“No sweat, I hate drinking alone.” Hawthorn paused at the entrance of the tent. “You should have an answer ready—in case Destry asks you why you were shouting his wife’s name in the night. Just saying.”
* * *
Destry never asked.
* * *
They had half a day’s respite before ’Streamer scouts reported that the Terrans had left their overnight camp, resuming their stately passage down the chasm. The Militia returned to the attack, one company at a time, initially using fresh troops that had not yet engaged. Allenson was persuaded to let the initial attack proceed without his presence, but he waited anxiously for their return with Destry.
“Now you know how it feels,” Destry said.
“How what feels?” Allenson asked, watching the sky.
“How it feels to wait until the fighting men return,” Destry replied.
The base alarm chimed, indicating that friendly frames were phasing in from the Continuum.
“There’s the first squadrons,” Allenson said pointing them out. He shielded his eyes with a hand from the sun’s glare.
“The formations are ragged,” Allenson observed. “I don’t like the look of this.”
Destry did not reply. More frames appeared, and dropped down to the landing zone in untidy gaggles ranging in size from individual stragglers to formations of half a dozen or so.
“They are not in squadrons, or even flights,” Destry said. “Something has gone wrong.”
“Come on.” Allenson said. His instinct was to break into a run but that would be bad for the men’s morale. It would suggest he was panicking. As it was, he walked so briskly that Destry had to half jog trot to keep up. He saw more than a handful of wounded men while looking for the Company Commander.
Allenson spotted a lieutenant; what was his name, Dougman or Krugman, something like that?
“Where’s Captain Lai Po?” Allenson asked the lieutenant.
“Lai Po? He’s dead. The bastards fired a bolt into his frame and it exploded. Just blew up, right in front of me.” The lieutenant’s voice rose as he spoke, until he was shouting.
“Attention, mister.” Allenson snapped. “Have you forgotten how to salute a senior officer?”
The lieutenant straightened up and attempted a salute. The ritual steadied him and he responded much more calmly.
“Sorry, sir.”
“Make your report,” Allenson said.
“We were ambushed, sir.”
“Riders?” Allenson asked.
“No sir, Terrans. They had gunships hidden in the turbulence along the chasm walls. They turned in behind us when we made our attack run. Captain Lin Pao was hit almost immediately. We evaded, but that broke up our formations so we attacked the convoy in dribs and drabs. The defensive fire could concentrate on each attack. The men did their best, sir, but we took casualties and never got close enough to use the Molotovs.
“Very good, lieutenant, give my congratulations to your men for their bravery in pressing home their attack in such unfavorable circumstances. Download the data to Major Destry as a priority, then look after the wounded.”
“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant saluted but did not move.
“Was there something else?” Allenson asked.
“Ah, yes sir,” the lieutenant said, diffidently. “You said my men, sir.”
“Your men, lieutenant, as of now you are acting company commander,” Allenson replied.
The lieutenant disappeared.
“Shall, I call off the next attack until we work out a counter?” Destry asked.
Allenson was sorely tempted to agree, but they dare not lose momentum. He considered joining the attack himself, but that would achieve little other than make him feel more comfortable. It was more important to go over the data. Rutchett’s company was next to go, and Rutchett was experienced.
“No, but warn Rutchett and tell him to leave the Molotovs behind. They won’t get a chance to use them.”
Destry shrugged. “The Molotovs don’t take up much room. It might be worth carrying them just in case an opportunity arises.”
“The Molotovs are bloody dangerous. Frames don’t just blow up. What do you think killed Lin Pao?”
* * *
Allenson asked Hawthorn and Mansingh to an analysis meeting. Destry rapidly integrated the data from various frames to produce an accurate hologram of a Terran gunship for examination. They were flat rectangular boxes lined along each side with two rows of pylons to generate the Continuum field. Mansingh examined the model carefully. It had a crew of six that sat two abreast. The four men at the rear pedalled. The pilot sat at the right front and a gunner to his left manned a heavy spring gun on a complex pivot. It had high sides that hid all but the peddallers’ heads, except at the bow.
