The Last Legion: Book One of the Last Legion Series (31 page)

By dark, they were high up on the bluffs, and mist from the Highlands rolled down over them. Njangu thought he was breathing fire, his lungs searing, and the rest were gasping as loudly. “Com,” Petr ordered, and Irthing, who was carrying the set, handed him a mike. “This is Sibyl Gamma. Scrambling.” He touched buttons on the com. The scrambler not only ate power, but reduced broadcast range on the coms. “Do you have me marked?”

“Sibyl Gamma, this is Sibyl Control,” the com whispered. Kipchak recognized Hedley’s voice. He made a quick status report. “I think they’re holing up for the night. Anyway, they should unless they’re brain-dead. Can you get me a sniffer in the air?”

“Affirm.”

“Don’t hit them,” Kipchak ordered. “I say again, don’t hit them. Let me know if they move before first light. We’ve got them going, and I think they’re heading for something solid.”

“This is Control,” Hedley said. “Understood, will comply. But watch it. They could be planning a surprise.”

“This is Gamma. Understood. That’s one reason I want the sniffer up, to give me a little early warning if they put the hounds out.”

“Understood.”

“Just give me a chance to nail them down, and you’ll have your big target.”

“This is Gamma. Clear.”

• • •

Everyone, even revolutionaries, fall into the trap of routine. So it was with the ’Raum. In spite of their policy of never meeting in the same house or village twice, or on the same night, the huge cave at the rim of the Highlands had become a permanent headquarters. The tiny entrance was still well guarded, but now there were paths leading to it. The Movement’s records, computers, coms were centered there, and so it was necessary to garrison the outside of the cave. Other ’Raum units, after action, retreated there to report and get new instructions. Since it was perfectly safe, they also lingered for a day or two, finding a chance to relax, to raise their voices above a whisper, to laugh without looking over their shoulders.

The cave’s inner chamber held the twenty men and women of the Planning Group, plus another fifteen of the ’Raum’s most respected fighting leaders. Comstock Brien stood by at an easel, with a Confederation-issue map on it.

“This is an excellent opportunity to hit the Rentiers and their dogs hard,” he said. “That patrol is obviously a stalking horse. It’s trailed our unit for several days, without forcing contact. The Force wants a battle, and I think it should have it.”

Jo Poynton stood. “Brother, what makes you think that we can outfight the Confederation soldiers?”

“We have consistently done so this far,” he said. “And their response time with reinforcements has been miserably slow. I’ve put myself in their commander’s mind. He wants to draw some of us into the open. He’s thinking perhaps we’ll send out a hundred, maybe a hundred fifty men, so he’ll be prepared to respond with two or three hundred. Excellent odds, from his perspective. But what are the chances of the Force’s unreliable air-delivery vehicles being able to put a full three hundred men into the mountains? I would say very, very slim. Plus whatever vehicles they successfully launch can be hit by the antiaircraft missiles we’ve acquired. That should make them cautious.

“My plan is simple: I have three hundred troops mustered outside this cave. Our team is less than three hours distant. By dawn, we could reach them and first obliterate that patrol with, say a hundred men, giving the patrol time enough to report the enemy strength. The Force will then bring in reinforcements. Just when their men are landing, we’ll hit them with the rest of our fighters.

“I’ll com immediately for another two hundred fighters from the regional units in the area, which will give us overwhelming force. By the time the Force realizes its surprise assault was expected, the men on the ground and, hopefully, a great number of their combat vehicles will be destroyed. They will, of course, panic and counterattack with every man, every vehicle remaining at Camp Mahan.

“But we will be gone, gone with more weapons, perhaps even some of their vehicles if the chance presents itself. I’ve already set a rendezvous for any seized aerial vehicles to be secreted in the middle of the Highlands, where the
giptels
will never look for them.”

There were shouts of approval. Jord’n Brooks stood. “No,” he said loudly, and there was sudden silence. “This is the worst, most dangerous sort of adventurism. For you … not we, but you … are pinning the hopes of the future, the struggle of years, on a single engagement. If we win, that is marvelous. But if we lose, brother? What if we lose?”

Brien glowered. “We shall not lose,
brother.
I know that. But let it not sound like this is just my decision, or that I am somehow trying to become some sort of Supremo. Tell me, brothers, sisters. What should we do?”

Brooks listened to the shouts of “Fight,”

“Hit them,”

“Yes!”

