Riding the Red Horse

by Christopher Nuttall

  By the next morning two men had toes shot off and had to be evacuated.

  They lay on the hill for a week. Each night they lost a few more men to minor casualties that could not possibly have been inflicted by the enemy; then Stromand had two men with foot injuries shot by a squad of military police he brought up from staff headquarters.

  The injuries ceased, and the men lay sullenly in the trenches until the company was relieved.

  They had two days in a small town near the front, then the officers were called to a meeting. The briefing officer had a thick accent, but it was German, not Spanish. The briefing was for the Americans and it was held in English.

  “Ve vill have a full assault, vith all International volunteers to move out at once. Ve vill use infiltration tactics.”

  “What does that mean?” Captain Barton demanded.

  The staff officer looked pained. “Ven you break through their lines, go straight to their technical areas and disrupt them. Ven that is done, the var is over.”

  “Where are their technical corpsmen?”

  “You vill be told after you have broken through their lines.”

  The rest of the briefing made no more sense to Peter. He walked out with Barton after they were dismissed. “Looked at your section of the line?” Barton asked.

  “As much as I can,” Peter answered. “Do you have a decent map?”

  “No. Old CD orbital photographs, and some sketches. No better than what you have.”

  “What I did see looks bad,” Peter said. “There's an olive grove, then a hollow I can't see into. Is there cover in there?”

  “You better patrol and find out.”

  “You will ask the battalion commander for permission to conduct patrols,” a stern voice said from behind them.

  “You better watch that habit of walking up on people, Stromand,” Barton said. “One of these days somebody's not going to realize it's you.” He gave Peter a pained looked. “Better ask.”

  Major Harris told Peter that Brigade had forbidden patrols. They might alert the enemy of the coming attack and surprise was needed.

  As he walked back to his company area, Peter reflected that Harris had been an attorney for the Liberation Party before he volunteered to go to Santiago. They were to move out the next morning.

  The night was long. The men were very quiet, polishing weapons and talking in whispers, drawing meaningless diagrams in the mud of the dugouts. About halfway through the night forty new volunteers joined the company. They had no equipment beyond rifles, and they had left the port city only two days before. Most came from Churchill, but because they spoke English and the trucks were coming to this section, they had been sent along.

  Major Harris called the officers together at dawn. “The Xanadu techs have managed to assemble some rockets,” he told them. “They'll drop them on the Dons before we move out. Owensford, you will move out last. You will shoot any man who hasn't gone before you do.”

  “That's my job,” Stromand protested.

  “You will be needed to lead the men,” Harris said. “The bombardment will come at 0815 hours. Do you all have proper timepieces?”

  “No, sir,” Peter said. “I've only got a watch that counts Earth time.”

  “Hell,” Harris muttered. “Okay, Thurstone's hours are 1.08 Earth hours long. You'll have to work it out from that….” He looked confused.

  “No problem,” Peter assured him.

  “Oh, good. Back to your areas, then.”

  Zero hour went past with no signals. Another hour passed. Then a Republican brigade to the north began firing, and a few moved out of their dugouts and across the valley floor.

  A ripple of fire and flashing mirrors colored the ridge beyond as the enemy began firing. The Republican troops were cut down, and the few not hit scurried back into their shelters.

  “Fire support!” Harris shouted. Owensford's squawk box made unintelligible sounds, effectively jammed as were all electronics Peter had seen on Santiago, but he heard the order passed down the line. His company fired at the enemy, and the monarchists returned it.

  Within minutes it was clear that the enemy had total dominance in the area. A few large rockets rose from somewhere behind the enemy lines and crashed randomly into the Republican positions. There were more flashes across the sky as the Xanadu technicians backtracked the enemy rockets and returned counterfire. Eventually the shooting stopped for lack of targets.

  It was 1100 by Peter's watch when a series of explosions lit the lip of the monarchist ramparts. Another wave of rockets fell among the enemy, and the Republicans to the north began to charge forward.

