Soldiers

by John Dalmas

  The Wyzhnyny charge of quarters had heard something. His torso turned, their eyes met, and Esau pressed the firing stud. The stunner's almost inaudible condenser hummed, the upright torso folded slowly, and the seated body fell sideways, toppling the low, padded chair.

  Esau closed the door, and after a moment's fumbling, locked it. Less than ten seconds had elapsed since he'd entered. Judging from marine experience on Tagus, the stunned CQ would never waken. There'd been no alarm, and the control screen was serenely featureless. So far, so good, he thought. Let's just hope no Wyzhnyny radios in now.

  Using his helmet mike, he reported his progress on the command frequency. The others knew what to do next.

  ***

  Jael's squad had landed east of the orchard. Its mission was to capture and hold the flakwagon that lay off the southeast corner, and with it, defend the raid from outside air or ground interference. Within four minutes of landing, she and her squad lay in the edge of the uncut crop, fifteen yards from the flakwagon. She could see no Wyzhnyny on or inside the machine, but nonetheless they waited. They were not to move until either Esau had captured the control center, or there was shooting, or the tiny numerals of her HUD clock read 0030 hours-whichever came first.

  They would not leave their stuffbags in the crop. The flakwagon controls were too far from the seat, even for a long-legged Sikh, let alone one of her people. So stuffbags would be used for seats.

  She wasn't thinking about that, though. She was scanning the east edge of the orchard, and what she could see of the south edge. She'd found the eastside sentry, even laid her blaster sight on him. Southside was someone else's responsibility.

  A voice in her helmet startled her. Esau's. "Raider command, I've taken the Wyz command center. Stunned the CQ. He's either dead or dying, and I've locked the door. So far as I know, no one knows we're here. Over."

  "Acknowledged, Esau. Teams proceed with the mission."

  ***

  Jael looked around. She couldn't see any of her squad, but they'd all checked in. She crept across the intervening stubble to the flakwagon, Steven Tyler to her right, mirroring her move. Standing slowly, she peered into the cab, and saw only Tyler peering in on the other side. Her squad, she knew, was crouching in the standing grain, blasters ready. Stepping to the weapon platform, she pulled herself up to peer into the back. No one there, either. Smoothly she bellied over the armored side. A moment later, Tyler joined her. This flakwagon was a lighter-weight version of the one they'd practiced on. The armored sides were high enough to protect a Wyzhnyny if he kept his head down, and the four-barreled heavy slammer had a gunner's shield.

  She heard the cab doors open, a soft sound-Ambler and Hoke, as drilled. So far, so good. She felt calm as wash water. Stepping onto the gunner's platform, she activated the firing system. On the sighting screen, tiny lights showed traversing, elevation, and the power drum all engaged. The hum was louder than she'd expected, but according to the buoys, the wagon was 214 feet from the orchard. The gun swiveled, quick but smooth.

  A Wyzhnyny voice called, jerking her attention from the sighting screen. The eastside sentry was trotting toward her. Carefully she drew her stunner and knelt low, waiting. "Don't fire," she murmured into her mike. She wanted to avoid noise if possible. Stun him as soon as his head appears, she told herself, and he'll never trigger his blaster.

  In her helmet, Jael heard one of C Company's people report the Wyzhnyny's approach, body low, torso and head forward instead of upright. She expected its head to rise slowly. Instead it reared, blaster raised and ready. As she thumbed her stunner, she felt a monstrous pain in her belly, and lost consciousness.

  ***

  In the control center, the first blaster fire was followed almost at once by a fusillade, some of it sounding like a flakwagon. Esau swore-something almost unthinkable before he'd left home. He'd pretty much figured out the controls while he'd waited. Now he tried powering up, hoping nothing heavy hit the floater, especially the windscreen in front of him. Windscreens were supposed to be blast resistant, but he didn't trust something he could see through.

