“What if you arrived and the message was false? The Faithful of Kibbutz Aviv would be at risk of heretical contamination.”
Ratliff spun about abruptly, and the priest almost fell to avoid running into him.
“You were so concerned about the remote possibility someone might hear something you disagree with that you chose to let people die. We have minimum contact with the villagers when we go in; that’s one of our Rules of Engagement. The people who die because we were delayed, their deaths are on your soul. Their deaths are your sin.”
“Heathen!” Archangel Raphael shrilled. “It is no one’s sin to die resisting heresy!”
But Ratliff was already striding to the parade ground and didn’t listen. He had a counterattack to mount.
Within two minutes the entire 241st Defense Garrison and the Marines who commanded and led it were aboard APCs, headed for Kibbutz Aviv. They were in sight of the village, re-formed on line and charging at top speed into open farmland when the APC on the line’s left flank went into a dip in the ground and didn’t come out.
Ratliff was studying the situation on his UPUD’s visual display when he saw the APC suddenly stop. “Runner Eleven, report,” he said into the company command circuit. There was no reply. Who did he have in Eleven? PFC Hayes, that’s right. He switched to the squad circuit. “Hayes, sound off. What’s happening?”
No reply. Hayes’s ID bracelet telltale didn’t show when Ratliff switched the UPUD display to show the Marines’ locations.
Still on the squad circuit, he said, “Dorny, Rock, check it out. Everybody else, keep moving.” Damn, not only was he half blind, he was going to hit an unknown number of Skinks with an understrength company.
“We’ve got trouble,” Corporal Dornhofer reported. “Goddamn! Skinks all over the place!” Ratliff heard Dornhofer order the two APCs to maneuver to where the infantrymen could dismount.
“We’re coming, give us directions!” Ratliff shouted. He deployed the APCs according to Dornhofer’s report and had the troops dismount seventy-five meters from the dip. Dornhofer, Claypoole, and their Kingdomites were already on foot, firing desperately at hoards of Skinks that were attacking from the other side of the dip. He couldn’t see the APC from where he was—it was too deep.
“Pasquin, loop left, get on their flank,” Ratliff ordered. “Juice, move to your right and lay down a base of fire.”
On the right side, Corporal “Juice” Goudanis and PFC Quick quickly had their platoon move forward and fire into the mass of Skinks. The crack-sizzle of the Marine blasters mingled with the louder rat-a-tat of the Kingdomites’ fléchette rifles. Skinks flared into vapor, hit by plasma bolts, and others sprayed blood from bodies rent by the miniature darts from the fléchette rifles.
On the left, Pasquin and Dean tried to maintain order in the platoon they herded through the wheat, galloping to a flanking position.
Ratliff demanded that the UPUD focus on the immediate area of the firefight. After a moment, the display view jerked and adjusted to a larger scale that encompassed a square five hundred meters on a side. He looked closely and could barely make out the infrared signatures of the Skinks. There seemed to be hundreds of them.
By then Pasquin, Dean, and the second platoon were in their flanking position, pouring enfilade fire into the Skinks. So many of them flared, it looked like scattered lights were strobing at close but irregular intervals in the wheat. More Skinks yet were shredded by fléchettes.
A whistle shrilled a complex pattern that was taken up by other whistles. Ratliff’s jaw dropped at the response of the Skinks to the whistles. They jumped up and ran into the trees to their rear, but many delayed their flight to start fires in the field. They didn’t attempt to take their wounded and dead, they set the fires next to them. The bodies flashed and helped spread the flames.
“Up and at ’em!” Goudanis bellowed. “Don’t let them get away!” He leaped to his feet and led the third platoon in a race into the trees after the fleeing Skinks. The trees were closer to his platoon’s position than the rest of the field where they had fought.
“Juice, hold your position!” Ratliff shouted into the squad circuit.
“But—”
“No ‘but.’ Stop and drop!”
Goudanis called for the platoon to drop in place. He didn’t give the order quite soon enough. The trees, now thirty meters away, were suddenly alive with streams of greenish fluid shooting at the exposed men in range. The Marines and Kindgomites were where the Skinks wanted them to be—in range of the hellish weapons.