“This isn’t a Continuum combat frame,” Mansingh said. “It’s a light assault boat. Look the side screens protect the pedallers from light weapons but stop them firing back. Only the gunner and the pilot have a field of fire and then not to the rear. The gunner can’t even fire the heavy gun laterally to the right without the risk of killing the pilot. The convoy must have been delivering them to Fort Revenge, and they broke them out to use as escorts.”
“They sprang a surprise on Li Pao. That trick won’t work again,” Hawthorn said. He waved a hand dismissively at the gunship. “This thing is a sitting duck in a fight with single seater frames.” He mimicked a man potting a bird with a shotgun and flashed a cruel grin.
* * *
Hawthorn’s confidence proved not to be misplaced. Rutchett’s company suffered few losses and the Militia ran a series of attacks until the Terrans grounded. Allenson took part in one of the attacks. Casualties stayed low as the loose squadron formation of elements and flights was effective at detecting and driving off attacking gunships. The gunships never pressed their attacks but withdrew into defensive globes.
That night, Allenson held a council of war with the senior company commanders and Destry.
“Allenson asked me to analyze the latest Terran tactics and predict outcomes,” Destry said.
Allenson smiled. Destry should call him Colonel Allenson, of course, but Destry wasn’t a soldier and had no patience with military conventions. There were no disciplinary issues because everyone else took it for granted that normal rules did not apply to a Destry.
“The Terran gunships are reducing our effectiveness by disrupting attacks to a degree, but not enough to matter. The problem, gentleman, is that we are losing.”
CHAPTER 27
The Cauldron
Uproar greeted Destry’s bombshell.
“Quiet, gentlemen, please,” Allenson said. “Let Major Destry continue.”
“Our casualties are light. We are eroding their numbers faster than ours, but make no mistake, gentlemen, we are losing.”
“I don’t understand,” Hawthorn said.
“We cannot win a straightforward war of attrition. Yes our losses are low at present but our troops are tiring and will be exhausted long before the Terrans. More importantly, we will run out of time. I remind you that the aim was to turn them back, not just reduce their numbers by some irrelevant amount.”
Hawthorn sighed. “Perhaps we should change our strategy. Stop the pinprick attacks and gamble everything on one mass attack on the head of the column.”
“There’s too little chance of success.” Allenson shook his head.
“I agree,” said Rutchett. “There is nothing wrong with our strategy.” He shuddered. “Pinprick attacks work. Ask anyone who fought with Chernokovsky?”
“I do have a suggestion for a change in tactics,” Destry said, mildly.
They all looked at him expectantly and he flushed.
“That is, Mansingh and I have a suggestion,” Destry corrected himself with an academic pedantry for intellectual property rights.
“Oh no, you get the blame for this one,” Mansingh said. “All I did was act as a sounding board.”
“Well,” D
estry ran his hand through his hair, “I was digging around in files on third civilization air fighting tactics. I wondered whether there was anything else there that we could use, since modern Continuum combat appears to show such a striking similarity.”
He paused.
“And you found something,” Allenson said encouragingly, wondering why his friend was behaving so diffidently.
“Yes,” Destry replied. “Our problem is that we are not damaging the Terran vehicles. They are much larger than those used in Chernokovsky’s expedition. We are like Riders circling a fortified settlement. We can cause casualties but that’s all. We need to stop the vehicles—correct?”
“Correct,” Allenson said.
“Mansingh has suggested the weak spots.”
Destry waved his datapad and a troop train hologram filled the command tent.
“Key to the new tactics are the power cars. Knock one out and you stop a whole train. The batteries and field generators would be prime targets but we don’t know their exact position and they may be armored. But there is one component that is visible, vulnerable and unarmored.”
He walked around the hologram to the front.