  The gravdrive growled softly, and a HUD came to life on the windscreen-concentric hair-thin rings of blue light with a pale yellow spot in the center. Quickly the spot turned blue. The joystick knob was obviously made to turn on the shaft, so he turned it. A new HUD appeared, and the floater rose. In seconds he was above the trees.

  "Raider command," he said, "raider command! This is Esau! She flies! I'm above the trees now! Don't shoot me down!"

  He turned the knob further, swiveled the stick and shoved it forward, sending the floater toward where Captain Zenawi's command post should be. In this contingency, his next job was to stand by as courier, bus driver, or whatever.

  ***

  Almost at once, Steven Tyler had shouted, "Medic!" Then he saw the blood welling from Jael's lower abdomen. "God help us, it's Jael! And it's BAD!" Then the awakening blaster fire reminded him, and he mounted the gunner's seat, seeking targets.

  Because the flakwagon teams would be outside the main action, an Indi medic had parachuted with each of them. At Tyler's cry, 4th Squad's medic had dashed to the flakwagon and clambered over the side. Now he crouched beside Jael. "Gentle Jesus!" he muttered. Blood flowed across the deck, spreading. In four seconds, with the fastest "scissors" on New Jerusalem, he'd cut away the ripped tatters of uniform; in two more seconds held a canister from which he sprayed a pressurized liquid into her abdomen, his other hand shifting her ruined intestines for better coverage.

  In military jargon, the fluid was simply X-1. It would close the torn blood vessels within seconds, ending hemorrhage. After which surgical repair would be impossible in the division's field hospital. But without it…

  Within a minute or so she'd be clinically dead, and soon afterward beyond CNS salvage. He checked a dog tag. Bot agreements were common these days, but her dog tag didn't show one. "Tyler," he asked, "do you know if she's said anything about a bot agreement?"

  "I don't know of any."

  The medic switched his comm to the platoon frequency. "Ensign Hawkins, this is Med Tech-1 Shinassi. I have a potential bot case here, Jael Wesley, but her tags don't show a bot agreement. Has she said anything orally? Over."

  ***

  Esau stared at the radio, shocked. He broke in at once. "Shinassi, this is Esau. Just before we loaded out, she said she'd decided to do it. Shall I pick her up? Over."

  He was shaking all over.

  "Thanks, Esau, but she'll keep. I've given her X-1; now I'll give her Stasis 1. Med Tech Amud Shinassi out."

  In time! In time! Esau stopped shaking, but now a different specter hung over him. What would Jael say when she awoke?

  ***

  Though intense, the fighting in and about the orchard was brief and one-sided. The raiders were superbly prepared, attained total surprise, faced non-combat formations, removed the enemy's sole means of calling for help, and captured their heavy weapons before the Wyzhnyny even knew they were there. Almost a textbook mission. When Wyzhnyny APFs were sent, it was too late, and en route were attacked by strong Indi air units.

  The bolas worked as hoped. In the confusion on the ground, the Jerries hadn't even tried to distinguish the larger, reddish-brown Wyzhnyny-"the reds"-from the duns. They simply taped and loaded all they could before the order was given to pull out. And left with four more than War House had ordered-six reds and ten duns, as it turned out.

  Early in the fighting, numerous duns fled the orchard, a major surprise. The flakwagons took a heavy toll on them. Except for a few who reached the standing crop and hid, all who weren't captured were killed.

  By comparison, Jerrie casualties were moderate: seven died on the ground, and five more on the medivac or in the hospital. Only eight wounded survived, five of them bot cases. The high ratio of killed to wounded was normal for energy weapons, and in this fight, projectile weapons were not involved.

  Two Jerries were injured when struck on the head by b
olas being twirled or thrown by others.

  Captain Zenawi made sure that all the stuffbags were evacuated with the troops. Hopefully the Wyzhnyny would never know how this incursion was made.

  Chapter 55

  Wyzhnyny Offensive

  Before the Jerries had even arrived at Terra, War House had pretty much decided on the basic features of the New Jerusalem liberation campaign. It assumed that the Wyzhnyny occupation force would be larger than any liberation force they could afford to send. If not, all the better, but the assumption was appropriate. They also assumed that the Wyzhnyny would make an all-out effort to crush the newly-arrived Jerries.

