The Fires of Coventry

by Rick Shelley

  Tory smiled. “I guess it’s not likely they’d try. Anyway, we’ll see in a moment. We’re bringing them here.”

  Two I&R men brought the newcomers into camp. Reggie relaxed almost at once. The first of them was Noel Wittington. Noel and his companions came to a stop facing Reggie and Tory. Wittington seemed much tenser than he had been the day before.

  “I know him. He did most of the talking.”

  “We heard fighting and figured that it had to mean that there were Commonwealth people here,” Noel said. “We had to know what was going on. I tried to get out alone, but that didn’t work.” He gestured to his companions.

  “You’d have been better off staying away until the fighting is over, and it’s going to resume very shortly now,” Tory said.

  Noel shook his head. “It’s a miracle anyone would stay behind. Everyone thinks this means we’ll get to go back to our homes—or to what’s left of them—right away. If I hadn’t come with a few others, you might have had a hundred wandering around up here in small groups.”

  “A hundred? I understood you had four hundred with you,” Tory said.

  “A bit over four hundred, I think,” Noel agreed. “I can’t give you an exact count. We picked up a few more after we turned south yesterday, people who were heading back in toward Hawthorne from the east. I gather that things are getting pretty rough for the lot who went out that way.”

  “There might well be several thousand out there, somewhere close,” Reggie said when Tory looked to him. “That’s just from this end of town. The population of Hawthorne was over 25,000. I guess they’ve pretty much all been chased out.”

  “Not all,” Tory said. “There were still some around when we arrived yesterday. There are still some areas of your town that haven’t been torched. We’re trying to save what we can.”

  “It won’t be long before we get action, Kep,” Alfie Edwards said. “What do we do with these blokes?”

  “You’ll have to stay here for now,” Tory said, looking at Wittington. “We can’t have you roaming about while thefighting is going on. You’ll be safer here. After that …” He shrugged, then gestured for Alfie and his companion, Willie Hathaway, to get back to their positions.

  “Just keep down, stay put, and keep out of the way until this is over,” Tory said before he left the civilians. “We don’t want any avoidable casualties.” My lads or you lot, he thought as he started back toward his own position in the perimeter.

  The two Spacehawks came in directly from space, on a hot course that kept both planes at hypersonic speeds throughout their attack and recovery. The leading edges of their wings, and all of the forward surfaces, glowed from the heat. On this kind of sortie, the skin of a Spacehawk would approach critical temperatures, but the vectors had been chosen so that these two would not surpass design tolerances.

  Their target acquisition radar locked onto the buildings and ramparts while the fighters were still more than a hundred miles away—most of that distance vertical. The pilots armed and programmed their missiles. The fighters were coming in much too fast to use their cannon for strafing. If they fired soon enough to hit the targets, they might tear themselves apart, running into their own bullets. But the missiles were expected to suffice. Each Spacehawk would launch six, coordinated for time on target. Barring malfunction, all twelve should hit within a tenth of a second. Three would be aimed at each of the two larger buildings, two at the smallest, and the other four would seek the ramparts that connected the buildings.

  As soon as the missiles had been launched, with the Spacehawks still more than twenty miles from the target, the pilots started to pull their craft back up, going through the tightest curve that they could stand without passing out from the g-load. The missiles continued on their own, each locked onto its target, needing no further guidance from outside. Buildings could not take evasive actions to escape the weapons. Cameras in the noses of the missiles relayed what they were seeing to CIC aboard Sheffield. CIC in turn relayedsome of that video to Captain McAuliffe on the ground.

  The sound of the two hypersonic fighters reached Spencer and the men from the two Delta company platoons virtually at the same time as the missile explosions. The Federation troops in the target zone had no more warning. The explosions came too close together for human ears to separate the individual strikes or tote up the numbers. To Spencer and the men with him, the entire Federation compound seemed to erupt at once. The two taller buildings appeared to rise off the ground and then collapse. The Marines could not see the third building, since it was lower and concealed from their view by the other two. And the hits against the stone and plascrete breastworks that the Feddies had thrown up passed almost without notice in the greater destruction in the center of the compound.

