Freehold (57 page)

Marta wasn't looking forward to that, but orders were orders.

"When strong, display weakness; when weak, feign strength. If your target is nearby, make it appear to be distant. Only thus will you achieve your objectives."

—Sun Tzu

Programming continued at a frantic pace, constantly changing as new equipment was smuggled in. It was frustrating, endless revision, removing useless outdated blocks but not erasing them in case things changed yet again. The troops not involved griped nonstop, but relocated equipment as ordered. Most of the battle was being fought now, in detailed deployments and plans. The actual engagement would be of less relevance. While no battle ever went according to plan, proper preparation enabled a disciplined army to make the most of actual conditions.

"Kendra," Naumann said quietly behind her.

She turned and said "Yes, sir?"

"I want you on the ridgeline when we start. You'll have a platoon and your own squad. Considering the lack of trained personnel, you'll have to take a lot of control at fireteam level due to all these rank amateurs. Can you handle that?"

"I guess I have to, don't I?" she replied.

He nodded. "I need all the experience I can there. This isn't raiding, sniping or ambush. This is going to be face-to-face, brutal warfare. If anyone breaks, we all die."

"Yes, sir, I understand."

"You'll have tac commo, all the ammo we can spare and some tactical support weapons. We don't have enough body armor to spare; what we have is needed for the assault troops. You will have explosives and emplaced weapons. Can you hold there, even if they come face-to-face? Even if your troops try to rout?"

She breathed deeply. "Yes, sir."

"I'm asking you because I trust you to understand what's at stake and not flinch," he said.

You're asking me to die.
"Yes, sir," she nodded, breathing again. "I'll do it."

He squeezed her shoulder and left. She turned back to the program at hand and realized she couldn't work further on it now. She closed, secured and stood. The actual engagement would be of less relevance, except to those who fought it.

Outside was warm and dry, thoroughly black to her vision. As her eyes adapted, she saw a few stubborn dapples from Gealeach pattering through the heavy cover. From the south came the muffled rumbles of fighting in Delph', as it was slowly being shredded into rubble. South of there, Jefferson was being systematically looted and raped, triaged as lost to the enemy . . . for now.

So here's where it ends,
she thought. I've made my decision on my home and I'll die trying to save it. Can he really pull this off? Or is it just a defiant gesture?

She sat there a long time, pondering what the future held. Until recently, she thought they'd lost already. Now she found that Naumann had cobbled together a regiment from the dregs available and the local farmers and intended to fight an army over a hundred times his size. There was no way he could use infantry and light support against such odds, and the UN had support craft in space and more they could call. Every calculation she ran showed their task to be suicide, but he clearly had a plan. It hit her suddenly that she trusted her commander with her life, or her death and wasn't at all afraid of not being able to follow his orders. She would do as he said and believe he knew what he was doing.

What did he have planned, though? His comments about the force comparison made sense—the Freehold forces were the better trained army, even with militia recruits. They had morale, the home territory advantage and all the basic advantages of shelter, food and other resources. The UN had massive superior firepower and logistics, however.

Naumann's current exec was a retired captain of intelligence. She'd had some field experience and had briefly worked with Naumann some years before—a fortuitous occurrence due to the small size of the Freehold military. She met with him after Kendra left. They discussed equipment and personnel assignments. "One question I have to ask, Colonel," she prompted.

"Yes, Karen?" he asked.

"How reliable is Pacelli? She seems earnest enough . . . but I do have to question her background. It's not her honesty. But is she cold-blooded enough to kill her former nationals?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation.

"Will you bet your life on it?" she persisted.

"I just did."

A grunt told him she accepted that answer.

Later that day, troops began trickling through in small groups. Personal equipment was swapped around and Kendra knew what was happening and why. Everyone tasked with infantry work on the ridge was being equipped as well as could be, with tac helmets, weapons and full ammo loads, extra batteries and additional intel gear. They had light tactical support weapons, including mortars and a few missiles and some nasties Special Projects had come up with.
Those bastards are scary,
she thought.
They all must have grown up building bombs in their bathtubs, considering the devious little gadgets they devise.
 