  So with work under way on the Wilderness Base, Pak had sent his fortifications chief, with two officers from the Luneburger engineers, to plan quick but effective defenses in the forest. The Battle of the First Days had just begun when the three set out on grav scooters, armed with packets of photos provided by the surveillance buoys, and large scale, prewar topographic/vegetation maps.

  Construction began two days later. There wasn't time to plan in detail. Half the Luneburger engineering regiment was committed to the work. No forts were built, not even bunkers. Instead they adapted modern tools to 16th and 17th century Scandinavian strategies. They should do nicely, if the Wyzhnyny air support units were adequately suppressed.

  ***

  The Battle of the First Days had taught the gosthodar that attacking the humans across open fields was unpromising and terribly costly. The Tank Park Raid established that the humans were aggressive and daring. The human surveillance buoys made stealth operations impractical, and the destruction of his heavy howitzer battalion limited the punishment he could inflict on the humans without closing with them.

  Then had come the night of the Pecan Orchard Raid, and everything changed. Not because of the raid itself. Though insulting and mystifying, it had not been very damaging. But because of what else happened that night.

  Commodore Xarsku had sent scouts into F-space to exchange radio messages with the gosthodar, who used the opportunity to describe his problems. He wanted-according to him, he needed-the destruction of the humans' wilderness base. And given the base's concealment screen, and the human surveillance buoys, he insisted that this required powerful intervention from space.

  Xarsku didn't know as much as he'd have liked about the human space force remaining in the system, but he did know it was substantially more powerful than his own. Nonetheless, his function was to support the colony, so he'd scripted an attack. A bombard would approach the planet in warpdrive, and emerge in F-space some twenty miles out. Using triangulation, and data from Jilchuk, it would then pound the entire blind area-an action that would take about half an hour. At the same time, two marine hunter craft would take out the surveillance buoys. Meanwhile, two supply ships were to emerge as near to Jilchuk's main underground supply base as they dared, unload cargo as rapidly as possible, and leave.

  Xarsku had no illusions; the supply ships would probably be destroyed before they finished unloading. But even so, they could easily make the difference between survival and starvation.

  To cover these actions, Xarsku's planetary guard was to engage its alien opponent, holding its collective attention.

  Jilchuk knew little about space warfare, so he'd awaited the action optimistically. His Intelligence section monitored Xarsku's radio communications throughout the action, and Jilchuk had followed it play by play.

  Xarsku's plan was simple, and there was something to be said for simple plans. But this one had been predicted, so Kereenyaga was prepared. Even so, setting the place and time of engagement gave Xarsku an initial advantage, which cost the humans a cruiser and two corvettes. The gosthodar felt a swell of exultation. But the humans' greater numbers and firepower soon drove Xarsku back into warpspace.

  Meanwhile, near the planetary surface, Xarsku's hunters had destroyed the two human surveillance buoys. His bombard, on the other hand, lay broken and smoking on a forest ridge. It had never gotten into position. Designed for punishing, not fighting, it had been attacked by four of Kereenyaga's corvettes, whose simultaneous torpedo salvos had disrupted its force shield, destroying generator and drives.

  As if in retribution, the hunters that had destroyed the buoys then scorched two swaths across the blind area before Kereenyaga's corvettes could engage them. One escaped into warpspace. The other, crippled, careened into the forest miles away, and blew up.

  The corvettes then caught the cargo ships in the act of unloading, and slammed torpedos into each of them before heading back into near-space.

  When it was over, Jilchuk found solace in the destruction of the buoys. Also, substantial supplies had been transferred before the supply ships were attacked, and more after their fires had been controlled.

  But the enemy on the ground had not been destroyed. Damaged, wounded, but not destroyed. Their destruction remained up to him. Move quickly! he thought. Quickly and powerfully! He'd told himself that before, he realized, but this time nothing would turn him. There'd be no hesitation, and no backing off. And with the buoys gone, the enemy couldn't know or predict his actions as they had before.