  How could anyone survive that kind of hell? David asked himself, though he did not doubt that there would be significant numbers of survivors, perhaps even inside the collapsed buildings. He had seen men come out of impossible situations too often before.

  “Looks as if the fly-guys did the job proper for us,” Bandar Jawad said on a link to David and the platoon sergeants. “Let’s see if we can take care of the leftovers.”

  “We can’t do that from this far out,” David said. “After the first shock passes, they’ll be back behind whatever cover they can find.”

  “You want to lead your platoon around on the left?” Bandar asked. “You should be able to get within seventy yards of the end over that way without exposing yourselves overmuch.”

  “We’re on our way.” David got his men moving as the first Federation soldiers started to stumble out of the smoke and dust. Many appeared to be staggering blindly, unaware of where they were going, or where they were coming from, too anxious to get away from what was behind them to worry about what might be in front. When Jawad’s platoon started firing at the easy targets, the Feddies kept moving about for a time. None seemed to notice that they wereunder fire, unable to hear much because of the shock of the explosions, their wits not back to anything near functional levels. Many were wounded, dripping blood or worse. At least a half dozen of the Feddies were missing hands or arms.

  David led Delta’s second platoon at something near an all-out run, taking advantage of the Feddie confusion to get into position as quickly as possible. A few of the men tried to fire on the run, wanting part of the action. David stopped that. “Don’t let them know we’re here!” he snapped. “You’re just giving them a trail to follow once they start thinking again.”

  Two minutes of running put the platoon in the nearest good cover. Some of the Federation soldiers were starting to show some awareness of where they were and what was happening. Those who could moved back into the rubble, looking for protection from the rifle fire coming from Bandar’s platoon. The smoke and dust of the explosions were settling. David had a clear view into the remains of the target zone.

  “Grenades, then rifle fire. Hit them hard.” By the time he got the second sentence out, the grenadiers were already at work, and the rifle fire started before the first of the RPGs dropped in among the Feddies. David started firing as well, trying to pick individual targets rather than simply spray the compound. At the same time, he linked to Captain McAuliffe.

  “I think they’re where you want them, sir. Those birdmen did a real job, and the Feddies haven’t got themselves together.”

  “I just heard the same thing from Jawad,” McAuliffe said. “We’re ready to move here. I’m going to commit everyone.”

  It took another twenty minutes before the rest of the three companies got into position. By then, the Federation survivors were giving a much better account of themselves. Their numbers might be seriously diminished, but those who were left fought on with determination.

  After several minutes of long-range fire, Captain McAuliffe decided that it was time to move in and take the Feddies head-on. The three Marine companies advanced along half of the Feddie perimeter, fire and maneuver, by platoon, squad, and fire team—one fou
rth of the men moving while the rest provided covering fire to suppress Feddie gunfire and make it less accurate.

  Spencer had no opportunity to get back to his own company. He moved with Delta’s second platoon. They pushed forward into the open, into the most deadly variety of infantry combat, a frontal assault on strong defensive positions. Men fell around David. Medical orderlies came up from behind, as quickly as they could, to tend the wounded. The dead would have to wait.

  As the Commonwealth Marines approached the Federation perimeter, the defenders pulled back from the line, first to the rubble of the three buildings, and then to the far side of the compound, the side that was not being attacked. At the far wall, they stopped again, concentrating their fire, forcing the Commonwealth force to stop as well.

  During that brief halt, Spencer worked his way back to his own company and went to Captain McAuliffe.

  “I didn’t think they’d be able to muster up this much fight, sir,” David said, almost an apology.

  “I didn’t expect a walkover,” McAuliffe said. It was only then that Spencer noticed that the captain had been hit. There was blood on his left leg.

  “I’ll get a medical orderly for you, sir,” David said.

