Until Relieved (23 page)

—|—

"You did good, Goff," Joe told the shaking private. "Now just stay calm." He thought that, this time, Kam might even avoid the sequel to each of the earlier skirmishes. There were no bloody corpses close at hand. Second platoon had taken no casualties in this fight, and the Schlinal casualties were all more than eighty meters away, some
much
farther away.

"Yeah, I don't have to puke this time," Kam said through obviously clenched teeth. "I haven't eaten anything in hours. Long as I starve myself, I'll be okay."

Joe sucked in a deep breath and held it for a moment, more concerned at the bitterness he heard in Goff's voice than at what had happened the other times.

The Schlinal infantry had tried one direct assault, into the valley and up the 40-degree slopes that bounded it, but the combination of long-distance artillery and the wire guns of the Accord soldiers above had turned back that assault, inflicting heavy casualties on the Heggies. The remains of three Schlinal Nova tanks, destroyed as they supported the infantry attacks, effectively kept any more of the armored vehicles from entering the valley below the positions held by Echo and George companies. One of the disabled tanks was still smoldering. Fifteen kilometers away, more or less, three Havocs of Basset Battery continued to bombard the Schlinal armor and infantry. At least two Novas had left, moving at what had to be close to their maximum speed on such broken ground, no doubt hunting the artillery that was hitting to such effect. If any other Novas remained in the vicinity, they had stopped bombarding the ridge. Joe doubted that there were any left nearby.

The only thing missing from the Schlinal attack had been Boem fighters. Joe did not know that there was also a battle going on up on the plateau at the same time, and that the enemy's available fighters were all busy there.

Joe had used a Schlinal rifle against that first assault, and he had suggested that the rest of the platoon do the same. "Save the weapon you're familiar with for when things get close," he advised. Even Lieutenant Keye had accepted his recommendation—and made it an order. He had also passed it along to Captain Ingels, who then issued the same order to the rest of the strike force.
Use the enemy rifles first. When you run out of ammo for them, throw them away—that much less weight to tote around when we leave this place.

The frontal attack had ended ten minutes before.

"They might try it again," Ingels warned over the channel that linked him with all of the platoon leaders and platoon sergeants. "I imagine they'll
think
about some sort of flanking movement first, but there's no easy way for them to do that, no way that we can't counter. But they will attack again. If it doesn't come sooner, expect it when the shuttle's visible, just coming in. That will be too tempting for them to pass up." Three squads from the recon platoons were out watching the most likely routes for any attempted flanking movement. If it came, the recon teams were equipped to slow the enemy down long enough to allow reinforcements to reach them. But if the enemy got too close, or those missing Schlinal Boems turned up, the shuttle landing might have to be postponed.

"How long till the shuttle arrives?" one of the platoon sergeants asked.

"It's on the way now. Twenty minutes. The rest of the 13th is under attack on the plateau, so we're going to have to do without any air cover. If the shuttle spots enemy fighters in the air, they'll abort the landing, stay high until the Boems have to return to base."

"Do we have a wide enough cordon to keep the shuttle safe?" Lieutenant Vickers asked.

"I don't think anything but a Boem could get close enough in time," Ingels said. "Maybe a tank, but I think the rest of the Novas pulled out. In any case, we've done all we can as far as LZ security is concerned. We put much more up there and the enemy would be able to overrun our positions here."

Joe more than half tuned out the conversation at that point. He lifted his head to look down into the valley. There were still bodies out there, but none of them looked as though they had moved since the end of the fight. If any of those men were merely wounded, they were not making any noises that Joe could hear.

Second platoon was back on half-and-half, one fire team from each squad in position on the crest of the ridge, watching, the other back and below, eating or seeing to their equipment. The fight was too recent for anyone to be sleeping yet. That could not come until the adrenaline of battle had a chance to dissipate.

"I want platoon sergeants and squad leaders to check on the ammunition their men have left," Ingels said. It was enough to pull Joe's attention back. "Our own zippers and the captured rifles. I want to know just how much resistance we have left."
How long we have before we're no better then cavemen with fancy-looking clubs.

