by Rick Shelley
McAuliffe turned one group of Coventrians over to David Spencer when they finally met the I&R platoon. The captain wanted to talk with Tory Kepner.
“You did good,” the captain said when Tory reported.
“Any word on my man Baker yet, sir?”
“All I know is that the medical orderlies got him. They’ll do what they can, but any serious help will have to wait until there’s a chance to evacuate casualties to Victoria.”
“Yes, sir, I know. It’s just … well, I worry about him.”
“He’ll get the best care we can give. Now, it’s time we start helping these people. That lot you found out in the woods. Send half your platoon to fetch them in, with whatever they’ve got with them. I’ll make arrangements to get them settled in with families along here temporarily.” He shrugged. “It’s not much, but it is a first step.”
Al Bailey was still watching when the Marines returned. He had not left his post for more than five minutes at a time since the platoon had hurried off earlier. When he saw them coming back, Al went to the center of camp to tell the others. Most of them came back with him to watch the two squads approach.
Reggie felt a chill when he saw that there were only half as many as before. Did they lose that many so fast? he wondered. Unable to restrain himself, he moved out toward the Marines. He could not see the faces hidden behind helmet visors, could get no clue from the way they moved. For a moment, he held his breath.
“What happened?” he asked when the first Marines were still ten feet away.
Tory Kepner raised his visor. “We chased the Feddies away. There are still several hundred on the loose, butthey’re no immediate threat.” The Marines came right into the camp area.
“There were more of you before,” Reggie said, uncertain how the statement would be received.
“The captain thought we’d be enough. He sent us to bring you lot along with us. There are still families in their houses, out toward the edge of town.” Tory made a vague gesture toward the southwest. “He’s going to make arrangements for folks to take you in. It’s a start, until you can get yourselves back in homes of your own.”
“Back?”
“We won’t be able to find places for everyone who’s been left homeless, but you’re the closest in. I guess that makes you part of the lucky few.”
“Back home?” Anna asked, clutching her baby more tightly.
“To friends’ homes anyway,” Tory said. “We’ll help you carry your things back.”
“We were thinking of maybe heading back toward our own homes,” Reggie said. “Look around, see if there’s anything we can salvage. Rig shelters there, or something like that.”
“I imagine you’ll have a chance to look over what’s left of your homes, maybe start some of the work, but you’ll be better off staying with folks who still have intact houses, and food, at least for the immediate future. As soon as we get these Feddies sorted out proper, we’ll be setting up centers, I think. We won’t be able to go chasing off up and down every road to provide for individual families. We’ll need to have everyone in a few centralized locations.” It was an unusually long speech for Tory, but the captain wanted the civilians brought in to where there were still houses intact, not wandering off up and down half the shire digging through the rubble.
Spencer shared the good news with the I&R platoon’s third and fourth squads. “We’ve had word from CIC. The Fourth Regiment will be here this evening, along with another Navy battle group to help spaceside.”
There were no cheers. After chasing about most of this day, and all of the preceding days and nights of little sleep and too much danger, few of the men had energy to spare, even for good news. They were lounging around, sprawled out in the grass. Some were still eating. The rest had opted to try to get a few minutes of sleep.
“Once we’ve got the Fourth on the ground, things should go a lot smoother,” David continued. He was sitting on a low rock wall that ran along the side of the road. The couple who lived in the nearest house had carted out several pitchers of fruit drinks for the two squads, and a selection of foods to augment the ration packs. “We might even manage a full night’s sleep.”
Even that wasn’t enough to get any noticeable response.
“I know. You’ve heard that drill before,” David said. “Go ahead, kip out while you can. I don’t know that we’ve got anything up in the next few hours, but that’s subject to change.”
He got up and headed farther down the road to where the next platoon was resting. He would have liked nothing better than the chance to find a place and get some sleep of his own, but the men had to come first.
The duty orderly’s knock was soft. He knew that it was unnecessary to pound on the captain’s door, and that Captain Shrikes did not appreciate that sort of ruckus.
“I’m awake. Thank you,” the captain said, and the orderly turned and headed back toward the bridge.
Inside the cabin, Ian sat up and turned to perch on the edge of his berth. Feeling unusually lethargic, he stared at the crystal clock that his wife had given him on their last anniversary. The hands of the clock blurred into invisibility. Ian continued to stare at the shifting patterns of light in the crystal. It was several minutes before he started blinking furiously, then yawned and stretched.
“It’s even getting to me.” He stood and glanced at the clock again. There were ninety minutes left before the battle group was due to move back toward Coventry. Within amargin of five or ten minutes either way, they hoped to appear just as the reinforcements arrived in-system. If they were late, one or the other of the supply ships would be on hand near Coventry to assure the newcomers that Sheffield’s task force had not left or been destroyed.
In thirty minutes, an hour before the fleet move, Admiral Greene had a conference scheduled with all of the skippers and operations officers. He would have several scenarios scripted, trying to prepare for any eventuality.