“The pilots, gentlemen, kill the pilots, smash up the controls and you stop the whole damn train. And I have an idea how to guarantee success—we make head on massed attacks with Sturmböcke tactics.”
“Sturm-whata?” Hawthorn asked.”
“We strip the heavy guns of half our frames and add them to the others giving them four-gun firepower, and we rig it so all guns fire on a single trigger.”
“The overloaded frames will be clumsy and easy meat for gunships,” Rutchett said.
“So we escort them with the lightened frames, one escort squadron for each heavy squadron.”
“You mentioned mass head on attacks,” Allenson said.
“Sure,” Destry replied, excitedly. “A whole squadron attacks together in a tight formation. It lays down concentrated fire on the nose of a power car or supply transports at minimum range with a no-deflection shot. Every attack will smash in like the hammer of god, killing crewmen and wrecking the control systems. If we get lucky, the weight of fire will run the length of the car until a bolt hits a battery or something equally sensitive.”“Of course, the defenders will have a no deflection shot back at the attacking squadron,” Hawthorn said, drily.
“Yes,” Destry agreed, somewhat deflated. “There will be casualties, but the number of defending gunports in the bows of the cars must of necessity be limited. There just isn’t much room.”
He lifted his chin. “But there will be casualties. I volunteer to lead the first attack.”
“Declined,” Allenson said. “You are too valuable in your present role.”
“As one of the originators, I should lead the attack,” Mansingh said.
“Agreed,” Allenson replied, “and I will come with you.”
* * *
Allenson lead a stormbuck squadron, as the men christened the modified frames, ignoring all pleadings from his senior officers. The thing was a pig, heavy on the controls and slow, requiring constant pedaling. They saw a few Riders but the savages refused to engage the lightened escort frames. This seemed to be the pattern. Riders might pick off wounded stragglers returning from combat but were disinclined to go head to head with the Militia after the first day.
Allenson was bloody tired by the time they reached the combat zone. He doubted his troopers could make many attacks in the clumsy stormbucks.
The squadron became disorganized passing through the turbulence of the chasm wall and time was lost reforming for the attack. The stormbucks moved up the center of the chasm towards a train. Gunships tried to intercept them but were pounced on by the light escort squadron.
Allenson pedalled on, sweating hard. The stormbuck squadron closed remorselessly on the power car’s bow. Guns poked through opened ports to fire at them. A stormbuck was hit, dropping back into realspace.
Allenson concentrated on the job in hand, focussing his attention on the target. He could see the glowing outline of the cars field. Chasm turbulence streamed off the front of the field, tumbling down the side of the car. He lifted the nose of his frame until the sight rested on the cabin window. He could see the Terran pilot’s chalk white face staring goggle-eyed. He fired, the rest of the squadron firing more or less in unison
He was so close that his frame’s Continuum field began to glow from energy leakage from the train’s field. Allenson heaved desperately on the control stick as if muscle power could turn the frame. It lurched under him, much more manoeuvrable after discharging its weapons, and he slid across the bow of the power car.
Allenson rotated the frame, trying to keep the car in view. Bolts scythed into the bow leaving splashes of energy where they penetrated the train’s field. Great chunks of hull came free, spinning down the hull.
A frame failed to pull out. Maybe the pilot was hit or perhaps he just misjudged the distance, but his frame’s field contacted the car’s in an explosion of blue-white light that Allenson could still see with his eyes tight closed. When he opened them, the Militia frame was gone, but the power car was on fire.
The bow rose and twisted to the left, pulling the first towed car to the right. When the power car hit the chasm wall it shuddered, halted, and slid backwards. The rear cars kept on coming, folding up like a concertina. The tangled mess drifted back across the chasm and stuck in the far wall, rotating about a common center of gravity. The linkage holding the rear car broke and it tumbled down the chasm.
