-sized reconnaissance in force at any concentration of Riders, scattering them if they could, and reporting back for reinforcement if they couldn’t.
This absence of Riders puzzled Allenson, who had a higher respect for the offensive ability of Rider clans than Levit’s people. They could not envisage mere savages daring to assault a regular column, but they had not been with Chernokovsky. The Riders, and hence the Terrans, must know the location of the sluggish column. Why had they not made any effort to disrupt the column’s progress? They could not destroy it, but they could mount delaying attacks. The trackway looked horribly vulnerable to Allenson.
* * *
The explanation made a stopover on a world christened Wobble by the scouts, because of its eccentric spin that progressed the seasons through a five week period. He had a message to attend General Levit “at his earliest convenience”. He took Hawthorn with him.
Levit’s command tent gave hummed with quiet purpose. It reflected the general’s character: efficient, thorough, intelligent but colorless. Unimaginative might be too strong a word but it did cross Allenson’s mind. He was shown almost immediately into the General’s inner office.
“Colonel Allenson, come in. A fast picket has just come in with information. What do you think of this?” Levit asked.
She and her chief of staff stood in front of a hologram of a map of the Continuum. Allenson did not immediately recognize the area covered. It took a mental adjustment to realize that the map was on a large scale, showing all the Brasilian and Terran colonies across the Bight and the Hinterland behind them. He was not used to thinking at that scale. Various glowing symbols were located on the hologram, blue for Brasilia and Red for Terra. The path and projected path of Levit’s trackway was a blue line that linked Perseverance to Fort Revenge, as the Terrans had pointedly named their base on Larissa. At this scale, it looked to be an insignificant distance.
“What’s this?” Allenson asked, pointing to a red line that originated in the colonies of New Terra, curving deeply through the Hinterland until it reached Larissa.
“The Terran supply line,” said the Chief of Staff, somewhat condescendingly.
“The red knots are the Terran chain of forts guarding strategic points,” Allenson said, to show he was hot entirely a lack wit, “so what’s that?”
He pointed to a flashing red icon.
“That’s the Terran relief force,” Levit said, calmly.
CHAPTER 25
Contact
“Terran relief force, what bloody relief force?” Allenson asked, shocked.
“It was always a possibility,” Levit said. “The correct military response to the approach of a siege army is to send a relief force, either to bolster the defenses such that they are impregnable or to operate in the field against the besiegers. The only other solution is to withdraw the defenders and destroy the installation.”
She spoke as if modern war was a chess game of move and counter-move, something not involving actual fighting at all. We threaten their pawn with a knight, and they either move the pawn or defend it with a bishop.
“How do you know this?” Allenson asked.
“The SIS, the Special Instance Section . . .” said the Chief of Staff
“I am familiar with the acronym,” Allenson interrupted, fed up with the assumption that he had landed on the last turnip boat.
“Yes, well, the SIS observed the build of the relief force in New Terra and alerted us,” said the Chief of Staff.
“I don’t understand how they could have travelled all that way in just a few days?” Allenson asked, tracing the length of the red line on the hologram.
“They haven’t,” Levit replied. “They set out before us.”
“And we have only now found out?” Allenson asked.
“Things take time,” Levit replied. “The SIS operative in New Terra would have reported to his handler, who would have waited for a courier to take the data back to Brasilia, probably via an independent Home World to avoid arousing suspicion. The SIS would then have spent time evaluating the significance and importance of the data before passing it on to the Army. Intelligence are always reluctant to disclose information to other government departments in case it leaks back and compromises their operatives.”
“The spooks do like their little secrets,” the chief of staff said, brightly.
Levit pointed to the flashing red dot “That is simply a prediction based on our estimate of their speed. They are moving along the chasms that link New Terra to the Hinterland behind our colonies, so will be making better time than us”
She sighed. “We may as well turn around now if the model is accurate. They’ve beaten us.”
“What?” Allenson asked. “We have not yet fought. How could we be beaten?”
“According to the model, they are two weeks out from Larissa. We are three weeks away, so they will get to Fort Revenge at least a week ahead of us.” She shrugged. “In which case, the siege will fail. There is little point in losing well trained troops in a lost cause.”
