Raising Caine - eARC (48 page)

Chapter Forty-Seven

Southern extents of the Third Silver Tower; BD +02 4076 Two (“Disparity”)

Dripping sweat again, and tossing away his last, drained water bottle, Riordan staggered into Fall Back Two, expecting to find it empty—but Veriden, Macmillan, and Xue were already there. Not good. “Report,” Caine gasped.

Macmillan, whose beefy strength apparently came at the expense of endurance, gasped back at him. “We were in our positions, caught them in the flank. Bunch of hits. But nine millimeter wasn’t enough to drop them, usually.”

Veriden took over as Macmillan sucked in a deep breath; the filters in his mask whined as that volume of air rushed through them. “We killed or incapacitated one. Wounded two, maybe three.” Veriden hardly seemed winded. Riordan had known that she was lithe and tough, but hadn’t realized just how lithe and how tough she was until now.

“Where’s Esiankiki?”

Xue shook his head. “I do not know what became of Ms. Salunke. She was firing until the attackers used their grenade launcher. I think it is the model built into the Jufeng.”

“I heard it. And yes, it is.”

“So our own people are attacking us?”

Riordan shook his head at Macmillan. “I doubt it’s anything that straightforward. But we’ve gotta move.”

Veriden frowned, looked around. “Yeah, but where?”

“Fall Back Three.”

Xue looked at him carefully. “Captain, that is our last fall-back point.”

Caine motioned for them to follow him. “Yes, but since you’re already here at Fall Back Two, and they can’t be far behind, that’s our last option. Just get to your fighting positions.” He saw glances go back and forth between the three of them. “What is it?”

“Ammo.” Veriden shook her rifle; the bolt was back and the breech was open. “I’m dry.”

Caine considered, then held out his Pindad and its magazines. “Here.” As Dora took it, Macmillan looked up as if he’d been given a mild rebuke. “Keith, she’s a good shot and she’s not winded. Only one of us can say that, right now. So mobility gets the firepower. Now keep moving.” Macmillan shrugged then nodded at the logic. Veriden checked the weapon with professional surety and ease.

“Where’s Thnessfiirm? And Qwara?” Xue asked as they exited the thick brush and began crossing the silted streambed at the narrowest point.

Hunching to keep his head below the level of the fronds and tuber-saplings that dotted the soft irregular ground, Riordan gestured to the stands of trees and ten-meter fronds lining what had once been the stream’s far bank. “Thnessfiirm is just behind Fall Back Three with the AMP. Qwara…Qwara didn’t make it.” He thought to order Xue and Keith to equalize their remaining ammo, but saw that they were already in the process of doing so.

Back among the tangle of copses and thickets they had just exited, sharp whistles and trilling calls arose from the treetops. A brace of Pindads sent up a furious counter-chorus, then silence.

Macmillan hunched a little lower, jogged a little faster as they neared the tall growth on the far side of the silted streambed. “Seems like the convectorae positioned around Fall Back Two spotted some enemy scouts.”

Probably a few paid for that with their lives, too.
Riordan nodded. “That puts the bad guys about three minutes behind us, maybe four. Get to your positions.” He pulled out one of the pop-flares that had been in their emergency signaling kits. “If they don’t attack where or as we expect, commence firing on my signal.”

“Yeah, but—”

“What is it, Dora?”

“Captain”—it was the first time she had used his title—“what then? We don’t have any dance steps beyond this part of the song.”

Riordan nodded, pulled himself up the bank toward his own position, which was built more for concealment than protection. “That’s because this is the end of the choreography. After this, you split up and try to survive. I’m guessing we’ve already hit them harder than they expected. If we take out some more of them, they may be too thin on the ground to find us all. I suspect they never had a long operational window. And since that wasn’t one of their boats roaring overhead, and we’ve got some help on the ground now, I’ll bet the window is closing even faster than they expected. So, once we abandon these positions, our only objective is to stay alive by staying lost.”

Riordan slumped down into his position; the three were still standing nearby, watching—waiting? “You’ve done a great job,” he told them. “Do it just a little longer. Now, get to your positions. They’ll be here soon.” They silently went to their shallow holes, Xue near Caine in the center, Macmillan and Veriden to either flank.

