Stark's War (9 page)

Textbooks laid it out clearly. To defend a position you needed to be able to prevent the enemy from attacking you from the side or the rear. It was as simple as the truth that a soldier could only aim and fire in one direction at once. If necessary, you could try forming a circular defensive line, much like the surviving companies of cavalry had at Custer's Last Stand. That could work if you were strong enough, if the terrain you occupied was strong enough, if the enemy didn't try hitting you harder than you could hold against. It helped to be a little crazy and keep fighting long after logic said to give it up. Mendoza had talked once about how the British had done that a long time ago at a place called Rorke's Drift, but then Stark had always thought most Brits were born a little crazy. But those were exceptions. The cavalry companies actually with Custer hadn't been able to form a strong enough circle and had died to a man. So had a lot of other people on a lot of other battlefields. Stark had known some of them.

Stark could feel it, feel something that wasn't there, the absence of any other units beyond his last Squad member. The void worked at him, mocked him, told him his Squad had been hung out without support. Finally he could take it no longer, trying to speak without letting his ragged nerves show. "Lieutenant, I got nobody on my right."

"I know that, Stark!" Porter obviously wasn't in a very good mood, doubtless nursing considerable pain from his wound, pain no doubt aggravated by the rough ride here on the crippled APC. "I've told headquarters! What do you want from me?"

Stark licked his lips, fighting off another wave of anxiety, choosing his words with care even as he triggered a channel to ensure Reynolds and Sanchez were also listening to the conversation. "Lieutenant, I've got threat readings popping up steadily on the right. They're already behind us on that side. If we don't fall back we'll be outflanked and surrounded."

Before Porter could answer, Reynolds called in, voice innocent as if she were unaware of Stark's last statement. "Lieutenant, recommend falling back to the next ridge. We need to buy time for reinforcements to cover our flank."

It hung in the balance for a moment, Porter's fear of not following orders to the letter warring with his fear of losing his unit. The fact that he'd narrowly escaped capture or death a short time before may have tipped the balance. "Yes. Fall back by fire teams to the next ridge. I'll inform the chain-of-command that we're, uh, shortening the line to ensure we can hold."

Thank God.
Stark had barely formed the grateful thought when Vic called him. "Ethan, you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm okay."

"You sound really bad. What—?"

"I told you I'm okay!"

"Fine," she snapped, breaking off the conversation.

Stark ordered his Squad into motion. Soldiers scampered back in pairs, dropping to cover the next pair as it retreated through them. They hadn't reached the next ridge when Stark's Tactical flashed with an update. Caught in midstride, Stark went to one knee to study the map, an involuntary whistle escaping his lips. They were going to shorten the line, all right, and for the first time the planned perimeter looked small enough to hold with the forces available. "De-soto, you get the new Tactical plan?"

"Yes, Sergeant. The planned perimeter has shrunk quite a bit."

"You might say that. The brass is finally getting real about this situation. We got a lot of falling back to do. You stay on the left and keep that end of the Squad moving proper while I watch the right side." Stark paused, then called up his command circuit tap to see if he could receive the big picture again. It took a moment to make sense of the chaotic picture that sprang to life. Apparently they'd had it easy so far, while units on the other side of the perimeter had taken heavy blows, been driven back, but were now hanging on. A cluster of unmoving enemy symbology apparently marked an attempted raid into the heart of the U.S. position, a raid which had cost the attackers their entire force thanks to the warning time the ground forces had received.
Thank you, Navy. I'll never slug a sailor again.

"Sarge?" Private Hector called.

"Yeah, Hector."

"What's up? I mean, we almost got trapped back there, and now we keep falling back. How far we gonna go? What's going to happen?"

Stark stared ahead, seeing on his map display a long array of interlocking crater rims and ridges leading back toward the colony core of the perimeter. "Who do I look like, Hector, God? Stop worrying about what happened or almost happened. It's gone. Stop worrying about anything in the future. All that counts is that next ridge. Once we get to it, all that counts is the ridge beyond it. Understand? All of you, I want you thinking about
now,
because now is all that matters."

"Yes, Sarge," Hector answered, audibly abashed.

Something fast sped by far to the right, perhaps an enemy APC trying a risky maneuver to outflank the retreating American infantry. Even as Stark tracked the symbol, his jaw tense, hidden U.S. guns spat out heavy shells, and moments later a distant flash announced the destruction of the vehicle.
Thank God. There's somebody to our right now. Hang on, guys, we're coming.

