Until Relieved (28 page)

The damaged drive wheel and axle had been replaced with parts scavenged from a wrecked Havoc. The job had still taken more than eighteen hours of concentrated work. The jury-rigged repairs made in the rift valley had caused additional damage. Halfway through the new repair process, Rosey Bianco had come within seconds of throwing up his hands and giving up. Eustace had taken the mechanic aside and spent ten minutes convincing him to stick with it. Neither man would talk about what was said in that conversation.

It gives us a chance,
Simon thought—collecting the captured weapons and ammunition, that is. If the infantry ran out of wire, the Havocs would not last long. Artillery and infantry, and even the air wing, were all dependent on each other. The flyers needed safe places to land for fresh batteries and ammunition. The Havocs needed safe areas as well, and infantry to keep the enemy from destroying them like bugs. A Havoc had little defensive capability. It was pitifully easy to knock out. The more ammunition the mudders had, the longer the Havocs would have some sort of haven. Of course, the Havocs themselves might soon run out of ammunition. They were down to just the rounds they carried with them now. Basset two was down to eighteen rounds. In a hectic fight, they might run through that many shells in ten minutes. After that, Basset two would be nothing more than an expensive battering ram. Or a delivery van.

Might as well start now,
Simon thought. But he knew that Eustace would never see it that way.

—|—

Kam Goff woke feeling halfway rested for the first time since landing on Porter. Even after sleeping with the knockout patch that one time, he hadn't felt really rested. Of course, he had been wakened prematurely from that sleep. But this time, he woke on his own, quickly, fully. He felt exceptionally clearheaded, also for a change. Under other circumstances, he might have gotten rapidly to his feet, ready to face a sunny new day. But that could never happen again, not unless he found a magic potion that allowed him to forget everything he had seen and done on Porter. And Kam did not believe in magic.

The bright alertness of waking refreshed quickly dulled as the events of the last eleven days reimprinted themselves on Kam's mind. It always came back—the killings, the blood, numbness, vomiting—all of it, down to the looks his comrades gave him when they thought he wouldn't notice.

He always noticed. After several minutes, Kam finally sat up and looked around. They had made camp in a narrow canyon this time. He actually grinned at the thought that it could be a death trap. Enemy gunners on top of the canyon walls, shooting down: that would be a real slaughter. If the recon squads patrolling above were overwhelmed quickly, or missed spotting an enemy force, Echo and George might simply cease to exist.

The countryside had become distinctly foreboding during the night's march, but it was only now clear just how foreboding. Up above this canyon, there seemed to be no trees at all left. There were rock-strewn vistas that might have come from an airless moon. Rarely was there any greenery visible, only in sheltered nooks, mostly along the few watercourses. The occasional bird stayed far overhead—scavengers looking for a meal. More rarely they saw a small animal, usually at a considerable distance. Most of those animals were the small hopping reptiles one of the men had jokingly termed a bunnysaurus. They did make decent eating, though they tasted nothing at all like rabbit.

There was a thin stream running through this canyon, never more than two meters wide and sixty centimeters deep. The current was swift though, and the water clear and cold and pure. Doc Eddies had found no worrisome contamination with his field tests. In many ways, the water was even purer than the recycled fare they had known aboard ship coming to Porter. It certainly
tasted
better.

I wonder if there are fish in it?
Kam mused. He wasn't even sure that Porter had fish or recognizable analogs. Many worlds did, and many that had no native fish had imported them from Earth (or one of the other worlds with piscine fauna) to stock their waterways. He had seen pictures of beautiful, exotic species from dozens of worlds. As a child, Kam had once had a terrestrial aquarium, stocked solely with genuine Earth species. That hobby had lasted for nearly a year before the last of the fish had died, from some complaint he had never been able to identify.