“Attack!” His face was still, unmoving. “Very well, Brother Brien,” he said. “We shall attack. But I hope the doom that comes will not be for all of us.”

• • •

“Oh my aunt Fanny who sitteth on Buddha’s right frigging hand,”
Cent
Angara said. “Get your sorry ass off that cot, Hedley, and come look at Nirvana.”

Hedley was instantly beside the big screen that relayed data from the Electronic Warning Grierson orbiting a kilometer above the ’Raum team. “Why kiss my money-making ass,” Hedley said. “Look at all those little red dots streaming along. We done sprung ‘em out of the woodwork.”

“Sure as hell,” Angara agreed. “Officer of the Watch!”

“Sir?”

“Get the Old Man up, and the troops moving. Full alert, ready to launch in three-zero minutes.
Caud
Williams’ll give the attack order.”

Hedley was at another com. “Roll the pickup team,” he said. “Get my people off the ground.” He changed channels. “Golan Flight, I need one of your Zhooks for a quick-and-dirty. Hell yes, now. If I wanted them in ten minutes, I would’ve called you in ten minutes. Direct authorization from Lance Actual.”

• • •

“Roll out,” Dill snapped. “Gamma’s ready to come out. And they’re warmish.” The hangar lights went full on, and Dill’s crew jumped off the cots set up beside their aircraft. Gorecki had his boots on, unfastened, and flopped his way toward the Grierson’s cockpit. The hangar door lifted, and Camp Mahan was a flare of activity as the Grierson’s drive whined on.

• • •

“Sibyl Gamma, Sibyl Gamma,” Hedley broadcast. “This is Sibyl Control. Get ‘em up and ready. You’re coming out. The birds are in the open.”

“This is Gamma,” Kipchak, who never seemed to sleep, snapped. “What about the boys I’ve been chasing?”

“We’ll do it sanitary from the air,” Hedley advised.

“They’re mine, goddamit!”

“Not anymore, Petr. Now they belong to the meatgrinder.”

Ten minutes later, a Zhukov dived in on the ’Raum team half a kilometer from the Gamma Team, weapons systems slaved to the EW Grierson’s sensors, and a ripple-salvo of Furies spat. The Furies exploded, and the small camp was a hell of flame. The Zhukov banked across the holocaust, came back, 35mm chaingun ravening, the vehicle commander’s cupola-mounted 25mm spitting fire. All ten of the ’Raum patrol died before they came awake.

• • •

The Grierson settled into the tiny clearing, smashing through branches and small trees. The back ramp dropped, and yellow light, honest, man-made light flared through the night.

“Mount up,” Kipchak ordered, and the exhausted survivors of Gamma stumbled into the Grierson. Kang and Dill passed out boiling hot coffee and heatpaks containing a fresh roll stuffed with wine-baked
giptel
, mustard, pickle, and a fried egg on top. Garvin helped Njangu to a bench, and he slumped down, unaware he was still wearing his pack. The ramp closed, and there was blessed silence, and the Grierson lifted out of the jungle.

“You did it,” Garvin enthused. “You got them into the open.”

“No shiteedah for sure?” Njangu said.

“No shiteedah for sure. The whole Force is gonna roll on ‘em. You’ll probably get a medal after we obliterate them.”

“Probably,” Njangu said, through a double mouthful. “And if I’m real good, maybe a bath or even a fast hosing-off?”

Garvin sniffed. “Lord. Since you mention it, you folks do smell a little ripe around the edges.”

Deb Irthing snickered. “Like somebody pissed on us, maybe?”

“Not quite
that
bad. But close.”

“Real close,” Njangu said, and took another bite.

• • •

“Very good indeed,”
Caud
Williams told his regimental commanders and staff, staring at the screen. “We’ll put First Regiment in against these troops in the open on the left … Second on the right closing in a pincers, then Third assaulting straight into that base of theirs, whatever and wherever it is. Fourth will remain in reserve.”

Hedley turned from the photo montage he was studying, took off the interpreter’s tri-dee glasses. “Sir?”

“What is it,
Alt
?”

“I think I’ve got their base spotted,” he said. “I think it might be this area here. Tracks lead to this cliff face, and vanish. I think our goblins use a cave for their hideout.”

“What of it?”

“Caves can be hard to clean out.”

“
Alt
,” Williams said firmly, “your people did a good job of finding the enemy. I’ll take care of finishing them.”