They made the next ridge, a feeling of pressure growing behind them. Threat symbols flickered in and out, there and not there as enemy forces came on, closing the distance. On into the next shallow valley, the pressure real now as a few shots ripped overhead, enemy troops unfamiliar with lunar conditions firing too high. "Don't stop," Stark commanded. "Get to the ridge."

They moved to reach the high ground, diving over the crest to keep silhouettes to a minimum, rifle rounds kicking up spurts of dust or shards of rock as they spattered all around like a rainstorm growing in intensity by the minute. Stark checked his HUD. One more ridge back to meet the planned perimeter, but the enemy was pushing hard now. Static fuzzed around the edge of his display as jamming began interfering with signals. "Stark, Sanchez," Vic called. "I sent Porter on ahead with the APC driver. We'll do this last fall-back by squads."

"Vic, they're on us," Stark objected. "One squad won't hold."

"They don't need to hold. They just have to make the enemy pause a little." Vic's breath exhaled suddenly, the way Stark knew it always did just after she'd fired a shot. "Now, Third Squad goes first. Get halfway back, drop and cover us. Second Squad will follow, go all the way to the ridge and cover this ridgeline. Got that, Sanchez?"

"Roger." Laconic as always. Stark felt an absurd annoyance, a wish that something would break Sanchez's calm outer shell.

"Go." One word.

"Third Squad, fall back with me." Stark scrambled backward, coming to his feet as he got far enough beneath the ridgeline. Fast, through showers of gravel falling along with them in lethargic tandem, as if the Moon were insisting it would not be rushed regardless of human priorities. They reached the midpoint, breathing heavily now, turning and aiming to where Sanchez's Squad came down off the ridge in another series of small slow-motion avalanches.

It took a little something extra to hold in place while Sanchez's Squad stampeded through them, not running but feeling like it all the same. "Everybody hold still," Stark grated, hunching his own body a little higher to make himself a solid symbol of stability. It made him an obvious target, too, but that was part of the price you paid. His Squad held their position, waiting as HUDs began calling out new warnings, tracking heavy rounds coming in high over the ridge. Artillery, looping in deadly tracks to gouge new craters where millennia of meteors had once worked alone. Mortars, arching high overhead to drop almost straight down. The Squad held again, trusting to their myriad of deceptive camouflage devices and active jammers in every suit to throw off or fool smart munitions, hoping no dumb round would blunder its way right on top of them.

The enemy barrage hesitated, as Stark knew it had to. The enemy had come up too fast for supplies to keep up, and now they'd have to pause until new ammunition arrived. First Squad came down, faster than Sanchez's had moved, leaping in long, flat arcs, three figures now being partially carried by their Squadmates.

"Hold on," Stark urged as First Squad passed through. Sergeant Reynolds waving a quick salute as she passed. Shots rippled across the now vacant ridge, questing for targets, then ceased.
Here they come.
Stark aimed toward the ridge, canting his rifle high momentarily as he did so and seeing the targeting symbol flash red.
Can't shoot if I aim too high. Must be an inhibit to keep us from throwing rounds into orbit.
"Stand by," Stark cautioned his Squad. "Make every round count."

Figures showed momentarily as enemy troops rolled over the ridgeline. Stark's and Sanchez's Squads opened fire in a prolonged volley. In Stark's rifle sight, magnification and enhancement revealed vague outlines, ghostly images of soldiers with their own camouflage and jammers. He centered on each outline, his rifle slamming against his shoulder as rounds went out. Small clouds of shrapnel spread their deadly rain as Desoto used his auto-launcher to drop grenades among the enemy with cool precision. The outlines fell or tried firing back, only to fall sooner as they attracted more fire. "We gave them a bloody nose," Vic called. "Get your Squad back here with us, Stark."

"On our way. Let's go, Third Squad. Desoto, you and I bring up the rear." Run, all out except to keep herding the slower Squad members before you. Run, as more figures boiled over the ridge line behind them, firing as they came despite a murderous barrage from First and Second Squads. Chen slipped and fell, his suit broadcasting damage to Stark's display. He slid sideways, grabbing Chen as the Private tried to rise, propelling him forward even as Chen grunted with pain that the motion intensified.