  “Ready to move out!” Peter shouted. He waited for orders.

  There was nearly a minute of silence. No more rockets fell on the enemy. Then the ridge opposite rippled with fire again, and the Republicans began to go down or scramble back to their positions.

  The alert tone sounded on Peter's squawk box and he lifted it to his ear. Amazingly, he could hear intelligible speech. Someone at headquarters was speaking to Major Harris.

  “The Republicans have already advanced half a kilometer. They are being slaughtered because you have not moved your precious Americans in support.”

  “Bullshit!” Harris's voice had no tones in the tiny speaker. “The Republicans are already back in their dugouts. The attack has failed.”

  “It has not failed. You must show what high morale can do. Your men are all volunteers. Many Republicans are conscripts. Set an example for them.”

  “But I tell you the attack has failed.”

  “Major Harris, if your men have not moved out in five minutes I will send the military police to arrest you as a traitor.”

  The box went back to random squeals and growls; then the whistles blew and orders were passed down the line. “Move out.”

  Peter went from dugout to dugout. “Up and at them. Jarvis, if you don't get out of there I'll shoot you. You three, get going.” He saw that Allan Roach was doing the same thing.

  When they reached the end of the line. Roach grinned at Peter. “We're all that's left, now what?”

  “Now we move out too.” They crawled forward, past the lip of the hollow that had sheltered them. Ten meters beyond that they saw Major Harris lying very still.

  “Captain Barton's in command of the battalion,” Peter said.

  “Wonder if he knows it? I'll take the left side, sir, and keep 'em going, shall I?”

  “Yes.” Now he was more alone than ever. He went on through the olive groves, finding men and keeping them moving ahead of him. There was very little fire from the enemy. They advanced fifty meters, a hundred, and reached the slope down into the hollow beyond. It was an old vineyard, and the stumps of the vines reached out of the ground like old women's hands.

  They were well into the hollow when the Dons fired.

  Four of the newcomers from Churchill were just ahead of Owensford. When the volley lashed their hollow they hit the dirt in perfect formation. Peter crawled forward to compliment them on how well they'd learned the training-book exercises. All four were dead.

  He was thirty meters into the hollow. In front of him was a network of red stripes weaving through the air a meter above the ground. He'd seen it at the Point, an interlocking network of crossfire guided by laser beams. Theoretically the Xanadu technicians should be able to locate the mirrors, or even the power plants, but the network hung there, unmoving.

  Some of the men didn't know what it was and charged into it. After a while there was a little wall of dead men and boys at its edge. No one could advance, and snipers began to pick off any of the still figures that tried to move. Peter lay there, wondering if any of the other companies were making progress. His men lay behind bodies for the tiny shelter a dead comrade might give. One by one his troops died as they lay there in the open, in the bright sunshine of a dying vineyard.

  In late afternoon it began to rain, first a few drops, then harder, finally a storm that cut off all visibilit
y. The men could crawl back to their dugouts and they did. There were no orders for a retreat.

  Peter found small groups of men and sent them out for wounded. It was hard to get men to go back into the hollow, even in the driving rainstorm, and he had to go with them or they would melt away to vanish in the mud and gloom. Eventually there were no more wounded to find.

  The scene in the trenches was a shambled hell of bloody mud. Men fell into the dugouts and lay where they fell, too tired and scared to move. Some were wounded and died there in the mud, and others fell on top of them, trampling the bodies down and out of sight because no one had energy to move them. Peter was the only officer in the battalion until late afternoon. The company was his now and the men were calling him “Captain.”

  Then Stromand came into the trenches carrying a bundle.

  Incredibly, Allan Roach was unwounded. The huge wrestler stood in Stromand's path. “What is that?” he demanded.

  “Leaflets. To boost morale,” Stromand said nervously.

  Roach stood immobile. “While we were out there you were off printing leaflets?”