Hedley inclined his head, didn’t respond.

• • •

It took almost all of the Force’s Griersons to load the combat elements of First and Second Regiments, and the troop compartments were still crowded. The air was a staccato chatter of commands as the Griersons, in three elements, slashed low to the west of Leggett, toward the ’Raum columns. Their drive-hum shrilled over the jungle, and hunting beasts heard and scurried for cover.

Lead elements of the ’Raum head the Griersons and ordered antiaircraft crews to the alert. These men and women, still not familiar with their confiscated weapons, fumbled with the controls as the sound grew” louder and the first wave could be seen, dots against the morning sky.

One Grierson was Ben Dill’s — they’d barely had time to offload Gamma when they were ordered to the parade ground to pick up a load of First Regiment soldiers. “Somebody’s looking for us,”
Finf
Kang announced calmly from her “turret.”

“Scanning … scanning … he’s got a lock.”

“Gorecki … maneuver on her command,” Dill ordered.

“You tell me, Ho,” Stanislaus said.

“Tracking … tracking … he’s launched! Go low!”

The Grierson dived hard, and Garvin tried to ignore his stomach as he waited behind his weapon sights.

“Gunner,” Kang said, very calm, “TA my beam … I’ve got the launch site …”

Garvin switched acquisition systems to Kang’s antimissile tracker. “Locked on,” he said.

“What about the frigging missile?” Gorecki snapped.

“It’s still coming on … still tracking … Garvin, throw something at the launch site,” Kang ordered. “Driver … hard left to nine o’clock … missile at three o’clock … incoming … climb hard!” The Grierson moaned as Gorecki slammed full power. “Ah-hah, little bastard, went and screwed its mind,” Kang said. “It’s searching … blanking it … blanking it … gotcha! Missile toppled, skipper … Garvin, are you ever gonna shoot at anything? And by the way, you owe me a beer for saying they weren’t gonna have anything trickshit for me to worry about.”

“Target acquired,” Garvin said, as his head banged against the sight and water filled his eyes. “Tracking … locked …”

“Launch when ready, Mister Gridley,” Ben Dill said.

“Launch one, launch two, launch three … lost target … bring me left, more left, dammit,” Garvin snapped, and Stanislaus obeyed.

“Target acquired … launch four … HOLY SHIT!” Jaansma shouted as the jungle in his sight turned flame, black, then brown and cloudy and he saw equipment and men fountaining. “Target destroyed.”

“Mister Jaansma,” Dill said. “Watch your commo discipline.”

“Sorry, Ben. Searching …”

“Three minutes from LZ,” Gorecki said. “Get the crunchies ready.”

“Searching,” Kang echoed Garvin. “Searching …”

• • •

The first assault wave came out the back of their Griersons into a sheet of fire. They went down, and a few stayed there. SSWs and blasters returned the ’Raum fire, at first spattering, then a solid roar. Noncoms bellowed orders … move, move, you sorry shitheads, get off this LZ and on them … stay here and die, you idiots … come on, move, move …

Soldiers were up, zigging, maneuver elements going forward, fire support blasting at seen targets or just the area, and the Force overran the ’Raum’s forward positions, blasters, rocket launchers stuttering destruction.

• • •

“Where are the rest of our fighters?” Brien asked.

“Twenty minutes, perhaps more, away,” the woman carrying his com reported.

“Too far. Tell them to drop everything but their weapons and ammo and come at the run, or we’re lost.”

The woman nodded, touched her mike’s sensor.

• • •

The Second Regiment hit an unprotected flank, and the ’Raum fell back, re-formed. A few of their fighters broke, ran, and were cut down. The others firmed their resolve, and continued fighting. There would be no mercy shown on either side on this battleground.

• • •

“Oh you dumb sons of bitches,” the woman aiming the portable rocket launcher gloated. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you about bunching up?” She pressed the stud and the rocket hissed out of its tube and exploded in the middle of the ’Raum. A moment later, a ’Raum sniper saw her weapon, caught her in his range finder and fired. The round caught the rocketeer in the calf, and she howled, dropped her weapon, and rolled on the ground in agony. Her sometime lover, a rifleman, hesitated, then followed orders and picked up her heavier weapon and its ammo vest. He moved on, hoping the woman would get her med-pouch open, or there’d be a medic, before she bled to death. He shut off that part of his mind and looked for a target.