  “It’s not all that urgent. I’ve already slapped a patch on it. There are too many lads hurt worse than I am. Have you been able to estimate how many Feddies are left?”

  “I’d have to say at least two companies, maybe more, and they haven’t shown any hint of being short of ammunition.”

  McAuliffe grunted. “I wish we could get those Spacehawks back for another run, but we can’t, not anytime soon.”

  “If the Feddies keep pulling back, there are houses that haven’t been burned along the road. They could keep us busy, wear us down.”

  “You think Kepner’s lads could make the difference, coming in from behind?”

  David hesitated, wanting to make certain that he gave his best opinion. “They’d have to hit from the flank, sir, not from behind. If they came up in back, it’s more likely that the Feddies would roll straight over them and still get free of us. And I&R must be a good two miles off. It will take them time to get in position to do any good at all.”

  “That’s what I thought. We’ll move them in halfway, then try to push the Feddies ourselves.”

  “Toward our I&R platoon?”

  “Past them, anyway. It would still be best to have Kepner hit them from the side.”

  Tory whistled over the platoon channel, then got everyone up and moving. There was no time to go back and explain to the refugees what was going on, not even time to tell them, again, to stay put. Just have to hope they’ve got the sense to stay clear of this, he thought, not with any great optimism.

  The I&R platoon moved smartly covering the first two thirds of its route. The chances of coming across enemy soldiers in that stretch were minimal. It was only when the platoon approached the position where the captain wanted them to set up their ambush that Tory slowed the pace and spread the platoon out in a double skirmish line.

  They were beyond the last area of larger, public buildings. Rows of houses stretched out along both sides of a road, starting just to the left of the positions the I&R platoon took. They moved to the verge between forest and the back garden of the nearest houses, along a low stone wall a hundred yards from the road. They would have a clear field of fire if the Feddies came along that road or through the tended yards behind the houses.

  “There might still be civilians in these houses,” Alfie said. “Remember what the Baileys said? The Feddies were only chasing people out just before they torched the houses.”

  “We can’t do anything about it if there are,” Tory replied.”Even if we had time, we couldn’t take the chance of trying to warn them. There might as easily be Feddies hiding in the houses. As long as any civilians stay inside and keep down, they should do okay.”

  “How long do we have before it starts?” Alfie asked.

  “We might have Feddies in our laps in three or four minutes. Our lads have started pressing them again. See to your fire team. You’ll be closest when they do show up. Don’t let the Feddies see you before we start shooting.”

  All of the men could hear the increase in the volume of gunfire. Soon, most could tell that the noise was moving closer. The Feddies might be retreating, but it was no rout. They were withdrawing under discipline. Tory heard the same message from Spencer. The Feddies were making a fighting retreat and doing a professional job of it. Spencer’s estimate of the number of Feddies increased as well, from two companies to perhaps three.

  That could mean odds of fifteen to one, three companies against one platoon, Tory thought. Those odds disregarded the rest of the Marines chasing the enemy, but for a few minutes, those other Marines wouldn’t count—not for Tory and his men. For those minutes, it would be the I&R platoon against all of the Feddies who could take them under fire. Alfie might say those are the right odds, but I’d rather they were turned around.

  “We’ll hold off as long as we possibly can before we start our fireworks,” Tory told his platoon. “I don’t want this to be our last stand, and if the Feddies turn on us before the rest of our lads are close enough to get a piece of it, that’s just what it could be.”

  We’ll make it their last stand, not ours, Geoffrey Dayle promised himself. His position was at the left end of the fire team. He had two spare magazines for his rifle laid out at his side, within easy reach. That way he wouldn’t lose more than a second each time he had to reload. While there was time to waste with idle thought, he wished that he had a grenade launcher. That could inflict so many more casualties at once. A rifle limited him to one per shot, at best. A grenadecould drop Feddies by the squad with a little luck. I’ll do what I can, make every bullet do its duty.