Then the artillery came again, chasing at Third Squad's heels as they gasped up and over to the relative safety of the final ridgeline. Stark lay, breathing heavily, checking his own stats as well as the rest of the Squad's. "Mother of mercy. Chen, looks like you're our only casualty."

"Lucky me." Chen's voice had a slightly delirious quality, wobbly from the drugs his suit med kit was busy shoving into his system. "It's not bad, is it?"

"Bad enough, but you'll live." Stark switched circuits, grateful for the welcoming presence of friendly unit symbols on either hand, trying not to dwell on the increasing amount of threat symbology crowding in front, trying not to feel the steadily increasing drumroll of artillery slamming onto the ridge where they lay. "Vic, we got any more orders?"

"See anything new on your Tactical?"

"No."

"That's what we've got. We hold this line, Ethan."

Stark looked back over his shoulder, noting for the first time that behind him lay only a long, gentle slope, leading for kilometer on unobstructed kilometer to the American rear areas, to the new colony city being dug and raised by civs adventurous or desperate enough to come to the Moon voluntarily, and to the only spaceport left in their possession. "Yeah. I guess we do hold here. Otherwise, it's all over for us, and for the civ colonists who're depending on us."

It had been somewhere between Earth and Moon, months ago during the too-long lull between loading into their assault ships and reaching the objective. Stark and Corporal Desoto were strapped in, staring somberly at the many-shaded grays of their lunar target, talking about the small things and the big things soldiers discuss in quiet moments.

"Never thought I'd leave Earth," Desoto offered at one point.

"Me, neither," Stark agreed. "They say we'll be able to see it again when the ships do a turn-around to brake for arrival at the Moon. Not that I expect it'll be all that much to look at by then."

"Long ways from home," Desoto observed, then, after a pause, "You ever go home, Sergeant?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know. Home. Parents. Brothers and sisters."

"Home." Stark repeated the word slowly, then shook his head. "Nah. Haven't been there since I joined. Civ neighborhood, you know."

Desoto's eyes widened in wonder. "Your parents were both civs? You weren't born on a fort?"

"That's right." Stark looked out the port, his eyes focused somewhere else. "I tried going back once, right after I made Corporal. Pretty proud, let me tell you. I made it in only three years."

"Three years?" Desoto demanded in amazement. "How'd you make Corporal in only three years?"

"Uh . . ." Stark hedged with obvious reluctance, then shrugged. "Just lucky."

"Sergeant, it takes more than luck to make Corporal that fast. You get a battlefield promotion or something?"

Stark stared back at the Moon, avoiding Desoto's gaze. "Or something. Look, that's not what this is about. I made it."

Something about Stark's attitude finally got through to Desoto, who nodded in silent assent to change the subject. "So, what happened when you tried to go home?"

"Well, I was passing through the old town and I thought,
Why not?
Hopped a ride to the old neighborhood."

"Bet it'd changed."

"Uh-uh." Stark grimaced at the memory. "Same as always. Me, I was different. Wearing a uniform. Civs stared at me, fish out of water." He'd been around uniforms so long he'd forgotten how rare they were in the civilian world, insulated from the small band of military that sufficed for America in the twenty-first century. "Like I was some kinda alien with two heads, you know?"

Desoto nodded. "Yeah. Been there. Like they expect you to start shooting them or raping their sons and daughters or something." He suddenly smiled sadly. "Or maybe they're afraid seeing us will make those sons and daughters want to join the mil, too."

Stark laughed sharply. "Could be. Look what happened to me. They don't know us, Pablo."

"Mendoza told me that once upon a time lots of people knew someone in the mil, or had even served themselves. That was before the long drawdown. Now that there're not too many mil, and we're all pretty much in for life, most civs never meet a uniform. What happened when you got home?"

"Never did." Stark remembered the cops, alert and wary, who had faced him at the bus station. You lost, soldier? The base is back that way. If you're looking for a drink, take the number twelve bus to the military bar district. No, he'd protested, I'm just passing through. Fine, keep going, but don't pass through here, soldier. It's a peaceful place. A civ neighborhood. "Some cops stopped me. Made it clear nobody wanted me there. I said, 'Hell, what do you think, I'm gonna kill someone?' And they said, 'That's what you do, isn't it? Kill people?'"