The Fires of Coventry

by Rick Shelley

  The two families were undisturbed through the day. None of the other refugees, even the few who had some idea where the Baileys and Knowleses were, came around.

  Near sunset, a small native deer happened to come close to the camp. Reggie got his shotgun and stalked the animal as silently as he could. His efforts were not particularly credible, but he got within thirty yards before the deer turned its head to stare, and thirty yards was close enough for Reggie to hit a motionless target. He had no difficulty carrying the carcass back to camp. It might provide no more than ten or twelve pounds of meat, but that would serve the families for two meals. Reggie felt proud of his efforts.

  “One shot,” he boasted when he set the carcass down at the edge of camp. One shot was all he could afford for a small kill. He had only a limited supply of ammunition, even though he had managed to find two extra boxes of shells the morning after the invasion. He hoped it would be enough to see them through the winter—if help hadn’t arrived before then.

  No one felt like eating raw meat, and the fire the families had been maintaining was not enough. The men built a second fire, on the downwind side of camp. Reggie cleaned the kill.

  “We should have thought about tanning hides,” he told Eric. “We might need to make moccasins or clothes.”

  “Leave it. I’ll scrape the hide down and stretch it to dry by the fire,” Eric said. “That’s the best we can do.”

  The stone shelter was large enough for all of the women and girls to sleep in, though barely. The men and boys slept outside. As long as no rain came and the nights did not get too cold, that would be enough.

  Their second night out, Al-Bailey shared the watches with his father and Eric. “I’m twelve years old. I can watch and wake everyone if something happens.” Maybe I’ll get achance to do something if anyone comes, he thought. He spent the two hours of his first watch pacing, far enough from the others that he did not disturb their sleep.

  It was much cooler than it had been the night before, partly because there was a strong breeze blowing out of the north. Al thought that he could smell the smoke of burning houses on the air, but was not entirely certain. It might be nothing more than their own campfire … or his imagination.

  The feverish fantasies of vengeance had burned their way out of Al’s mind. He had not forgotten his vows, but he realized that there was nothing he could do now but work to survive, and help his family survive. Later, he was certain that he would find opportunities.

  I’ll take any chance that comes, he promised himself, fingering his closed pocketknife. If he could find one soldier alone and careless, that would give him a rifle, and maybe other things. From there … He smiled at the possibilities.

  Eric followed Al, and Reggie got up for his second tour of the night after Eric. Reggie had been up for an hour when he heard a sharp groan from inside the shelter. He had scarcely turned and taken a single step in that direction before he heard a louder sound, pain clear in it. Eric came awake quickly, sitting up and starting to his feet. Before either of the men got to the shelter, Ida stuck her head out.

  “She’s gone into labor.”

  Eric pushed past her. Angel and Ariel came out, their blankets wrapped around them.

  “Find the girls someplace to sleep out here,” Ida said as she brought out the rest of their sleeping gear.

  Reggie arranged new beds for the girls as close to the fire as he thought safe and got them settled in. Ida went back inside to help Anna. Eric might have been able to manage on his own if necessary, but Ida knew what to expect, what to do, and she was not as near the edge of panic as Anna’s husband was.

  Reggie paced about, looking more often at the shelter door than away from camp. Anna made no further outcriesfor nearly an hour, except for an occasional soft grunt. At other times, Reggie could hear her breathing hard and fast. Inside, Ida and Eric had two flashlights burning, as well as a small fire. Even so, they were in deep shadows most of the time, waiting.

  Finally, after little more than an hour, Anna gave another cry of pain. A moment later, her third child gave its own first cry. Outside, Reggie relaxed when he heard the baby. Whatever else happened, they had at least crossed one hurdle. But another ten minutes passed before Ida came out, sweating despite the chill.

  “They’re both okay, for now,” she said. “It’s a boy.”

  Part 3

  9

  Troop shuttles were inviting targets, fat, slow, and not very maneuverable. They were helpless pigeons for any birds of prey, not only enemy fighters and ships, but even infantrymen with small surface-to-air missiles. The vulnerability of the shuttles was felt by the Marines who rode them. They could not fight back or defend themselves until they were on solid ground, out of the landers. Between ship and shore, they might die without even knowing that an enemy was near.

  A message from Admiral Greene had assured the men of the Second Regiment that there were no enemy fighters around, nor were any of the Federation ships in position to attack them. And the landers would have fighter escorts on the way down. That did little to calm anyone’s nerves.

  A strong majority of the men in the shuttles felt themselves to be absolutely alone during a combat descent, as isolated as if they were in their own private Q-space bubbles, separated from the rest of creation by an impenetrable space-time barrier. They sat elbow to elbow with their mates, but most kept the visors of their helmets down, tinted faceplates hiding their expressions. Weapons were held in both hands and supported between their legs, a totem to cling to. Those men with religious inclinations—and even some who normally showed no interest in religion—took the time to put credits to their prayer accounts. Others distracted, or tortured, themselves with memories of loved ones. Some fought to deal with their fear, steeling themselves against the unavoidable inner turmoil and the outerchaos of battle. Don’t let me let my mates down, was a common wish.