Kam got to his feet and stretched, twisting his body and moving from side to side. He looked up at the sky. The sun was shining in a cloudless sky. At least the portion of sky he could see between the canyon walls was cloudless. Despite the burden of his memories, Kam felt as at ease with himself as he could remember ever feeling. There was a measure of comfort to everything now, and had been since he had taken over Al's duties and made his other decision. He had finally come to terms with his failings. He knew what he had to do, and he knew that he could do it.

A beautiful day,
Kam thought.
A beautiful day to die.
If he could escape the watching eyes of his comrades long enough. He had noticed them tracking him, every second of every hour. He suspected that they even stood guard over him while he was asleep. It didn't matter. He would find his opportunity. And then he could
really
rest.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Corporal Dem Nimz of the 3rd recon platoon led his squad back into the canyon bivouac. The recon platoons were organized differently from the line companies. Each recon platoon was divided into twelve-man rather than seven-man squads. Within those squads, the troops were divided into three 4-man fire teams. Recon soldiers normally operated in smaller units than line troops did, most often without backup from air or artillery. Recon soldiers tended to be more independent by nature, more difficult to fit into the normal garrison discipline of the military. But the nature of the men, and the nature of the assignments they drew, also brought a certain amount of consideration. It was rare for them to be pressed to act like drill field soldiers.

The sergeant who had commanded Nimz's squad on landing had been killed the first day, on a patrol far beyond the lines. Nimz still had eight men left, including himself. The squad worked its way down a narrow pathway along the canyon wall. When they entered camp, they headed directly toward Captain Ingels's command post on the far side of the canyon, under an overhang that gave the area the appearance of a cave mouth.

"I didn't want to say anything over the radio, sir," Nimz said when he was face-to-face with the captain and both men had their helmet visors up.

Ingels raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You ambushed a short company of Heggies. What happened then?"

"We caught 'em fair, sir, and didn't lose a man doin' it," Nimz said, nodding at the satisfying memory. "They walked right into our kill zone, an' we did 'em up proper. Three splat guns." He smiled broadly. "The body count was ninety four, including three wounded Heggies who couldn't make it another hour. Far as we could tell, no one escaped. I'm pretty sure o' that, sir, but not full one hundred percent. Maybe ninety-nine point five." Nimz had to restrain himself to keep from laughing, still on a high from the ambush.

"So, what was the problem?" Ingels kept his voice even. He had dealt with recon types often enough. He had even done a short tour as a recon platoon leader before deciding that he fit in better with a line company—that is, before deciding that he really didn't belong with the crazy reccers.

"The Heggies know we're short of ammo, sir.
Know it.
Plain and simple, no doubt at all. We took ninety-four rifles. The most any of the dead Heggies had was two full spools, plus whatever was already in the magazine. An' no spare power packs. One of the wounded managed to talk a little before he died. Said their officers got orders that they weren't to go into combat with any more ammo than that. Their reserves were being held back, out of our reach."

For a moment Ingels simply stared at Nimz.

"We brought back the rifles and wire," Nimz added. The captain's silent stare bothered him in a way he really couldn't understand.

"Every little bit helps," Ingels allowed. He sighed. "But if they know we're hurting..."

"Yes, sir," Nimz said, mostly to prevent another lengthy silence. "You see why I didn't want to put that on the radio."

"You did right, Corporal. Thank you. Get your men fed and settled down for a rest. We'll get the weapons distributed."

Ingels stood motionless and watched while Nimz rejoined his men and led them off toward a space a little farther upstream. North. Anyone who thought much on the subject wanted to be upstream of everyone else. The stream might have been pure when the strike force arrived, but the presence of so many dirty humans would not leave it that way for long.

After two or three minutes, Ingels lowered his visor and said one word on a private channel. "Vic."

"Yes, Captain?" Lieutenant Vickers replied.

"Come see me, soon as you can."

Ingels lifted his visor again, walked over to the stream, and looked down into the water. He knew that he had to pass the intelligence on to Colonel Stossen—over the radio, despite the sensitivity of the information—but he wanted a moment to think through what he would say first. He knelt slowly and (lipped his hands in the stream and splashed water against his face. Then he dipped again and took a long drink. He had a canteen cup on his belt, but this was quicker and, in a way he did not try to understand, more satisfying, even if it was far less efficient.