The engineers were lugging explosives, incendiaries and mines by the ton, by hand, and she knew what that was for, also. The weather had turned decidedly blustery, wet and nasty for the season, with a cold front, the type the locals called a "howler," blasting down from the north. Naumann loved bad weather for tactical advantage.

So, this is it, she thought yet again. Another nervous check of her gear indicated everything was still ready. Her only question was if she was. As it became dark, runners began taking messages and Naumann nodded when she caught his eye. He looked calm, but very sober.

"This is it," he finally said, echoing her thoughts. Total silence descended in the bunker, and Kendra could feel sparks of electricity in the air. All eyes were on him and he commenced giving prearranged orders. People disappeared to slip into positions and all unnecessary equipment was quietly removed if small, disabled so it could be reused later if not. None would be left useable for the enemy.

"Everyone rest for the next div, then I'll call you as I need to," he ordered.

Kendra obediently pulled her cloak around her and tried to nap, but her anxiety made sleep a futile goal. She stayed quiet, tried to meditate and discovered she was fondling her sword, running fingers along the length of its spine.

After what felt like years of waiting, someone tapped her shoulder. She realized she had napped. Adrenaline purged her body of fatigue and she turned to face Naumann.

His voice was firm and loud. "It's us against the universe. When do we attack?" 

Smiling in spite of herself, she muttered, "Now." She could hear similar mumbles from other 3rd Mob troops. It was a common joke in the unit.

"When
?" he demanded.

"NOW!" came the ragged chorus.

"That's better," he replied, nodding. "We'll turn the rest of you into mobsters yet. Senior Sergeant Pacelli."

"Yes, sir?" she replied.

"Please recite our unofficial motto for us."

She inhaled, and enunciated , "Outnumbered, always; outgunned, usually; outclassed, never."

"Thank you," he acknowledged. Turning back to the group, he said, "Keep that in mind. Attitude is half the battle, and that is the attitude I order you to have." There were a few very quiet snickers, but levity did not seem to fit the occasion and they tapered off.

He continued, "I haven't given anyone more than bare details and their own specific orders. Thank you for trusting me with the little you had to go on. Here's the quick and dirty synopsis. You won't have much time to share it with your troops, but they'll be able to sense your confidence and that will do a lot.

"We have a large proportion of their military command and control right here. The scattered rest is facing only unorganized civilian resistance at this point, and expects that trend to continue. They rely on quick-response reinforcements if they can't handle a local situation. In a few short divs, there will be no UN military chain of command in this system to lend that support. The troops left behind will be handled by the civilians. Our job is to take out the infrastructure so the locals can protect their own homes, because
they outnumber the invaders tens to one!
The fact that the enemy wears uniforms doesn't make them more than human. They are outnumbered, facing equal weaponry and will lose. All we have to do is destroy their support structure, all of which is in this valley and the capital—"

"And in space," someone added from the rear.

Naumann nodded. "In a few divs, the assets in space will not be an issue. The assets here will be ours and the forces in Jefferson will have to do things our way or starve to death.
We
will be besieging
them.
"

"What about Jefferson HQ and the base there?" someone else asked.

Naumann replied, "We have a Black Ops team, what about them?" There were cheers and chuckles at the sheer arrogant gall of that response.

He continued, "As of now, the space assets are handled. In a few segs, the Drifting River is going to burst through its levees and flood the plain. With river to the west, flood to the north, there's only two ways the UN can move. The south will be an utter dead zone of artillery and close air support that they won't dare fight. The east is Braided Bluff, which will be protected by our infantry, reinforced with all the explosives we can spare.

"Infantry," he said, picking out Kendra and several others by eye, "you are the anvil on which we are going to grind them to powder. No matter what happens,
you must not break.
I expect many of you to die, I won't lie to you. But we will stop them right here and that will be the end of it. If you don't hold, then we all die and there's no backup plan."