  Ramsey Duncan was at the other end of the fire team, just to the right of Tory Kepner. The Ram was the pivot. The squad’s second fire team was beyond him in line. Duncan checked to make certain that his needler was charged and had a first can of needles loaded. Even without orders, he had his bayonet fixed. Ramsey liked the balance of his needler with the extra weight on the muzzle end.

  Between Dayle and Kepner, Patrick Baker lay behind his section of the garden wall clutching his rifle in both hands, so tightly that he might have been trying to strangle the weapon. After sliding, almost falling, into position, Baker had had no conscious thoughts at all. Fear had gripped him so tightly that he could scarcely have claimed to be conscious of anything, even the fear. His fear was paralytic, and this time he did not retain even enough awareness to try to fight it.

  “Baker!” Patrick did not hear Kepner’s shout in his ear, even amplified by his helmet. Voices simply could not penetrate the wall that terror had erected around his mind.

  “Baker!” This time Kepner put a boot against Baker’s shoulder and gave a rough shove. “Damn it, Baker, look at me!” Tory moved closer, set his rifle aside, rolled Baker over onto his back, and lifted his visor. Patrick’s eyes were open, locked into a fixed stare that showed no emotion, no awareness at all.

  Softly, Tory whispered, “Damn,” under his breath. He pulled Baker’s helmet off. Patrick showed no reaction at all. He might have been dead, but Tory knew that he wasn’t. It was Baker’s vital signs that had caused Kepner to call him. His pulse had been racing erratically, and his breathing had gone very shallow and slow, less than half of what it should have been.

  Tory switched channels on his radio. “Alfie, we’ve got a problem here.” Edwards looked along the fence toward Kepner. “Baker’s frozen solid. Can’t get a damn thing out of him.”

  Alfie crawled back from the wall, just enough to let himsee Baker’s supine form down the line. Poor sod. I knew he was scared, but I never thought he’d go like this. “Not much we can do just now, is there?” he asked.

  “Not if I can’t make him snap out before the shooting starts,” Tory said. “What worries me is that we might have to leave him behind if we have to move fast o
nce the Feddies get close to us.”

  Alfie didn’t respond. If Baker had to be left behind, so be it. There might not be any choice.

  “I know,” Tory said, as if he could read Alfie’s thoughts. “Get ready. We’ve run out of time.” He slid the helmet back on Baker’s head and slapped the visor into place before he grabbed his rifle and moved back to his position at the wall.

  The first Feddies had come into view. They were too far away to be an immediate threat, and there was no indication that the first group, about a platoon in strength, had spotted the ambush. Their attention was directed the other way, at the Marines who were pursuing them.

  “Kepner? McAuliffe. You see them yet?”

  “Aye, sir. The first are still more than two hundred yards from our location, moving slowly. They haven’t spotted us yet.”

  “How many?”

  “I can only see about thirty. They’re off the road, but in front of the houses, on our side.”

  “Let that lot go past if you can. We’re more interested in the main body. Don’t spring your trap too early.”

  “As long as the first lot doesn’t see us, no problem, sir.”

  Tory switched channels to warn his men to lay low and let the first group of Feddies pass unmolested. He pulled down lower behind the wall. While he waited, Tory stared at Patrick Baker, on the ground a couple of feet away. Baker did not look as if he had moved a muscle during the interval. Tory couldn’t see Baker’s eyes through the tinted shield of the visor, but there was certainly no overt sign that the private had come out of his catatonic state.

  I’ve lost a man and the fight hasn’t even begun yet, Tory thought. He felt an edge of annoyance that he couldn’t completelysuppress. He knew that fear like Baker’s was beyond questions of bravery and cowardice, but sometimes it took hard thinking to remember that. If they got off of Coventry alive, Baker would be invalided out of the Royal Marines. He would receive whatever treatment he required, but he would never be trusted in a combat unit again. The question is, will we get off of Coventry? Tory thought.