If only wire flowed like water, there for the taking.

—|—

Joe Baerclau had a dull ache in his lower back that simply would not go away. He had even had Doc Eddies take a look, but all the doc could do was to put a soaker over it, and even that did not seem to help, or help much. The ache was still there, a constant reminder nagging at Joe's attention. The ache even disturbed his sleep, insinuating itself into his dreams, keeping him from the deep oblivion his exhaustion merited.
Keep me on my toes,
Joe told himself, trying to find something positive in the pain.
I get too deep asleep, I might not wake up if we're attacked.
There was really little chance of that, but it did address one of Joe's constant worries in a combat situation. From experience, he knew that he would never sleep that soundly. If there was any gunfire at all around, it would snap him right out of sleep, ready to return fire or do whatever else the situation might demand. But he always worried about it.

After the strike force made camp during the night, Joe had stayed up for the first two hours, sharing that watch while the ache in his back increased. Then he had settled down to get some sleep. He had managed nearly four hours before the ache finally woke him. He was free to go back to sleep now, if he wanted, if he could. It was nearly noon, and the strike force was planning to stay put until dark, unless the colonel decided to send the shuttles for them, to take them back to the plateau.

Until the shuttles come.
As far as Joe had heard, there was no decision on that yet. The Heggies were attacking, off and on, up on the plateau. The raids seemed to be nothing serious, just enough to keep the men there busy, and to make the air space over the 13th too dangerous for shuttles. Boem fighters, Nova tanks, infantry raids against one section of the perimeter or another, in and out, back and forth, jumping around so that the 13th never knew where the next strike would come from. Facing tactics of that sort was particularly unnerving. It was worse than facing constant pressure in one place. All the spyeyes the 13th had strung around Porter didn't seem to do much good. The 13th got warning when the Boems or Novas came on, but rarely more than a couple of minutes. And infantry movements were rarely noted in time to give a warning before the shooting started.

They could lift us back to the ships,
Joe thought, knowing that the colonel would attempt that only in the most dire of emergencies, unless their relief force showed up. But
that
news would certainly have been released as soon as the colonel knew about it. Joe was almost certain of that. That kind of news would be too good for morale for the colonel to keep it secret.

Wouldn't it?

Joe was bone-tired, but he had chosen not to try to sleep. Instead, he had taken time to talk with each of the fire teams in the platoon, sometimes to individual soldiers. Though he had known everyone in the platoon, in the company, before Porter, he had only been a squad leader then. Now he was platoon sergeant, even if only temporarily, and responsible for more men. He had done all of the normal things in the last few hours, said whatever he thought might boost the men's spirits, even a little, while he warned them to be particularly sparing of ammunition and food, and to drink plenty of water while they had such a good source at hand.

"Don't get dehydrated," he had warned them. That was too easy to do. Even when it caused no trouble in the field, it could complicate the procedure of getting back "to human" when they finally left Porter. Even if a soldier did not suffer injury or illness on a campaign, he would still need a certain amount of convalescence time afterward. That was something that was too rarely understood by the men—and even by some of the officers who ought to know.

Joe had returned twice to Goff during the last three hours. He spent more time with Kam each time than he did with anyone else. Kam seemed different. Joe wasn't sure that he could define the difference exactly, and he didn't know what to make of the new Kam Goff.
Being our medic has brought the best out in him,
was as close as he could come, and he felt uneasy about that assessment. He toyed with the idea of suggesting that Goff transfer to the medical corps. Perhaps he would be unable to handle permanent assignment as a combat medic. Medics were, after all, simply riflemen who accepted the additional duties. But as an orderly in a hospital ward, he might do well. Maybe he could even take training as a medtech like Doc Eddies.
That
way, Goff could, perhaps, keep a decent opinion of himself after Porter.