Intrepid (20 page)

33

Colonel Cortez raised his hand and signaled a halt.

Officers and noncoms of the Third Company passed the halt signal along. Through the trees, Cortez watched the other two companies go to ground. He’d been half-afraid that some idiot would keep running, wanting to be first at the ditches. At least no one in his rented command was that stupid.

The colonel surveyed his target through night gear. The moon had set, taking most of the light with it. That left him studying the ditches only by starlight. But the farmers were not likely to have any night-vision gear. They’d be hurting.

Unless that Longknife girl had Marines on his front.

Cortez shook off the thought and studied his target. No one stood guard, paced rounds, did anything for security. There were not pickets or outposts anywhere in the thousand meters of flat ground between this tree line and the ditches. Unbelievable. If this was the Longknife girl’s idea of security, how had she lived so long?

In the ditches there were one, maybe two heads. From the looks, they were totally devoted to snoring. The wind blew from the trenches, bringing with it a whiff of open latrines. Had they fouled their fighting positions? Cortez shook his head.

Then caught himself. Thorpe had underestimated that girl, and look where he was. Cortez would not make the same mistake.

He checked his watch, and the color of the sky just starting to brighten behind the ditches. His troops would have the shadows with them for another five minutes or so.

Best to make good use of the time.

The colonel pulled out his commlink, switched it on, and immediately switched it off.

Major Zhukov answered with two clicks. The proud Guard Fusiliers were ready.

“Captain Sawyer, advance your company at a low crawl, by platoons,” Colonel Cortez whispered. “Signal to First and Second Companies to do the same. Keep low and quiet.”

Cortez gave Major Zhukov a single click on his commlink. Around him, a long thin line, first platoon, First Company, advanced at a bent walk for twenty meters, then went to ground in the field. No one had cut this field, and the crop came to a standing man’s waist. At a low walk, there was little to see.

Captain Sawyer signaled the second platoon to advance with him and led them twenty meters past the first platoon. When the long line of third platoon started its bound, Colonel Cortez went with them. . . and led them forty meters past second platoon.

So it went, about every minute, the last platoon back would rise to a low walk and bound up to and past the forward-most platoon. When Cortez wasn’t moving forward with his platoon, he studied the trenches.

No movement. No action. No nothing.

They could as well be empty as far as he could see.

They were at about midfield, and Cortez was beginning to think he’d be able to get everyone up to the three hundred-meter mark before a shot was fired when things began to happen.

Somewhere in the ditches, there was an explosion. Had one of the Guard Fusiliers tossed a grenade?

For a second there was dead silence as even those around Cortez held their breath. Then some kind of a bomb with a sputtering fuse arched up out of the trenches toward the psalm singers, to explode among them.

Now there was rapid fire coming from the ditches. Cortez couldn’t make out the weapon from its sound, but there was lots of it. Above him, shots whizzed through the air. Most of them high, but one man screamed as he was hit.

“Medic! Medic!” echoed up and down the line.

To Cortez’s left and right, troopers returned fire enthusiastically, if with no evidence of something to shoot at. The colonel studied the ditches for targets, but bright flashes of light caused back flares on his night gear.

It was time for third platoon to bound forward. Its platoon leader and sergeant were not shouting anything. That platoon wasn’t going anywhere.

Cortez stood. “Third platoon, follow me.” Running low, he advanced, waving his arm to encourage others to follow. Most did. The trooper next to Cortez went down with a bullet through his jaw. The colonel made sure he ran the full forty yards before going to ground.

Once third was in firing positions and ready to give good cover fire, Cortez turned his attention to first platoon.

They weren’t moving from their place in the rear.

Cortez stood up. “First platoon. Advance. Come on, there’s only a bunch of farmers up here. They can’t shoot.”

Troops were up. Their lieutenant was leading them, calling for others to follow him. He got about four paces forward when he clutched at his leg and went down. But the sergeant was up, and he kept them moving under the colonel’s watchful eye.

As they passed the lead platoon, the colonel fell in line with them, hustling them forward and kicking the first ones who tried to go to ground before covering the full forty meters.