Sober looks greeted that. Grim determination followed.

"I don't believe in luck," he finished. "But if anyone has any prayers in any faith or any lucky charms or rituals, now would be the time to call them in, with all favors." He sat silently for a moment and Kendra threw a quick prayer in. They had precisely one chance to win and keep their system. There was no margin for error built in. Very few mistakes would be needed to destroy any hope of the future.

With nothing more to do there, Kendra slipped out the back and headed for her bunker. She had a perimeter of mines and emplaced weapons to control and a platoon of sixty troops to support it. There were thirteen veterans, reservists and active soldiers, the other forty-seven being militia. Most of them, at least, were by now experienced guerrillas. There were a total of seven platoons on the ridge, with all the supporting munitions that could be emplaced. She wasn't optimistic about their chances. She trudged out, following the assigned route on her comm into the dark. There were several kilometers to cover on foot to the ridge and the last section would be all sneaking and lizard-crawling through weeds.

"Our archers are so numerous," said the envoy, "that the flight of their arrows darkens the Sun."
"So much the better," replied Leonidas, "for we shall fight them in the shade."

—Simonides

Jacob Huff was lying back, "Bonita" astride him, playing with him and with herself. "I love how you feel inside me . . ." she was moaning. It had been trouble justifying a civilian escorting him to Jump Station Three, but a little abuse of the system had been worth it for the results. Besides, the shuttle had to lift anyway, full or not.

Everyone they met guessed at once why she was along. And they were wrong.
I think I'm falling in love with her,
he admitted. He was neither the only one nor the first to get involved with a native. Not even the first in this conflict. It was still a shock to experience it.

He shook, close to orgasm, and grabbed her breasts, trying to pull her down.

His comm sounded a general alarm, destroying the mood. "Shit!" he snarled, trying to untangle. Bonita cursed also, but held him in place with her thighs. "I've got to go," he protested, pushing her. He rose, reached his comm and was about to reply when she said, "Jacob?"

He turned to her, just in time to feel the thrust into his throat. He thought at first it was a weapon, then his eyes saw her hand draw back and repeat the blow to his solar plexus. Fingers! My God, she was inhumanly strong! As he tried to breathe, she shoved him effortlessly against the wall. Her long legs moved elegantly, trapped him and a hand clamped on his throat. He tried to wrestle, but her other hand jabbed into his left shoulder, immobilizing the arm. She grabbed his right arm, twisted and held it. He was starting to see black splotches swimming in front of his eyes and knew finally that she was killing him. "Why?" he strangled out, almost inaudibly.

She leaned closer and whispered, "Because you want to destroy my home."

Her eyes were still deep and beautiful.

"Now," Naumann ordered. He had retreated to a bunker behind the ridge on Torpenhow Hill, but still within easy vehicle reach of the front. A command car waited nearby, engine idle. The battle staff burst into furious activity, coding and transmitting. There came the muffled
whump!
of artillery and the sound of people and equipment moving through the trees. But the unheard aspects were at least as important.

Drifting far overhead, in the total silence and serenity of orbit, was one of many intelligence satellites. This one was of UN origin, but there were others of local manufacture, recoded and in use to betray their owners. IS3-17, as it was known, was providing data on the firebase and its perimeter. It showed the lazy flow of the river, traffic on the roads and a few anomalies that would be investigated by armed reconnaissance teams. A well-placed charge punched through its casing, shattered the delicate instruments inside and damaged its orbit. Within seconds, others flashed into death. Farther out, a manned relay station had already been breached. The crew had hurried into vacsuits as a second charge damaged its solar array. More charges demolished the antennas. It would be a struggle to stay alive and relaying data suddenly became irrelevant to them. Even had they still been functional, they would have seen a mass of sheer noise from sophisticated interference and hacking. Throughout the Halo, various craft and stations were under attack