Soldiers

Chapter 55

Wyzhnyny Offensive

Before the Jerries had even arrived at Terra, War House had pretty much decided on the basic features of the New Jerusalem liberation campaign. It assumed that the Wyzhnyny occupation force would be larger than any liberation force they could afford to send. If not, all the better, but the assumption was appropriate. They also assumed that the Wyzhnyny would make an all-out effort to crush the newly-arrived Jerries.

So with work under way on the Wilderness Base, Pak had sent his fortifications chief, with two officers from the Luneburger engineers, to plan quick but effective defenses in the forest. The Battle of the First Days had just begun when the three set out on grav scooters, armed with packets of photos provided by the surveillance buoys, and large scale, prewar topographic/vegetation maps.

Construction began two days later. There wasn't time to plan in detail. Half the Luneburger engineering regiment was committed to the work. No forts were built, not even bunkers. Instead they adapted modern tools to 16th and 17th century Scandinavian strategies. They should do nicely, if the Wyzhnyny air support units were adequately suppressed.

The Battle of the First Days had taught the gosthodar that attacking the humans across open fields was unpromising and terribly costly. The Tank Park Raid established that the humans were aggressive and daring. The human surveillance buoys made stealth operations impractical, and the destruction of his heavy howitzer battalion limited the punishment he could inflict on the humans without closing with them.

Then had come the night of the Pecan Orchard Raid, and everything changed. Not because of the raid itself. Though insulting and mystifying, it had not been very damaging. But because of what else happened that night.

Commodore Xarsku had sent scouts into F-space to exchange radio messages with the gosthodar, who used the opportunity to describe his problems. He wanted-according to him, he needed-the destruction of the humans' wilderness base. And given the base's concealment screen, and the human surveillance buoys, he insisted that this required powerful intervention from space.

Xarsku didn't know as much as he'd have liked about the human space force remaining in the system, but he did know it was substantially more powerful than his own. Nonetheless, his function was to support the colony, so he'd scripted an attack. A bombard would approach the planet in warpdrive, and emerge in F-space some twenty miles out. Using triangulation, and data from Jilchuk, it would then pound the entire blind area-an action that would take about half an hour. At the same time, two marine hunter craft would take out the surveillance buoys. Meanwhile, two supply ships were to emerge as near to Jilchuk's main underground supply base as they dared, unload cargo as rapidly as possible, and leave.

Xarsku had no illusions; the supply ships would probably be destroyed before they finished unloading. But even so, they could easily make the difference between survival and starvation.

To cover these actions, Xarsku's planetary guard was to engage its alien opponent, holding its collective attention.

Jilchuk knew little about space warfare, so he'd awaited the action optimistically. His Intelligence section monitored Xarsku's radio communications throughout the action, and Jilchuk had followed it play by play.

Xarsku's plan was simple, and there was something to be said for simple plans. But this one had been predicted, so Kereenyaga was prepared. Even so, setting the place and time of engagement gave Xarsku an initial advantage, which cost the humans a cruiser and two corvettes. The gosthodar felt a swell of exultation. But the humans' greater numbers and firepower soon drove Xarsku back into warpspace.

Meanwhile, near the planetary surface, Xarsku's hunters had destroyed the two human surveillance buoys. His bombard, on the other hand, lay broken and smoking on a forest ridge. It had never gotten into position. Designed for punishing, not fighting, it had been attacked by four of Kereenyaga's corvettes, whose simultaneous torpedo salvos had disrupted its force shield, destroying generator and drives.

As if in retribution, the hunters that had destroyed the buoys then scorched two swaths across the blind area before Kereenyaga's corvettes could engage them. One escaped into warpspace. The other, crippled, careened into the forest miles away, and blew up.

The corvettes then caught the cargo ships in the act of unloading, and slammed torpedos into each of them before heading back into near-space.

When it was over, Jilchuk found solace in the destruction of the buoys. Also, substantial supplies had been transferred before the supply ships were attacked, and more after their fires had been controlled.

But the enemy on the ground had not been destroyed. Damaged, wounded, but not destroyed. Their destruction remained up to him. Move quickly! he thought. Quickly and powerfully! He'd told himself that before, he realized, but this time nothing would turn him. There'd be no hesitation, and no backing off. And with the buoys gone, the enemy couldn't know or predict his actions as they had before.

General Pak watched Wyzhnyny infantry-a very long column of fours-trotting easily down the road toward the forest. The bulk of their equipment and supplies were carried by AG trucks, and their speed of foot was sobering. He'd realized before he'd left Terra that this life-form would run faster than humans, but actually watching them… they and their guardian flakwagons, of which the Wyzhnyny seemed to have an endless supply.

At least he could watch them. Presumably the Wyzhnyny didn't know that Kereenyaga had replaced the lost buoys with another. The Jerries had promptly nicknamed it "Lonesome Moses," which surprised the general when he heard about it. It seemed irreverent for troops with their background.

Lonesome Moses provided less detail, less perspective, and had far less versatility than the buoys the Wyzhnyny had destroyed, but it was infinitely better than no buoy at all. Immediately after the fighting on the First Day, Xarsku had sent a single daring Hunter to shoot down the first two. Kereenyaga had quickly deployed his reserve pair, and ordered his engineering section to cobble together a backup. Shipsmind had provided the basic information, and his engineers and technicians had provided parts and ingenuity. And with it now in place, they'd begun on still another, just in case.

Equally important was Colonel Schrager's Burger engineers, building defenses in the wilderness. The engineers and the Jerries. The colonel had suggested that progress would be faster with help, and that a battalion of resourceful backwoods infantry would be just the ticket. Pak had complied. A Jerrie battalion had pitched in with beam saws, AG sleds, and strong backs, felling trees and throwing up breastworks. Pak had visited the work in progress, and been impressed by the strength, energy and cheerfulness of the Jerries at work. They treated it like a holiday, hard though it was.