Allenson could not believe that they had come all this way, so methodically, merely to turn around at the first difficulty. “Why not assemble a fast detachment to get to Larissa first? We might be able to take it by a coup de main or bluff the Terrans into surrendering.
Levit looked at him and shook her head. “I am not prepared to break my defensive formation. Being outmaneuvered is one thing, the luck of the draw, but the new government cannot risk a debacle with heavy losses. The political fallout could be catastrophic and not just for the politicians. The incoming administration made great play of the previous lot’s incompetence in sending out an under-resourced expedition. How would the army explain another humiliating defeat after we had been given a free hand to set the budget? Heads would roll, starting with mine. No, the Brasilian commoners don’t give that much of a damn whether we or the Terrans control a piddling fort on a useless mudball that they’ve never heard of. The expedition can be spun as a successful flag showing exercise provided we have no significant losses.”
She cocked her head to one side and studied the hologram. “Actually, we don’t know the exact position of the relief convoy or its composition. This is, after all, only a simulation.”
“Then I think we should bloody well find out before making any irreversible decisions,” Allenson said.
He didn’t raise his voice, but neither did he wait for a response before he turned on his heel and stalked out of the tent.
* * *
Allenson attached himself to the Tenth squadron of Third Company. This company was largely made up of new troopers, so he wanted to see how they performed. He was pleasantly surprised by their keenness to show off their skills. Each squadron transited independently through the continuum, third company rendezvousing at an undistinguished world with barely breathable air due to sulphur compounds. Each of the five companies involved in the reconnaissance, half the Militia, had independent muster points along the predicted track of the Terran Relief Force. Third company was in the center, just where the Terrans were supposed to be.
The companies operated in squadrons for the reconnoiter, to cover the maximum possible ground as fast as possible. The point of assembling first was to check all squadrons were present. In the case of Third Company, Seventh Squadron failed to make the rendezvous. Allenson refused to intervene, leaving the decision up to the company commander, a young captain called Lai-Po, who elected not to wait for the missing formation but to split Sixth Squadron into two flights to cover Seventh Squadron’s zone as well as their own. On a whim, Allenson led the second flight.
He kept an eye out for Riders on the transit to the Chasm, but saw none. That was a bad sign. He anticipated that the relief convoy would be escorted by Riders, so he was not hopeful of finding the Terrans in his zone. The flight could see the chasm from a long way off. It looked like an elongate storm cloud, illuminated by flashes of lightning. It writhed and pulsed like
a monstrous growth. There was no Continuum current on this scale near the Brasilian colonies. He had seen simulations but they did not do the reality justice.
Signaling the flight to close up, he pedalled into the chasm, choosing a ninety degree entry angle to minimize the time that the flight was in the highly turbulent zone where visibility was close to zero. His frame hit the chasm wall like a boulder dropped into a river. A splash of yellow energy lit up his vehicle. The frame shuddered, its field twanging like a vibrating wire. It hung against the turbulence and then surged through, coils of multicolored mist flowing around its field.
Allenson emerged into choppy eddies along the inner edge of the chasm wall. The frame tossed and pitched but visibility was reasonable. He turned his head to look behind and check the rest of the formation. All five frames punched through the chasm wall after him. It was like watching a video of sstone dropped into a pond played backwards. The troopers managed to keep reasonably tight through the chasm wall, but they immediately began to spread out into an attack formation after they emerged. What in heaven were they thinking?
The penny dropped and he looked forward, feeling remarkably foolish. A chain of dark grey tubes slid slowly past connected to each other by a thick central cable. A single field enclosed the whole train. The front module was half the size of the others. The cars had large observation windows along their length, with mounts for crew-served heavy spring guns, but the lead vehicle had viewing ports only in the rounded bow. Presumably this was a tractor unit, supplying power to the rest of the chain.
Allenson changed course to hug the chasm side, finding an eddy stream that counter flowed against the central current occupied by the Terran vehicles. He hoped that the small one man frames would be inconspicuous against the flaring energy of the chasm wall. The Terrans did not appear to be taking any special precautions to watch for enemy vehicles but there was no harm in caution.
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 37