  Heading for their landing on Coventry, the officers and noncoms of the Second Regiment did not have the luxury of solitary vigil. They studied mapboards, trying to memorize terrain and the improvised plans displayed for them. Initial orders came through after the shuttles had separated from Victoria, and those were expanded and altered as the shuttles raced in for “hot” landings—accelerating toward the ground to decelerate only at the last possible moment, exposing themselves to ground fire for as brief a period as possible.

  “One thing looks good,” Captain McAuliffe told his officers and noncoms. “We haven’t spotted any major defensive formations. The Feddies are spread out to hell and around the corner, burning as if they didn’t know that we were coming. We should be able to get down and out without opposition. Nothing more than scattered sniping, if that.”

  The men were scattered about in three shuttles, conferring over the radio links in their helmets, unified by watching mapboards slaved to the captain’s. He showed them their projected landing zone and indicated how he wanted the platoons dispersed, where the first defensive perimeter would be. The battalion would land and take time to organize—and to gather more information about the location of Federation troops in The Dales—before their next steps were decided on.

  “They have to know that we’re coming in, sir,” David Spencer said. “They can’t be so blind to what’s going on.”

  “We’re not assuming that they are,” McAuliffe replied. “This is no drill. We go in, organize quickly, and move to stop this bloody scorched-earth campaign the Feddies are waging.”

  The burning had not stopped. Even as McAuliffe and the others stared at their mapboards, currently zoomed out to show all of The Dales and the surrounding countryside, they could see new blossoms of smoke as the computers of Combat Intelligence Center updated the information being fed toall of the mapboards. It looked as if half of The Dales was on fire. Buildings and grasslands, commercial and residential neighborhoods. Some of the fires were obviously burning out of control, moving into areas that had been left wild.

  It was the same at Coventry City,
South York, and most of the smaller cities and towns. In some areas the burning was farther along. In some it had barely started. Only a few of the smallest towns and villages showed no fires at all. No one in the Second Commonwealth force knew yet whether only buildings were being torched, or what might be happening to the people who had lived and worked in them. Mass murder did not seem impossible for people who appeared to be doing everything they could to destroy all signs of human habitation on an entire world.

  Spencer’s attention was diverted when the shuttle pilot announced that they would be grounding in ninety seconds. David glanced at the nearest monitor as he put the mapboard away. The bulkhead monitor was displaying video of their landing zone.

  “Get ready to ground,” Captain McAuliffe instructed on an all-hands channel. “Check your weapons. Lock and load.”

  David checked his rifle and pistol, then felt for the grenades on his pack harness.

  The pilot gave a thirty-seconds-to-landing warning.

  “Brace yourselves, lads,” David told the men in his shuttle. “Be ready to move out smartly when the ramp drops.”

  The shuttle grounded with enough of a shock for everyone to feel it. The ramp dropped open. Men released lap straps and stood. In many ways, this was their most vulnerable time, the last seconds when they were unable to defend themselves. Two platoons of Marines trotted down the ramp and away from the shuttle, taking less than thirty seconds to clear the lander and start forming their section of the defensive circle.

  The landing zones for the First and Second Battalions were in the southern part of The Dales, close enough together for the battalions to support each other from the beginning. The area had already been burned over. Ruins of adozen buildings were visible to the west, along the edge of what had apparently been a vast municipal park. The grass and bushes were ashes. Few trees remained standing, and only a couple showed signs of life above charred lower trunks. South and east of the LZs, a mile or more distant, the smoke of still-burning fires could be seen as the Marines formed their defensive perimeter.

  In H&S Company, First Battalion, cooks, clerks, and mechanics went into the perimeter along with the I&R platoon and everyone else. H&S Company of the Second Battalion was similarly deployed. With regimental headquarters on the ground near Coventry City, five hundred miles distant, First Battalion’s Lieutenant Colonel Emile Zacharia was in tactical command of operations around The Dales, although he was never out of contact with Colonel Laplace or with CIC aboard Sheffield.

  As soon as their passengers were clear, the shuttles lifted off, pulling for orbit and rendezvous with Victoria. The Spacehawk fighters remained close until the last shuttles had started up, then pulled out as well. A second flight of Spacehawks was on call if the Marines needed close-air support. Until and unless they were needed for that, the fighters would continue to gather intelligence.

  “Keep your eyes open,” Spencer told H&S Company when he had a few seconds free of information coming in from Colonel Zacharia and Captain McAuliffe. “We won’t be here long.” The battalion was deployed on a wide, flat area with no natural cover.

  The odor of ashes was almost overpowering, blotting out anything else. It was not an unfamiliar smell. Spencer could recall fighting wildfires on Buchanan when they threatened settled areas. The region southwest of Westminster was notorious for wildfires as well. By the beginning of August, the plains stretching off in that direction could get so dry that almost anything could start a fire. Hot southwesterly winds fanned the flames. It didn’t matter that the battalion had not been called on for that duty in four years. Smelling the ashes brought back old memories with stark immediacy.