“Dorny, give them support! Pasquin, maneuver to where you can support them. Juice, pull back!”
First platoon began firing over the heads of the prone third platoon. Flashes lit up inside the trees. In a moment Pasquin and Dean had maneuvered second platoon to where it could help. The men of third platoon were crawling backward. In that section of the wheat field the screams of wounded and frightened men almost overwhelmed the din of blaster and rifle fire.
Then they were out of range, at least those men who weren’t dead or too badly wounded to crawl. More flashes lit up in the trees, the Skinks torching their own casualties.
“They’re inhuman!” Dean gasped. “They’re killing their own.”
“What, didn’t you know they aren’t human?” Pasquin retorted. “Can’t expect them to be like us.”
“You know what I mean,” Dean snapped back.
Flames flickered in the underbrush, but the flashes in the trees weren’t enough to start a forest fire.
“Report,” Ratliff ordered as soon as it was clear the fighting was over for the moment.
Dornhofer replied that he and Claypoole were all right, but seven of their Kingdomites were down—three dead, two dying, and two with lesser but disabling wounds. But it appeared that everyone in Runner 11 was dead; he hadn’t had an opportunity to inspect it yet.
Pasquin reported that second platoon was all present, no casulaties.
PFC Quick, sounding close to breakdown, said Corporal Goudanis was down, maybe dead. He wasn’t sure how many Kingdomites were down other than to say a lot of them.
“Pasquin, take over third platoon. Report as soon as you can,” Ratliff ordered. “Dorny, let’s check out Runner Eleven.”
The APC at the bottom of the dip looked like it had been submerged in a bath of sulfuric acid and forgotten about. Its entire surface was pitted, fully eaten through in a number of places, so it resembled a block of particularly holey Swiss cheese gone to mold. Green goo still ate at it in spots. Shards of its treads dangled from the sprocket wheels, the tires completely gone.
“My God,” Dornhofer whispered.
“It looks like every Skink who could get in range opened up on it,” Ratliff said. “Let’s get that hatch open and see if anyone’s still alive in there.” He didn’t have much hope of that.
The surface around the hatch was still too damp for them to risk touching it. Ratliff raised all shields except the infra and looked through a hole next to the hatch. He saw a lot of bodies in infrared, but the signatures were dimming. “Anybody alive?” he asked, and got only an echo for answer.
“Let’s use this,” Dornhofer said. He held a fléchette rifle dropped by one of his Kingdomites, jammed it into a hole where the acid had eaten through alongside the hatch. Using the barrel as a lever, he forced the hatch open then jumped back to avoid a puddle of acid that flowed out.
The two Marines looked in with their light gatherers and looked away quickly. None of the fifteen men inside was alive.
“Now what?” Dornhofer asked dully.
“We have to deal with this later,” Ratliff replied, and turned away. “Pasquin, what’s happening with third platoon?”
“Goudanis is still alive, but barely. I think we got all the active acid cut out of him. He needs a hospital, right now. We’re still bringing in the casualites. All I can say is, third lost too many men to function as a platoon.”
Ratliff sighed. “Let me know when
you know more.”
“Aye aye.”
“You know, we came out here for a reason,” Ratliff said to Dornhofer.
“How can I forget?” Dornhofer answered dryly, looking at the APC in which one of his Marines and a third of his platoon had died.
They climbed out of the dip and Ratliff studied his UPUD display. The red dots that showed the civilians weren’t jittering in flight anymore. Most of them were stationary, the dots in motion moving slowly. “Allah’s balls,” he swore. “I think they lured us into an ambush and took off from the village as soon as we walked into their killing zone.” A blow from behind staggered him.
“Heathen! Blasphemer!” Friar Acolyte Archangel Raphael shrieked at him. “How many Soldiers of the Lord died this day because God in his mercy set the demons upon you for blaspheming his name?”