Those orders marked the end of the radio conference. Joe relayed the order to 2nd platoon's squad leaders. "Ezra," he added over a private channel, "you handle first squad. Time you get used to it."

"I'll do the inspection," Ezra said. "Can't get used to thinking of myself as squad leader yet."

"This is how it happens, Ez." Joe's tone didn't invite any continuation. He really did not think of himself as platoon sergeant yet either. That would require dealing with the idea of Max's death. There was no time for that now.

Joe walked along behind the outer ridge, stopping to talk with men in each of 2nd platoon's squads. He knew everyone in the company, not just in his own squad or platoon. To a greater or lesser extent, he had worked with everyone in Echo Company, even the recruits who had only reported to the unit two weeks before the 13th shipped out for this campaign. No one questioned his new role as platoon sergeant. That was the way of the military. No soldier was irreplaceable. Joe had been the senior squad leader in 2nd platoon. It was obvious that he would move into the higher slot if it became vacant. Chain of command. When one link was broken in combat, everyone lower in the chain moved up one link.

The vacancies at the bottom were filled from outside, afterward. Sometimes by people like Kam Goff. Joe was saved from dwelling on that as the reports on ammunition started to filter back from the squad leaders.

—|—

"Shuttle's coming in now," Lieutenant Keye told Joe. "It'll be in range of enemy ground fire in two minutes, if they've got anyone in position. Get everybody on the line, ready. They may attack again when they see the shuttle."

"Yes, sir." Joe clicked over to the platoon frequency and passed the order along. Then he moved back up to the ridge himself, fairly near—but not
next
to—Lieutenant Keye. This was no time to take a
management
position behind the lines. Every man with a rifle would be needed up front if an attack came. But it would never do to have the platoon leader and platoon sergeant close enough together that they might be taken out by one rocket or grenade. Having two links disappear from the chain of command at once might disrupt the platoon too much at a critical moment.

Joe lifted his visor and rubbed at his face with both hands, vigorously. His cheeks were rough from three days growth of beard and a layer of dirt that washing with a cup of cold water could never hope to remove. When he moved his visor back into position, he actually felt a little better—if not rested, then at least ready to stay alert for a time.

Two rifles. Joe set his Armanoc a little to the side, within easy reach, loaded and ready for action. He had a Schlinal rifle at his shoulder though. "Use the enemy weapons as long as you've got ammo for them," he told the platoon. "Throw it away when the Heggie wire is gone. Then you've still got your own zipper." Repeat everything important, as often as necessary. It wasn't absentmindedness, it was intentional. After a week of too little sleep and too much danger, no one's mind was at its sharpest.

Joe had one full spool of wire in his Heggie rifle, and another six spools for it in a pouch on his hip. But there was only one power pack for the rifle, the one already in the receiver. He was uncertain how long the Schlinal power packs were good for, but the tiny gauge next to the selector switch showed that it still retained eighty percent of its juice.
Should be enough,
he thought. Hoped.

This time, the Schlinal assault was presaged by the arrival of a half-dozen artillery shells—tank rounds. They carried smoke and feathery bits of metallic chaff. The smoke would cut down on visibility. The hot bits of metal foil would confuse infrared vision systems that could peer through the smoke. A moment later there was a volley of rocket grenades, dozens of them, scattered across the valley and up on the slope below the ridge where the Accord forces waited. Some of the grenades were shrapnel. Others were smoke or white phosphorous, more attempts to limit the visibility of the defenders.

"Hold your fire," Joe said over the platoon circuit. "They won't be coming until the barrage lifts. We've got the ground. Wait for the order."

The tanks came back,
Joe thought. If they had ever actually left. But they were still keeping their distance. The rounds were falling down in the valley, or near the bottom of the slope. They were not reaching the defenders behind the ridge. It brought a grim smile to Joe's face. He tried to judge how many tanks were firing into the valley. It had to be at least four—maybe six, he decided. After another couple of minutes, Joe heard rifle fire coming from farther off to the right, out beyond the shoulder of the ridge, where one of the recon platoons was operating.