  “Form the company up, Spencer,” Captain McAuliffesaid after they had been on the ground for ten minutes. “We’re moving out in five. I’ll give Lieutenant Nuchol his instructions. I&R goes out in front, as usual. They need to get moving right away. I’ll get back to you with the rest.”

  Each battalion formed a skirmish line two companies wide, with the rest following, each subsequent line fifty yards behind the one ahead. Weapons were carried at the ready, and there was constant communication between battalion commanders and the I&R platoons that were scouting ahead of the rest.

  “We’re going to intercept what appears to be two companies of Feddies,” McAuliffe explained to his platoon leaders and platoon sergeants. “Try to prevent them from burning anything more. They’re spread out, working their way south along three parallel streets. They must know we’re here, so assume that they’ll consolidate and move into position to meet us. Both I&R platoons, ours and the Seconds, are out looking to see what they can do. If possible, they’ll engage the Feddies, try to keep them occupied until we arrive.”

  The camouflage battle dress of Lieutenant Frank Nuchol’s I&R platoon had a new look. Blotches of soot obscured much of the greens and tans of the original, and visors were smudged. Nuchol had never led troops in combat before, but he had been a Marine long enough to learn the most basic lesson any junior officer needed to know—to rely on the veterans under his command. Nuchol and his platoon sergeant, Tory Kepner, worked well together. Neither managed to totally frustrate the other.

  “You see any problems with what the captain wants?” Nuchol asked Kepner on their private link.

  “Not up front, Lieutenant. The problems will come when the Feddies decide to take exception to our presence.”

  “Then let’s get the lads moving.”

  Tory’s men needed five minutes to get past the first burned area, but even beyond that there was evidence of other fires. Few of the torched buildings amounted to much now. Tory soon realized that there had been more to thework than just lighting matches. Explosives had been used to insure that no building shells survived to permit quick repair. Construction to replace them would have to start from scratch, after the debris of the original buildings had been cleared away.

  Deliberate destruction, Tory thought. He had fourth squad take a quick look into the rubble of the first few buildings, to see if they could spot bodies, or survivors. The reports were negative. If there were bodies, they were buried beyond casual observation. If there were survivors, they were making no sounds that the sensitive microphones built into the men’s helmets could hear. Tory relayed that news to Nuchol and Captain McAuliffe.

  “We’ve also spotted several piles of goods near the buildings,” Tory said. “It looks as if the Feddies cleared some things out of the buildings before they torched them.”

  “Don’t waste time with that,” McAuliffe said. “Our job is to stop them from destroying any more buildings. If the Feddies are looting, we’ll worry about that later.”

  Tory kept his men dispersed along the sides of the street, with wide intervals between men. The lieutenant left operational details to Tory. Nuchol was across the street from Tory, and farther back, so that it would be unlikely for both to be taken out simultaneously.

  Kepner had to consciously think about little things, like remembering to breathe normally. It was too easy, almost instinctive, to hold his breath, partly because of the stench, partly in anticipation of the first gunshots, the first blast of a grenade. It was often I&R’s lot to go out to draw enemy fire. This time, they might be tempting odds of ten to one, or worse. Engage the enemy, keep them too busy to start more fires, hold their attention until the rest of the two battalions could arrive to finish the job.

  Bait, that’s all we are, Tory told himself. He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. Staked out to give the Feddies someone to shoot at.

  First squad was on the right side of the street, third on the left. Second and fourth squads trailed behind, occasionally sending a fire team wide on either flank. Fifteen minutesafter leaving the LZ, Nuchol and Kepner got a message, relayed from one of the Spacehawk pilots. “You’re five hundred yards from the nearest Feddies. South-southwest of you. About company strength.”

  “What about the rest of them?” Nuchol asked after bringing the platoon to a halt and putting
them down in defensive posture.

  “It looks like they’re still setting fires. Two more just started.”

  Nuchol and Kepner looked at the latest information on their mapboards. Blips showed Federation helmets with active electronics. The Feddies were making no attempt to hide their location by turning off radios and sensors.

  “At least they’re finally showing that they know we’re here,” Tory said. “I was just beginning to wonder if they were all blind and deaf.”

  “They know we’re here, all right,” Captain McAuliffe said, joining the conference. “I’m more concerned about why they’re so damn confident that they don’t have to worry about us. What’s their secret edge?”

  I wish he hadn’t said that, Tory thought. If the Feddies know we’re here, why do they act as if we don’t matter? Tory prided himself on being a careful Marine. He had a wife and young son on Buckingham, and he had every intention of returning to them. That needed caution, talent, and luck. The first two Tory could take care of himself. The last … all he could do was minimize the need for it by being the best Marine he could be.

  He switched channels on his radio to talk to the squad and fire team leaders. He relayed the intelligence he had received, gave the others a chance to see it on their mapboards.

  “They might have something up their sleeves we haven’t guessed at,” Tory said. “We’ll play this as tight as we can. Our job is to keep the Feddies occupied until the rest of our chaps get up here. We don’t have to wipe them out ourselves.”

  He waited for comments, particularly from Alfie Edwards. Even as a corporal, Alfie remained the platoon comedian.