Colonel Cortez turned as soon as first went to ground, ready to do whatever it took to get second platoon moving, but Captain Sawyer was already up, already moving that platoon out under the watchful eye of its lieutenant and sergeant.

Cortez flipped him a thumbs-up and stooped to take a knee and survey his situation.

There were still flashes of light sparking up and down the ditches, though the first two lines seemed quiet. As he watched, a couple of those bombs lofted up and out, to explode among the psalm singers or the Guard. As far as Cortez could tell, the bomb didn’t seem to produce any casualties, but rounds were whizzing over his head. Lots of high shots.

Not all; one that sounded like a military dart whizzed past his ear. That left him wondering exactly where Zhukov’s Guard company was. What Cortez would give for a standard battle board, but that required knowing where you were, and a full GPS was way beyond the budget of this lash-up.

Once more, he advanced his companies by lines of platoons. The two wing companies weren’t under his immediate supervision, and they weren’t advancing as far with each bound. Either he’d have to go over and personally supervise their doing an extra set of bounds, or they’d have a lot more distance to run when he ordered the full attack.

Colonel Cortez scowled and decided he’d funnel them into the trenches as reserves to support Second Company. Or if the farmers broke and tried to run, maybe the two lagging companies would be in a better position to pursue.

Around the colonel, troops fired and advanced, did their duty as they were trained. He looked at it, found it was good. . . and smiled.

And as he smiled, he realized, it was time.

The lead platoon was only two hundred meters from the first trench. The trailing platoon was about to start its bound. The middle platoon was Captain Sawyer. This would work out fine.

Cortez mashed his commlink. “Zhukov, I’m about to order a general assault. You get ready to receive those that break and run for the swamp. On a five count, check your fire unless you have a clear target.”

“You drive ’em to us. We’ll bag ’em, sir.”

Now Colonel Cortez stood and signaled to third platoon. “Up and at ’em.” A bullet whizzed by his ear, but no soldiers dropped as they obeyed his orders.

“Second platoon, prepare to advance as first platoon comes in line with you. Prepare to advance,” he shouted, as the trailing platoon came even with the middle one’s firing line.

“Advance,” he shouted.

“Come on. You heard the man,” Captain Sawyer shouted, “Last man to the trenches gets to clean up this mess.”

With a shout, second platoon was on its feet and moving at a trot forward.

“Third platoon,” Cortez shouted, running ahead of first and second, “prepare to advance,”

“Don’t get up yet,” a sergeant shouted. “You don’t want to get so far out front we shoot you in the back.”

Enthusiasm was quickly curbed.

But in a moment, the three platoons were even, and all were on their feet. Some paused to fire. Others shot from the hip.

Here and there, a trooper went down. Most of them were on the far right and left. If they had bullets in their backs from the tardy First and Second Companies, Cortez was going to dock some officers’ pay.

But the Second Company was now shouting as it ran for the gun pits. Something in the pits blew up, almost blinding Cortez. The noise was deafening, even though the Guard was now holding its fire. Men fired, shouted, ran.

And Cortez was leading them.

He reached the first trench. As he did, he scanned right and left in the dim light of the dawning day.

And saw nothing.

He fired at the next trench and raced for it.

This one, he jumped into. There were sandbag coverings to his right and left. He fired at one, heard a scream, and whirled to find something monstrously large and dark charging him. He couldn’t make out what it was in the shadowed light of the trench; he just fired at it.

His target screamed in rage. . . and redoubled its speed. Cortez pulled the trigger down hard and held it. His pistol went to full automatic.

He hit his target; he didn’t miss. But the huge shadow kept right on coming at him.

Then, with a roar, it collapsed at his feet, white tusks gleaming in the dark.

“What in the devil’s name is that?” a psalm singer asked.

“That is the biggest porker I ever did see,” came from the trooper behind him, “And my daddy raised some prizewinning hams, he did, I tell you.”

“Look out, Colonel!”

Came too late to keep the colonel from being slammed in the butt and knocked forward onto the hog. He went down, only too aware those tusks were millimeters from his unarmored groin. He dodged the dead pig’s revenge and rolled into the mud beside it.