"That's not here," Joe reported over the platoon link. "Don't let it worry you." He looked to make sure that Goff was close to him, and not falling apart.

Kam's entire body was shaking, but he was at his post, rifle muzzle and eyes looking over the lip of rock into the valley below.

Hang tough, rookie,
Joe thought. Then:
You're really not a rookie anymore. You've seen all the shit.
For as long as he dared, Joe stared at Goff, willing him to hold out through this fight, the way he had held out through the others. And then he had to look away. He was platoon sergeant now; he was responsible for a lot of other men.

The Schlinal infantry entered the valley. The shooting began.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was devilishly hot working under the thermal tarp, but the tarp was essential. Basset two had gone to ground before dawn, accompanied by the support van and its detachment of mechanics and security troops. The vehicles were twenty meters apart in a grove of stunted trees with sparse foliage. The trees provided little protection against even visual detection. They could not begin to mask the thermal signature of the gun carriage with its twin engines.

The Havoc had been unable to risk anything near its rated top speed as it worked its way back toward the plateau. The rear drive wheel on the right tread had been repaired, but not to the satisfaction of Eustace Ponks or Rosey Bianco.

"That axle's too badly damaged for field repairs," Rosey had said after the earlier work had been completed. "All we can hope for is it gets you back to camp. We should be able to salvage a part from one of the guns that went belly up." At least five Havocs had been knocked out of action by enemy fire. Some would have parts that could be cannibalized. "If not, maybe we can get a part down from the ships. I think there are a few spares."

"I've got to have good tread under us tonight," Eustace said. "Listen at this. Can we switch axles?"

"What d'ya mean?" Bianco asked.

"Say we take the axle from one of the sleepers and put that on the drive wheel, reverse them. The sleeper, even if it goes, won't cripple us. We'll still be able to move. Worst that might happen is we might throw the tread a few times."

Rosey leaned back and stared at Ponks as if the gunnery sergeant were out of his mind. Then, after a long moment, Rosey nodded. "It might work," he allowed. "Not according to the book, it won't," he added, "but since you got me here to make the switch, it just might work."

It scarcely mattered to him that the axles were not even the same diameter. The sleeper axle was a centimeter thinner than the rod that held the drive wheel, but with a little work, a little imagination, and a few pieces of scrap metal, they just might be able to do it.

"Take us most of the day, I think," Rosey said. Without the equipment of a full motor pool, it would be rough work indeed.

—|—

"Mark your targets, damn it!" Joe roared over the platoon frequency. A shout insured that everyone would at least hear him. "Don't waste your wire. We've got to stretch it a long ways yet."

He tried to follow his own advice, but it wasn't easy. There were hundreds of Heggies advancing into the killing zone of the valley, moving forward with their heads lowered and their backs hunched, as if they were more afraid of what was behind them than what was in front of them.

Maybe they are,
Joe told himself. Maybe the stories he had heard about life in the Schlinal military were true, that the men were literally driven at gunpoint into combat, that anyone who hesitated or tried to retreat was summarily shot.

Joe had heard too many tales about life in the Hegemony, most told by people who had absolutely no way to know if what they said was even vaguely true, for him to accept any of the stories at face value. Even before the war, the Hegemons were
The Enemy
, and little good was published about them in any of the data banks that Joe had had access to on his homeworld of Bancroft. Now that hostilities were well under way, the Accord Defenses Forces certainly did not go out of their way to tell soldiers anything favorable about the Hegemons or their "minions."

Joe shook his head to clear his mind of the distractions. He didn't want to waste thought on anything about the enemy but what he could see through his gunsight.
Don't think of the Heggies as human. Don't do anything to personalize them. They're just targets you have to knock down in order to move on to the next task. If you think of them as people, just like you and your men, you can get as messed up as Goff.