  General Pak watched Wyzhnyny infantry-a very long column of fours-trotting easily down the road toward the forest. The bulk of their equipment and supplies were carried by AG trucks, and their speed of foot was sobering. He'd realized before he'd left Terra that this life-form would run faster than humans, but actually watching them… they and their guardian flakwagons, of which the Wyzhnyny seemed to have an endless supply.

  At least he could watch them. Presumably the Wyzhnyny didn't know that Kereenyaga had replaced the lost buoys with another. The Jerries had promptly nicknamed it "Lonesome Moses," which surprised the general when he heard about it. It seemed irreverent for troops with their background.

  Lonesome Moses provided less detail, less perspective, and had far less versatility than the buoys the Wyzhnyny had destroyed, but it was infinitely better than no buoy at all. Immediately after the fighting on the First Day, Xarsku had sent a single daring Hunter to shoot down the first two. Kereenyaga had quickly deployed his reserve pair, and ordered his engineering section to cobble together a backup. Shipsmind had provided the basic information, and his engineers and technicians had provided parts and ingenuity. And with it now in place, they'd begun on still another, just in case.

  Equally important was Colonel Schrager's Burger engineers, building defenses in the wilderness. The engineers and the Jerries. The colonel had suggested that progress would be faster with help, and that a battalion of resourceful backwoods infantry would be just the ticket. Pak had complied. A Jerrie battalion had pitched in with beam saws, AG sleds, and strong backs, felling trees and throwing up breastworks. Pak had visited the work in progress, and been impressed by the strength, energy and cheerfulness of the Jerries at work. They treated it like a holiday, hard though it was.

  And urgent now, because Wyzhnyny command was moving troops into the forest at two points, one division eighteen miles west of the howitzer cemetery, another thirty miles east of it. And strong reserves had been moved to several locations, with APFs. Obviously the Wyzhnyny commander intended to attack at unpredictable points simultaneously. As soon as he'd made a breakthrough, his reserves would exploit it.

  What Pak didn't know was, the key reserves were "reds"-what was left of the Wyzhnyny warrior brigade.

  Meanwhile Wyzhnyny batteries were also on the roads, apparently detached from their infantry brigades. He wasn't sure what plans Wyzhnyny command had for them, but he was sure he wouldn't like them. Lonesome Moses couldn't identify the caliber, but they seemed smaller than those destroyed by the marines. Five or six-inch bores, he guessed. They should have enough range to lay fire on the Wilderness Base, and on much of the defenses the Burgers had been building. It wouldn't be remotely comparable to what the Wyzhnyny bombard would have done, but he was glad he'd moved his hospital and "bot shop" to the backup site, thirty-five miles north.


  And the artillery were accompanied by tanks and flakwagons. Perhaps all the tanks the Wyzhnyny had left. A simple count showed that the enemy had more tanks than he had. What was building here, he did not doubt, was a decisive showdown.

  We'll see, Pak thought, what Major Phayakapong accomplishes with our own modest project.

  Despite more than seven centuries of Commonwealth peace, the lineage of Major Patrick Feliks Phayakapong had kept and nourished a long military tradition. Privately for the most part. Eleven centuries earlier, an ancestor named McClintock had fought in the North American War of Secession. He'd been a private in J.E.B. Stuart's cavalry at the First Battle of Manassas, a sergeant at South Mountain, a lieutenant at Chancellorsville and Gettysburg, and finally a captain at Yellow Tavern. Where he lost his general to a Yankee bullet, and his shattered left leg to a surgeon's saw.

  His experiences, pride, and storytelling began the tradition. Almost as far back, in various tributaries of the family line, others fought in the Crimean War, the Franco-Prussian War, the Boer War, the Moro Resistance, the European Great War… but either they were not storytellers, or their stories were lost. Members of the family had compiled histories of their ancestors' units and campaigns, but those weren't the same as personal accounts.