  “I had orders,” Stromand said. He backed nervously away from the big sergeant. His hand rested on a pistol butt.

  “Roach,” Peter said calmly. “Help me with the wounded, please.”

  Roach stood in indecision. Finally he turned to Peter. “Yes, sir.”

  At dawn Peter had eighty effectives to hold the lines. The Dons could have walked through during the night if they'd tried, but they were strangely quiet. Peter went from dugout to dugout, trying to get a count of his men. Two hundred wounded sent to rear areas. He could count a hundred thirteen dead. That left ninety-four vanished. Died, deserted, ground into the mud; he didn't know.

  There hadn't been any general attack. The International volunteer commander had thought that even though the general attack was called off, this would be a splendid opportunity to show what morale could do. It had done that, all right.

  The Republican command was frantic. The war was stalemated; which meant the superior forces of the Dons were slowly grinding them down. The war for freedom would soon be lost.

  In desperation they sent a large group to the south where the front was stable. The last attack had been planned to the last detail; this one was to depend entirely, on surprise. Peter's remnants were reinforced with pieces of other outfits and fresh volunteers, and sent against the enemy. They were on their own.

  The objective was an agricultural center called Zara-goza, a small town amid olive groves and vineyards. Peter's column moved through the groves to the edge of town. Surprise was complete.

  The battle did not last long. A flurry of firing, quick advances, and the enemy retreated, leaving Peter's company with a clear victory. From the little communications he could arrange, his group had advanced further than any other. They were the spearhead of freedom in the south.

  They marched in to cheering crowds. His army looked like scarecrows, but women held their children up to see their liberators. It made it all worthwhile: the stupidity of the generals, the heat and mud and cold and dirt and lice, all of it forgotten in triumph.

  More troops came in behind them, but Peter's company camped at the edge of their town, their place of freedom. The next day the army would advance again; if the war could be made fluid, fought in quick battles of fast-moving men, it might yet be won. Certainly, Peter thought, certainly the people of Santiago were waiting for them. They'd have support from the population. How long could the Dons hold?

  Just before dark they heard shots in the town.

  He brought his duty squad on the run, dashing through the dusty streets, past the pockmarked adobe walls to the town square. The military police were there.

  “Never saw such pretty soldiers,” Allan Roach said.

  Peter nodded.

  “Captain, where do you think they got those shiny boots? And the new rifles? Seems we never have good equipment for the troops, but the police always have more than enough....”

  A small group of bodies lay like broken dolls at the foot of the churchyard wall. The priest, the mayor, and three young men. “Monarchists. Carlists,” someone whispered. Some of the townspeople spat on the bodies.

  An old man was crouched beside one of the dead. He held the youthful head cradled in his hands and blood poured through his fingers. He looked at Peter with dull eyes. “Why are you here?” he asked. “Are there not richer worlds for you to conquer?”

  Peter turned away without answering. He could think of nothing to say.

  “Captain!”

  Peter woke to Allan Roach's urgent whisper.

  “Cap'n, there's something moving down by the stream. Not the Dons. Mister Stromand's with 'em, above five men. Officers, I think, from headquarters.”

  Peter sat upright. He hadn't seen Stromand since the disastrous attack three hundred kilometers to the north. The man wouldn't have lasted five minutes in combat among his former comrades. “Anyone else know?”

  “Albers, nobody else. He called me.”

  “Let's go find out what they want. Quietly, Allan.” As they walked silently in the hot night, Peter frowned to himself. What were staff officers doing in his company area, near the vanguard of the advancing Republican forces? And why hadn't they called him?

  They followed the small group down the nearly dry creekbed to the town wall. When their quarry halted, they stole closer until they could hear.

  “About here,” Stromand's bookish voice said. “This will be perfect.”

  “How long do we have?” Peter recognized the German accent of the staff officer who'd briefed them. The next voice was even more of a shock.