Ratliff took a long step to stand chest-to-chest with the religious officer. “No ‘demons’ were set on us by any god because of my speech,” he said, his voice ominously low. “If you hadn’t delayed giving me that message, we might have been through here before their ambush was ready.” He knew that wasn’t true, the ambush was probably in place before the attack on the village began.
His hands clenched into fists, and his right elbow was cocked. Dornhofer grabbed his arm.
“Leave him alone. He’s a fanatic, you can’t talk to him. We’ve got a job to do, let’s do it, Marine.”
Ratliff glared at Dornhofer, but he uncocked his arm and unclenched his fists. He turned from the priest and headed for the APCs. He issued orders as he went.
“Pasquin, leave Dean in command of third platoon. Mount second platoon on the APCs. Dornhofer, mount up first platoon. We’re continuing to the village. Dean, get the casualties on APCs and return to the garrison.” He reported to Gunny Bass as they headed for the village and again when they got there.
The Skinks were gone from Kibbutz Aviv by the time the 241st Defense Garrison reached it. Physical damage was less than at Blessing Waters and the casualties were fewer. Ratliff was right, the Skinks had withdrawn from the village as soon as the ambush was sprung.
CHAPTER
* * *
TWENTY-NINE
A diminutive, fragile-looking female knelt gracefully at the feet of the Great Master and delicately poured a steaming liquid into a handleless cup that sat on a low, lacquered table by his feet. The pouring done, she bowed low to touch her forehead to the matting that covered the floor. A sprig of pastel flowers, carefully packaged in a fluted vase for its long journey from Home was the only other object on the table. The Great Master picked up the cup with a grace that belied his fierce mien and sipped. His eyes closed and his face glowed with ecstasy. He spoke briefly to the female, his voice the rumbling of water rushing over rocks. The female murmured a few words of reply, her voice the sound of a babbling brook. The female appeared to bow even lower than she already was, then gracefully rose and backed away with her gaze fixed on the floor by her feet.
The Great Master sat cross-legged on a thick mat at one end of the large subterranean room. He wore his ceremonial robe with its rectangles of golden metal plate. A ceremonial sword lay across his lap. The sword, sheathed in precious wood that curved slightly with the curve of the blade, was as nonfunctional for combat as his armor.
Two Large Ones sat close to the Great Master’s rear, one more to either side. A fifth Large One sat with his back to the Great Master’s back. The armor the bodyguards wore was fully functional, as were the unsheathed swords they held. Ten more Large Ones sat cross-legged around the sides of the room, unsheathed swords across their laps.
In its center, the room was filled with Over Masters and the more senior of the Senior Masters. They sat in open ranks on thinner mats than that of the Great Master. Their armor, like the armor of the bodyguards, was functional; their swords, like that of the Great Master, were sheathed. No acid guns were in evidence, but hidden behind screens at the tops of the walls, four acid guns were trained on the Masters.
With the Great Master served and approving, several females entered the room. They shuffled from the tightness of the ankle-length robes. Each carried a small, stub-legged table. The tables each held two small cups and a pot, steam rising from the pot spouts. The females gracefully knelt, each between two Masters, and set the tables down where the Master to either side could easily reach it. They poured from the pot into the cups, bowed low, then rose gracefully and exited. The female who served the Great Master returned with her pot freshly filled and knelt between his knee and the table, her head bowed low.
The Great Master took another sip from his tiny cup, replaced it on the table, and the female at his knee refilled it. Finally, he looked out at the assembled Over Masters and most senior of the Senior Masters. They bowed so their foreheads nearly touched the mats in front of their folded legs, then sipped from their own cups. All beamed and grunted pleasure.
The Great Master leaned forward with one elbow resting on a knee. His eyes shone with the glory of a true believer proved right. He spoke, his voice the sound of breakers crashing on a rocky shore.
“Phase one of the Grand Master’s plan has gone as I expected it to. The Earthman Marines are scattered among the small outposts of the army of the pond-scum Earthmen who infest this mudball. The Earthman Marines have suffered severe casualties at the hands of our Fighters. The army of these pond scum has suffered even more severe casualties, their morale is nearly gone. The Earthmen in their towns and villages are terrified. Many of the survivors are fleeing to the presumed safety of cities and the garrisons of the pond-scum soldiers. They flee even from towns and villages we haven’t struck. The Earthmen are in near total disarray.”