Ian moved into the head to look at himself in the mirror. “Shave, shower, and a fresh uniform,” he decided—inevitably. Then he would eat—if there were time. Hull would likely be in combat in two hours or less.
He called the wardroom to have a tray—breakfast, even though it was late afternoon by ship’s time—brought to his cabin. Then he returned to the head to make himself presentable. The “morning” ritual helped bring Ian out of his doldrums. His movements were practiced, always the same, aboard ship or at home. He took two minutes to shave, then permitted himself five minutes in the shower. The last minute was the final touch, forty seconds of water as hot as he could stand it, followed by twenty seconds of water as cold as the system could provide.
That chill lent energy to his toweling off, and it brought his mind up to speed. When he left the bathroom, with just a robe on, he found that his meal had already been delivered. There was the temptation to eat first, while the food was hot, and dress after, but Ian was too disciplined for that. If an emergency arose, he could head to the bridge without food in his stomach, but it would be undignified to go running about in only a bathrobe. He dressed more quickly than he normally did, all of the way to lacing his shoes, then sat at the table and removed the cover from the serving tray. The cooks all knew his preferences, and whoever had prepared this meal had made certain that there were extra portions of everything.
Ian inhaled deeply. The aromas kindled his appetite. He set the cover aside and moved the tray a fraction closer tothe edge of the table. He sliced a healthy bit off of one of the sausages. The fork hadn’t yet reached his mouth when the alarm Klaxon sounded and the intercom from the bridge buzzed.
Part 6
22
Away from the fighting, in Hawthorne as in the other towns and cities where the Second Regiment had defeated or driven off the Federation troops, refugees started returning to the remnants of their homes. At first, the numbers of people coming back were small. The most adventurous, and the most desperate, went home first, daring the possibility that there might still b
e Federation soldiers blocking them, or that they might get caught up in the fighting. But returning became a chain reaction, the numbers spiraling upward. Soon, the impromptu refugee camps were virtually deserted. The sounds of battle might have been a deterrent while they lasted, but when those sounds could no longer be heard, the silence was a magnet, growing in strength the longer it continued.
Around Hawthorne there had been a dozen major concentrations of refugees, with scores of smaller enclaves, sometimes no more than one or two families, scattered between and beyond the larger groups. Some of the people had traveled ten miles or more from their homes, propelled either by fear or by the need to find game to hunt. But most people had stayed far closer, often getting no more than a mile from their homes.
Those who had the shortest distances to travel were generally among the first to return to the ashes of their houses—and the ashes of their lives. People returned to where they had lived, then many of them went looking for the Commonwealth forces who had made it possible for them to come home, hoping—expecting—that the Marines would provide food and shelter.
Hawthorne Center, the core of the town, had been completely gutted. Piles of rubble and ashes were all that remained, with vast stretches of grass and trees burned out as well. Occasionally, a lone tree stood, still living, still green, an improbable survivor of the devastation.
Along the six roads leading out of town, the limits of destruction varied. On a couple of those routes, the Federation soldiers had barely started to burn past the inner ring. On others, they had made it almost to the end of the settlement. Where the invaders had passed, the destruction was complete. They had left no exceptions in their methodical scorched-earth program.
In every city and town that the Federation had touched the story was the same. The Confederation of Human Worlds had allotted more soldiers to the larger population centers, but not in strict proportion. Coventry City, South York, and The Dales had seen significant destruction, but all retained large areas that had not yet been burned. Only a very few of the smallest and most remote towns and villages had completely escaped the devastation.
Where the Federation troops had not been stopped by the Commonwealth Marines, the burning continued, often at a faster pace than before, as if the Feddies feared that they would not complete their mission in time. Even in some areas where there was fighting going on, the Federation managed to keep some troops working at their arson while the rest fought. Pillars of smoke continued to mark the skyline in the three major cities and in the towns that had not yet been liberated.
“We’re going to have the whole town right here in our laps the way things are going, Captain,” David Spencer said.
The fighting locally had been over for nearly four hours, and several large groups of refugees had already come in. The first had been the band that had started in South York, with its handful of floaters. They had numbered close to five hundred by the time they came into Hawthorne. Not long after their arrival, an even larger group had come in fromthe east. Others were trickling in from the north, coming out from the direction of the town’s center, seeking not just home but their liberators. They clustered near the Marines for protection, and for the hoped-for assistance.
“There’s not much more we can do until we get help down from the fleet,” McAuliffe said. “Once the Fourth Regiment gets here, we should be able to get things organized. For now, all we can do is try to keep all of the home food replicators working full-time, haul in raw materials and help distribute what comes out.”
“What worries me most right now is what are we going to do with all these civilians if the Feddies come back,” David said. “I know it looks like we can feed everyone today, but if we get back to fighting, it could end up a slaughter.”
“It worries me too, David.” McAuliffe looked around. He had set up his command post near the center of the stretch of undamaged homes, about where the three companies had rendezvoused with the I&R platoon. He could see most of the refugees. They were gathered on front lawns and along the road, possibly more than 1,500 already, with word of more coming.