  “Two hours. Enough time, but we must go quickly.” It was Cermak, second in command of the volunteer forces. “It is set?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hold it.” Peter stepped out from the shadows, his rifle held to cover the small group. Allan Roach moved quickly away from him so that he also threatened them. “Identify yourselves.”

  “You know who we are, Owensford,” Stromand snapped.

  “Yes. What are you doing here?”

  “That is none of your business, Captain,” Cermak answered. “I order you to return to your company area and say nothing about seeing us.”

  “In a minute. Major, if you continue moving your hand toward your pistol, Sergeant Roach will cut you in half. Allan, I'm going to have a look at what they were carrying. Cover me.”

  “Right.”

  “You can't!” The German staff officer moved toward Peter.

  Owensford reacted automatically, the rifle swinging upward in an uppercut that caught the German under the chin. The man fell with a strangled cry and lay still in the dirt. Everyone stood frozen; it was obvious that Cermak and Stromand were more worried about being heard than Peter was.

  “Interesting,” Peter said. He squatted over the device they'd set by the wall. “A bomb of some kind, from the timers—Jesus!”

  “What is it, Cap'n?”

  “A fission bomb,” Peter said slowly. “They were going to leave a fission bomb here. To detonate in two hours, did you say?” he asked conversationally. His thoughts whirled, but he could find no explanation; and he was very surprised at how calm he was acting. “Why?”

  No one answered.

  “Why blow up the only advancing force in the Republican army?” Peter asked wonderingly. “They can't be traitors. The Dons wouldn't have these on a platter—but—Stromand, is there a new CD warship in orbit here? New fleet forces to stop this war?”

  More silence.

  “What does it mean?” Allan Roach asked. His rifle was steady, and there was an edge to his voice. “Why use an atom bomb on their own men?”

  “The ban,” Peter said. “One thing the CD does enforce. No nukes.” He was hardly aware that he spoke aloud. “The CD inspectors will see the spearhead of the Republican army destroyed by nukes, and think the Dons did it. They're the only ones who could benefit from it. So the CD clea
ns up on the Carlists, and these bastards end up in charge when the fleet pulls out. That's it, isn't it? Cermark? Stromand?”

  “Of course,” Stromand said. “You fool, come with us, then. Leave the weapons in place. We're sorry we didn't think we could trust you with the plan, but it was just too important... it means winning the war.”

  “At what price?”

  “A low price. A few battalions of soldiers and one village. Far more are killed every week. A comparatively bloodless victory.”

  Allan Roach spat viciously. “If that's freedom, I don't want any. You ask any of them?” He waved toward the village.

  Peter remembered the cheering crowds. He stooped down to the weapon and examined it closely. “Any secret to disarming this? If there is, you're standing as close to it as I am.”

  “Wait,” Stromand shouted. “Don't touch it, leave it, come with us. You'll be promoted, you'll be a hero of the movement—”

  “Disarm it or I'll have a try,” Peter said. He retrieved his rifle and waited.

  After a moment Stromand bent down to the bomb. It was no larger than a small suitcase. He took a key from his pocket and inserted it, then turned dials. “It is safe now.”

  “I'll have another look,” Peter said. He bent over the weapon. Yes, a large iron bar had been moved through the center of the device, and the fissionables couldn't come together. As he examined it there was a flurry of activity.

  “Hold it!” Roach commanded. He raised his rifle; but Political Officer Stromand had already vanished into the darkness. “I'll go after him, Cap'n.” They could hear thrashing among the olive trees nearby.

  “No. You'd never catch him. Not without making a big stir. And if this story gets out, the whole Republican cause is finished.”

  “You are growing more intelligent,” Cermak said. “Why not let us carry out our plan now?”

  “I'll be damned,” Peter said. “Get out of here, Cermak. Take your staff carrion with you. And if you send the military police after me or Sergeant Roach, just be damned sure this story—and the bomb—will get to the CD inspectors. Don't think I can't arrange it.”