Thnessfiirm’s voice was tremulous behind him. “I do not understand the ways of making war well, but—”

“Yes?”

“I have observed the power of the weapon you gave to Ms. Veriden. Would that not be better placed in the center, where it can bear upon more of the streambed?”

Riordan smiled. “That’s an excellent question.” He rose, stood behind the crook of a tuber tree, laid the targeting wand in it, peered down its surprisingly good scope. “And normally, you would be right. But that tactic would be best if we actually wanted to cover the most ground and inflict the most casualties with her assault rifle.”

“Is that not what you wish to accomplish?”

“No: this time, I want the attackers to avoid it.” Riordan, satisfied with the scope’s placement, held out a hand. “May I have the activation rings for the remaining rockets on the AMP?”

Thnessfiirm handed them over. “You want your enemies to avoid your best weapon? I do not understand.”

“Sometimes,” Riordan explained, “the best use of a weapon is to influence your enemy’s behavior. In this case, where they decide to charge us. I am fairly sure they would prefer to go through Dora’s position: it’s the furthest from the river, and the driest. But when they probe our line, they will discover that the center and the flank closest to the river will have the weakest defensive fire.”

Thnessfiirm’s neck oscillated slightly. “And so you anticipate they will change their point of attack to those less daunting areas.”

Riordan shrugged. “I sure hope so.” Xue, whose position was slightly forward of Caine’s, waved twice. “And I think we’re about to find out.”

On the opposite side of the streambed, there was faint movement in the lowest levels of the fronds. Thnessfiirm pointed to a flight of smaller
sloohavs
which rose up in pairs: released by the convectorae, it confirmed that the enemy had reached the old stream bed at that point. More pairs rose skyward further up the dead watercourse; none appeared from the stretch where it neared the river.

“As you projected,” Thnessfiirm purred.

Riordan shook his head. “No real surprise. They’re on foot so they are going to want the most solid and most narrow stretch of open ground to cross. Once they are in the trees on our side of the streambed, they know we’ve lost the battle. Their shotguns will then be at optimum range, and they’d overrun us. It would be suicide for us to even put up our heads, and certain death to remain in our positions while their riflemen flank us.” He adjusted the sighting of the targeting wand. “The convectorae did an excellent job of concealing our positions. If the attackers don’t have thermal goggles, I doubt they will pick us out before we start firing.”

“Hiding,” Thnessfiirm explained with a tremor in her neck, “is our accustomed means of dealing with threats.”

Riordan nodded, reflected that this would have been an excellent place to begin an important cross-species discussion, but there were far more important matters at hand—

From the brush line where the flights of
sloohavs
had risen up, a few fleeting figures—clones—darted into the old streambed. They vanished into the patchy, shoulder-high mix of tuber-saplings and fronds, riddled the indigenous equivalent of spiky marsh grass. Their initial rush slowed rapidly; the ground underfoot was no longer a fen, but it was not fully solid, either.

Caine made his observations in a quiet voice aimed at Xue’s back. “Looks like two scouts probing further up the streambed, two more coming straight across.”

Xue turned his head a few degrees, nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The intermittent growth in the otherwise open ground forced the enemy’s scouts to advance in leaps and starts, rushing from one covered position to another. When the upstream group got within fifty meters of Dora’s position, her Pindad spat forcefully. Bits of vegetation flew up as one of the figures fell; he hit the ground, groaning. The other disappeared but the tops of the spiky marsh grass trembled on a reverse course that led back toward a thick clump of ferns: the closest available heavy cover.

The two scouts in front of Caine’s position paused, then continued forward. “Prepare to fire,” he ordered Xue.

Whose back started, straightened in surprise. “At this range, sir? With the nine-millimeter, I won’t be—”

“Just do as I say, Mr. Xue. We want them to think we’re weak here.”

And the anemic performance of the nine-millimeter slugs, fired at about fifty yards, accomplished just that. Of four rounds fired at a brisk pace, only one hit; the target went down, but remained capable of cursing and counter-firing. Xue ducked.

Thnessfiirm’s necked goggled at the strange silence that settled over the streambed. “And now what?”

“And now, we wait.”

“How long?”

“Thirty seconds, maybe a minute. They are not going to want to give us a chance to change positions.”

“Why?”