He grinned the grin of a predator about to pounce on a doomed prey animal. “It is now time to commence phase two. Only it will be my phase two. When I call in the second wave,” his voice became the crash and rumble of an earthquake, “they will arrive in time to help us celebrate our great victory over the Earthman Marines!”
The Over Masters and more senior of the Senior Masters roared back their eagerness for phase two.
Brigadier Sturgeon scrolled through the medium scale situation map, studying each part as it was projected in the wall display, looking for a pattern to the Skink raids. He couldn’t find one. There were no groupings of raids, no patch where they looked like they might radiate from one location. He missed Colonel Ramadan—his chief of staff was better than he was at picking out certain patterns of enemy action.
“Speak up if you think you see anything,” he told his staff. He thought it probably wasn’t necessary for him to say that, but he couldn’t take the risk that someone might see something and assume wrongly that he already had. None of the assembled officers said anything immediately. It wasn’t until halfway through the next rotation through the map that Captain Shadeh, the personnel officer, spoke up.
“Sir?” Shadeh, the F1 personnel officer, waited for Sturgeon’s nod before continuing. “They seem to be widening the range of the raids, as though they intend to spread us thinner and thinner.”
Sturgeon hit a sequence of buttons and the map changed to show the entire area of operation. A series of tiny red lights blinked on, changed to yellow, were replaced by a different scattering of red lights, changed to green as the new red lights became yellow and were replaced by yet more red lights. Greens became gray and stayed that color as additional red lights demoted earlier reds to yellows and yellows to greens.
“It looks like you’re right,” he said, glancing at Shadeh. “Trust the F1 to come up with a pattern that affects personnel disposition.”
Shadeh smiled grimly.
“Anybody see anything that looks like it can indicate a starting point?” He looked at Commander Daana, the intelligence officer.
“Nossir,” the F2 said. “The latest computer analysis says a random pattern generator is behind it. So far it hasn’t been able to come up with a logarithm to duplicate it.”
“Any other
ideas anybody?”
Commander Usner, the operations officer, leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Sir, an idea is niggling at the back of my mind. In some ways this is a reversal of the classic guerrilla campaign.”
“Explain.”
“Sir, the classic guerrilla campaign begins with small acts of terrorism and small hit-and-run hits on military targets to, let’s say, cause ‘a death of a thousand cuts’ and damage morale. Over time it builds up to conventional force engagements. What happened when we made planetfall? First they gave us a sample of their strength by hitting a remote garrison. When we first encountered them it was in a major engagement. We won that one, but at a dear cost. We don’t know how badly we hurt them, but there must have been enough of them left over for them to defeat us if they massed. They didn’t. Instead they went to terroristic hit-and-run raids. They’re hitting villages, hard. When we show up, they run before we can engage them—except when they’ve got an ambush set. Then they seem to fight us until we have to withdraw or until they’re dead. They’ve convinced the people that neither the government nor the army can protect them.” He made a sour face. “People in the outlying areas have no confidence in us. The army is losing its confidence in us. Even the theocracy is beginning to accuse us of incompetence.”
“Following your logic, their next step is minor terroristic acts.”
“Possible. They haven’t conducted any raids for the past three days. That could mean they’ve given up. But maybe they’ve been stretching us out, wearing us out, damaging the morale of the army, in order to set us up for something big.”
Sturgeon looked back at the map. The ever-increasing lights showed no slacking of frequency. “The way they vaporize when they’re hit with a plasma bolt,” he shook his head, “we can’t tell how many of them we’ve killed. Either they’re losing much of their strength and exhausting their surviving soldiers, or they have a very substantial number of them—they certainly give no indication of a desire to conserve their lives. In the first case, they can’t continue much longer, they won’t have enough troops to carry on, and we go into a mopping up action. In the latter, we may not be enough to deal with them.” He looked at his staff. “Do any of you believe they’re near the end?”
Starfist: Kingdom's Swords Page 32