His hand with the automatic being the hand supporting him, it got a mud bath.

Rolling onto his smarting butt, Cortez faced something with two twisting and sharp horns, long whiskers. . . and bad breath.

That looked eager to butt those horns up his nose.

Cortez pulled his mud-caked automatic out and put two rounds between the eyes of the thing.

Its head exploded with a most satisfactory “thack.”

And Cortez noticed, as he wiped off the horned thing’s gore, that matters had quieted down.

The battlefield wasn’t silent. No, not by a long shot.

Cortez started to struggle to his feet. . . and was grateful to one of the white-shirted ones for offering him a hand. . . even if it did get his whites all muddy.

Out of the ditch, the colonel took a second to survey the situation. There was no more fire. No explosions.

A dense cloud of acrid smoke hung over the battlefield. It was heavy with sulfur, not the usual smell of a well-used rifle range, more like after the fireworks on Landing Day.

A glance in the ditch showed him, next to the body of the white thing he’d shot, a long string of firecrackers. Cortez eyed the troopers beside him and realized they were probably going through the same assessment he was doing.

No dead enemy. No fleeing enemy.

He turned to the farm kid who’d identified the porker. “What kind of animal is that?”

“It looks like a goat, sir. I don’t know what kind. Daddy didn’t raise none. Said they were the devil’s own critter.”

“I would certainly agree,” Cortez said. “Captain Sawyer?”

“Sir,” the man said, and this time saluted.

Cortez returned the salute. These troops needed to be steadied by routines, by rendered honor. They needed to be distracted. . . and fast. . . from their brilliant assault on a barnyard. It was damn sure that no enemy was anywhere around.

Cortez knew he’d been had. Could he prevent these troopers from knowing it, too? What a command challenge. To keep his troops from feeling like he did.

“Our fleeing terrorists have been kind enough to leave behind some fine livestock,” Cortez said. “Let’s see what we can do about having a good barbecue.”

Captain Sawyer was quick on the uptake; he promptly began issuing orders. “Sergeant, bring up the wagons. You there,” he said, pointing at a corporal and his squad. “We’ll need a dozen or more good fire pits. Start digging them.”

First and Second Companies arrived. First was posted as guards and ordered to set up outposts. Second drew the assignment of getting wood or anything else that would burn.

While Captain Sawyer saw to the details of a barbecue, Colonel Cortez brought Major Zhukov up to date. “So there were no soldiers here, only dinner on the hoof, huh?”

“No,” Cortez snapped. “Not even some brilliant Longknife could time the fuses on those rockets and noisemakers from hours ago. There is someone out there observing us. I want you to find him. Track him down. I want his guts for kite string.”

“Yes, my colonel,” Zhukov said, and was gone.

Colonel Cortez turned back to the preparation for the morning feast, careful to keep a smile on his lips. Careful to make it look like everything was going just as he planned.

Several of the New Jerusalem troopers were experienced in slaughtering and cooking food on the hoof. They butchered the available lunch, hacking it into chunks that could be cooked quickly. What they did with familiar panache left many of their city-bred comrades looking green.

Most of the hostages dove right in, sharing duties with the knowing troops. In a little over an hour, the goats were sufficiently cooked to eat. The hogs took a bit longer.

Zhukov led a small squad of very wet Guards in about the time the pork was declared done. He dropped a length of wire in front of his colonel.

“He hid under a log, used that for an antenna, and was long gone by the time we stumbled on that out-of-place strand.”

Colonel Cortez scowled, tossed a goat leg he’d stripped of all its edible flesh into the nearest fire, and stood.

In a low voice, so only the major and the veterans of his wild-goose chase could hear, he said. “That makes twice that Longknife girl has played me as a joker.” He glanced around as his command. “Twice that girl has crossed swords with me and settled for nothing but a touch.”

Cortez shook his head. “She will not make a fool out of me a third time. You scouts, get some chow. Zhukov, this hog is amazingly delicious, considering there was no time for us to smoke it. Get something in your stomach. It’s been a lousy morning. At noon we march.