“Because right now, they know where most of our shooters are and they will want to hit those positions with suppressive fire while the bulk of their forces charge across the streambed. That’s why they probed us first; to determine where—”

The distinctive stutters of Pindads snapped at them from the far side of the streambed. Nearby tree trunks spat out splinters; fronds bowed and fell; leaves fluttered in colorful swirls of agitation. Caine, hunkering a bit lower, peered towards Dora’s position: she was getting her fair share of suppressive fire as well, but far less that Xue was taking. “They’ve made their choice,” Riordan reported to Thnessfiirm. “Get back to the AMP. If there is any malfunction with this control, you will need to fire the rockets manually.”

“How many?” Thnessfiirm asked.

The throaty clatter of an automatic shotgun preceded a shredding of the vegetation around both Xue and Riordan. The clones were spraying and praying, but at ranges under one hundred meters, it was effective enough to prompt Caine to think about saying a few prayers of his own. He lifted his head up after the wave of devastation had passed, asked, “What do you mean, ‘how many’?”

“I mean, how many rockets should I launch if I must do so manually?”

Caine answered—“All of them”—but did not have the time to look at Thnessfiirm; six, no seven more of the attackers had leaped out of the far brush line. They were sprinting unevenly across the streambed, the two scouts rising to join them.
There; that’s the attack. They’re committed.

Xue fired at the onrushing squad, the magazine of his survival rifle emptying when they were halfway across, just as Macmillan joined in. But, being even further from the enemy’s route of attack, the big Scotsman’s rounds were either not finding their mark, or simply not stopping the targets they hit.

Thnessfiirm’s voice was hushed. “You wish me to launch all of the rockets?”

Christ: are you still here?
“Yes. All the rockets. Go.”

At which point, Riordan suspected that Thnessfiirm would not get to the AMP in time if the control rings failed to work. Caine glanced in Veriden’s direction; her position was being constantly peppered with counter-fire, pinning her down.

Xue finished reloading, rolled to the other end of his fighting position, popped up—and was drummed back down by a storm of suppressive fire.

Caine moved slightly, so that he could peer down the targeting wand’s scope again. Its frequency sampling protocol allowed him to see what no one else could: the three-laser aimpoint arranged in a wide triangle just twenty meters in front of Xue’s position. He glanced at the closest of the clones—closing on thirty meters distance as they ducked and weaved through the brush—and was satisfied by their approach formation: a wedge, about ten meters wide and twenty deep.

It’s not going to get any better than this
, Riordan decided. He made sure that the targeting wand was snugged firmly in place so that it would continue to paint the target zone and clicked the control rings together. Caine rolled out of his position, yelled “Fall back” at Xue’s spine, spun into a rising sprint that carried him through the curtain of fronds behind them. Bullets—not aimed at Riordan, just in his general direction—buzzed and snipped at the frond tops half a meter over his ducked head.

From one hundred meters to the rear, a rippling roar washed out toward him: a sudden, strident burst of massed rocketry.

Caine glanced behind, saw Xue clear his position, then clutch at a mortal spatter of torso hits. He went down, bloody and limp.

The roar grew, up-dopplered sharply and became a chorus of screams rushing overhead—

Caine sprinted hard, felt his chest burn, then constrict, then harden. But he needed to get more distance. Not being familiar with these rockets, there was no way of knowing how large their blast pattern was—

The overhead screams down-dopplered crisply into roars plunging toward the dried stream bed. Or more precisely, the phased-laser triangle painted on an open expanse of water-smoothed rocks and scrub brush—

The stuttering cacophony of blasts didn’t just assault Riordan’s ears, it sent an overpressure wave bumping against his back. He staggered but did not fall. Pushing between closely-spaced cone-trees, Caine realized that he was no longer hot, but cold, his palms clammy, his lungs no longer able to rise or expand without conscious effort. As debris from the explosion began fluttering down around him, and Dora’s Pindad resumed its duel far more decisively with whomever still had her pinned down, Caine stumbled forward, acutely aware that his field of vision was narrowing.

He broke out of the brush into the smoking clearing from which the AMP had launched its last rockets. Thnessfiirm edged out from behind a bush as Riordan, world swimming unsteadily, staggered forward to catch his balance and breathe against the bole of a bumbershoot. The Slaasriithi’s neck stretched toward him.