“As soon as the Fourth is on the ground, the colonel says we’re going to regroup, get our battalions back intact, if we can,” the captain said. “And they’ll ship down all of the portable food replicators they can. We’ll have to set up refugee camps.”
“Yes, sir,” David said. “It’s going to be a real job of work, especially while we’ve got to worry about Feddies.”
“Even after. Until Buckingham can send out specialists to handle the situation. All we can do is try to muddle through.”
“Kepner’s got his platoon spread out off to the southwest. I told them to move back out to the end of the houses and set up a picket line. They’ve planted snoops as well. There’s no sign of those Feddies.”
“Alpha and Delta have patrols out, and we’ve got squads making contact with the other locals who haven’t lost their homes, making sure everyone’s ready to help with the refugees.”McAuliffe hoped to break the logjam right around his force. If the entire population of Hawthorne tried to collect along the one road, the situation would quickly become unmanageable.
It had been a hectic four hours for McAuliffe. Cut off from guidance from Sheffield, he had been forced to make his own choices, do what he could with what was available. He did not dare fragment his command too much. His three companies, after casualties, did not offer that much of an edge over the known number of Feddies who had escaped after the morning’s fight. If they returned, he had to have a large enough force in one place to meet the enemy and at least hold them until help arrived.
Sometime that night, if all went well.
All was not going well.
Aboard Hull, Ian Shrikes ran from his cabin to the bridge. That was faster than answering the call from the officer of the deck and then making the trip.
“What is it?” he demanded as he entered the bridge.
“Avon just came out, sir,” the OD reported. HMS Avon was one of the supply ships that had been monitoring Coventry while the rest of the task force took its respite. “It looks as if a new Feddie force has arrived. Avon spotted troop ships and escorts. The rest of their battle group came out of Q-space as well. It looks as if they intend to land reinforcements.”
“What have we had from the admiral?”
“Just ‘Call to Quarters’ so far. CIC said to stand ready, that orders will be coming.”
As soon as they figure out what the bloody hell we’re going to do, Ian thought. “All right, I have the con.”
He went to his seat at the command console and started scrolling through reports coming in from the various stations around the ship. The pilots of the fighter squadron were in their ready room, their Spacehawks being readied for launch. Weapons divisions reported ready. Engineering. Damage control. The rest. All gastight hatches had been closed. Secondary life-support systems were functional,
ready if needed. HMS Hull was prepared for combat.
A new message came through from CIC aboard Sheffield. It was not orders but a listing of the ships that Avon had spotted before ducking into Q-space. Ian read through the list with a sinking feeling in his chest, or stomach: two Cutter-class transports that could each carry a battalion of soldiers, one of the larger Empire-class transports that could carry an entire regiment, two battlecruisers, eight frigates, and several auxiliaries. The most depressing news was that there were two dreadnoughts—the largest ships in space, dwarfing Commonwealth battlecruisers such as Hull and Sheffield—in the new Federation task force. Those were just the ships that Avon had seen. Its captain was not certain that they had scanned all of the Federation ships before jumping out of harm’s way.
Even when the Fourth gets here with its task force, the Feddies will have us outgunned, Shrikes thought. And if those transports are filled to capacity, they might still have the Marines outnumbered as well.
He glanced at the time on one of the monitors in front of him. He had been on the
bridge for five minutes. There was still no word from the admiral. That was no surprise to Ian. All of the contingency plans that Greene had discussed earlier were suddenly obsolete. They were confronted with an entirely new situation—much more dangerous, even desperate.
He should have some word for us soon, even if he hasn’t figured out what to do yet. Paul Greene was good at that. He tried to keep his captains informed. After the intelligence about the size of the enemy force had gone out, the skippers needed some assurance from their boss, or at least confirmation of the bad news. Despite this, it was another ten minutes before the admiral came on to talk with the captains.
“CIC is still trying to come up with something that isn’t patently suicidal,” Greene said. “It looks bleak, but we’re going to have to take action. The one thing I am certain of is that we don’t dare let our reinforcements pop in over Coventry before we get back on station there to meet them. If they emerge from Q-space in the middle of that Feddiefleet with no warning, and without us there to keep the Feddies occupied, it could be a real disaster.” And there was no way to warn off the new Commonwealth force.
“We’ll time it as closely as we can,” Greene continued. “Getting out there too soon could be too sticky to contemplate. We’re going to have to mix it up with the Feddies, try to keep them from landing all of their soldiers, if we’re not too late for that already, and try to occupy their escorts without getting ourselves blown out of the galaxy in the process. That is not, I realize, the easiest of tasks. As soon as we’ve solidified a plan, I’ll get it to you straightaway.”
HMS Avon had managed to broadcast a warning to the men on the ground before she slipped into Q-space to warn the task force. The emergency override on the transmission had insured that every officer on the ground would hear the message, as long as he had his helmet on.