It was the most wonderful, god-awful mess that Allenson had ever seen. His number two pulled alongside and jabbed his arm down the chasm. More gunships were on their way and the light escort squadron had disappeared. The other stormbucks had also vanished. One minute he was surrounded by frames then there was just him and his faithful wingman. It was time to go.
* * *
The Terrans grounded having made little progress towards Fort Revenge. The mood among the men in the Militia camp that night was jubilant. Allenson was hailed and cheered when he walked to the command tent. He noticed Sergeant Jezzom amongst the revellers and signalled him over.
“We showed them, sir,” Jezzom exclaimed.
“Yes, Jezzom, we did. I understand that the men need to party and, God knows, they’ve earned it, but there will be more fighting. We’ve won a battle, not the war. I need the men sober and ready in the morning. Can I rely on you and the other warrant officers.”
“Yes, sir,” Jezzom saluted. “You can.”
“Carry on, Jezzom,” Allenson said.
* * *
The mood at the company commanders’ briefing was more sombre.
“Casualties?” Allenson asked.
“Close to eighteen percent of those engaged,” Destry replied. “Most were lost but there was the usual trickle of wounded. One man brought his wounded wingman back as a passenger.”
“How did they manage that?” Allenson asked, genuinely puzzled.
“The wingman’s frame was damaged but he successfully grounded on a world with a biosphere and his element leader landed and took him off. We might find more survivors on worlds along the attack path if we mount a systematic search,” Destry replied, shrugging
“Maybe after the battle,” Allenson said.
He did not bother to add “if any of us survive”. His audience were neither stupid nor out of touch with their reality.
“The casualty rate is worrying. Is that the result of the new tactics?” Allenson asked.
“Partly, the highest losses were in the stormbuck squadrons,” Destry replied.”But I think it’s also down to exhaustion. The men are so tired that they are making mistakes.”
“Yes, I know,” Allenson said. He felt it himself. It was not fear he associated with battle so much as total bloody exhaustion.
“I suspect some of the men are close to battle-fatigue,” Rutchett said. “One of my troopers couldn’t take his place in the last attack. He sh
ot himself in the foot loading his spring pistol. He claimed it was an accident, of course.”
Rutchett stopped and spread his hands.
“What did you do with him?” Allenson asked, curious.
“Put him in the hospital tent with the other wounded. What else could I do?” Rutchett asked. “It could have been an accident.”
“I’ve got men throwing up before getting on their frames,” Mansingh said.
“Very well, gentlemen, I want you to remove around forty percent of your men as a strategic reserve. Form them into shadow companies to act as guards to patrol over the base. That way they won’t have to enter the chasm. Select the men who are experiencing problems. We can bleed them back into the combat companies as they recover, if they recover. I think we can make one more bow attack, albeit at reduced strength, before our offensive capability is blown.”
“Permission to ask a question, sir?”
“Yes, Mister Krugman,” Allenson replied.
“We gave them one hell of a kicking today. Won’t they see sense and retreat?” Krugman asked.
“Well it’s always convenient if the enemy do what you want,” Allenson replied. “But it would be optimistic to rely on their cooperation.”
Someone chuckled, making Krugman blush.
“These are Terran regulars. They may just push on to spite us,” Rutchett said.
“I don’t think so,” Mansingh said.
They all looked at him.
“Krugman’s right, we did hit them hard today. For all they know, we have unused fresh reserves ready to do it all over again tomorrow. They don’t know how close to breaking we are. I don’t think they will just press on. If I was the Terran commander, I would forget about trying to swat wasps and clean out the nest once and for all.”
“They will attack our base?” Allenson asked.
“I would in their position,” Mansingh replied. “Their Rider allies must have located us by now.”
“They we had better prepare for evacuation. Major Destry, please select a suitable world upstream and prepare a base there. You can use the reserve troops. It would be quite convenient if the Terrans followed us back out of Brasilian territory, leaving Levit to capture Fort Revenge. With luck, we may have fired our last bolt, gentlemen.”
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 40