And urgent now, because Wyzhnyny command was moving troops into the forest at two points, one division eighteen miles west of the howitzer cemetery, another thirty miles east of it. And strong reserves had been moved to several locations, with APFs. Obviously the Wyzhnyny commander intended to attack at unpredictable points simultaneously. As soon as he'd made a breakthrough, his reserves would exploit it.

What Pak didn't know was, the key reserves were "reds"-what was left of the Wyzhnyny warrior brigade.

Meanwhile Wyzhnyny batteries were also on the roads, apparently detached from their infantry brigades. He wasn't sure what plans Wyzhnyny command had for them, but he was sure he wouldn't like them. Lonesome Moses couldn't identify the caliber, but they seemed smaller than those destroyed by the marines. Five or six-inch bores, he guessed. They should have enough range to lay fire on the Wilderness Base, and on much of the defenses the Burgers had been building. It wouldn't be remotely comparable to what the Wyzhnyny bombard would have done, but he was glad he'd moved his hospital and "bot shop" to the backup site, thirty-five miles north.

And the artillery were accompanied by tanks and flakwagons. Perhaps all the tanks the Wyzhnyny had left. A simple count showed that the enemy had more tanks than he had. What was building here, he did not doubt, was a decisive showdown.

We'll see, Pak thought, what Major Phayakapong accomplishes with our own modest project.

Despite more than seven centuries of Commonwealth peace, the lineage of Major Patrick Feliks Phayakapong had kept and nourished a long military tradition. Privately for the most part. Eleven centuries earlier, an ancestor named McClintock had fought in the North American War of Secession. He'd been a private in J.E.B. Stuart's cavalry at the First Battle of Manassas, a sergeant at South Mountain, a lieutenant at Chancellorsville and Gettysburg, and finally a captain at Yellow Tavern. Where he lost his general to a Yankee bullet, and his shattered left leg to a surgeon's saw.

His experiences, pride, and storytelling began the tradition. Almost as far back, in various tributaries of the family line, others fought in the Crimean War, the Franco-Prussian War, the Boer War, the Moro Resistance, the European Great War… but either they were not storytellers, or their stories were lost. Members of the family had compiled histories of their ancestors' units and campaigns, but those weren't the same as personal accounts.

Then a McClintock great-grandson fought in the Hitler War, serving as an armor officer under the fabled George Patton. A decade later he served as a senior officer under Walton Walker and Matthew Ridgeway in the Korean War. And described it all in his published memoirs, giving the tradition new life. Another forebear served as a sergeant in the U.S. Marine Corps in the Southeast Asian War, and another as an airborne ranger. The marine said he'd never have told his story if his grandfather hadn't passed his along. The ranger kept his memories to himself, but a buddy in his squad, in his memoirs, often referred to "Sergeant Walking Coyote," calling him a warrior's warrior.

All of this built and enriched the tradition. In yet another branch of the family, a British special forces officer had served throughout the difficult years of the guerrilla war in Malaysia. He'd shared none of it with his children, but a daughter assembled the basics from official sources, and interviewed aging veterans of her grandfather's unit. Another forebear fought, survived and escaped as a Shan guerrilla in the ill-fated Myanmar Revolution. His children recorded his reminiscences which, written down and translated, added fundamentally different material to the family lore.

Shortly before the Troubles, the core of the family went as colonists to Indi Prime, the first deep-space colony-one of only two sponsored by the government. During the Troubles, the deep-space colonies were lost track of. But after reconnection, in every generation some family member returned to Terra to join the fleet (such as it was), or its marines, or the Terran Planetary Defense Force, and kept the tradition alive. Despite the long centuries of low public esteem, little opportunity for advancement, and limited meaningful function beyond study, brainstorming, virtual warfare, and weapons design. They kept the faith. And when they retired, it was usually to Indi Prime, often bringing with them a wife and child, or children. Twice from families with a military tradition of their own.

But Major Phayakapong was the first in a very long time to ride a battle tank. Occasionally, mainly in the moments before sleep, he took time to savor what he thought of as the privilege, wondering now and then if he'd been a tanker in an earlier life.

Just now, however, his attention was on his mission, which so far had been uneventful. But that would soon change. His battalion had taken heavy losses during the Battle of the First Days, but in the reorganization that followed, it had been brought back nearly to full strength. On this mission, his infantry companies and their APCs had been left behind to help defend the base. His job was to strike deep within Wyz Country, and all he had with him were his forty-one battle tanks and eight flakwagons.

It was near midnight, and he rode in the turret of his command tank, its hatch open. The night smelled of damp soil and vegetation, for it had rained the day just past, then cleared, and now dew had formed. It occurred to him that the ancestor who'd ridden with Stuart would have smelled horse manure and urine instead, particularly near the rear of the column. Sometimes there'd have been the stink of black powder explosions, while the tanker who'd followed Patton and Walker would have smelled pungent fumes from internal combustion engines. And during combat? Probably the oxydation products of nitrocellulose. Different times, different experiences, he told himself. Tonight he'd smell ozone generated by heavy trasher pulses.

Via his visor HUDs, the jury-rigged Lonesome Moses kept him aware of where the Wyzhnyny infantry columns were, where his target was, and where he was relative to both. The columns were coming together from various locations, merging on a few major routes. Several times he'd detoured to avoid discovery, for he was going south while the enemy was going north. And human tanks, like other human ground-proximity vehicles, looked different from Wyzhnyny vehicles having the same function.

Just now the road ahead was clear. He stopped in a riverine woods, to let his men get out of their armored boxes, move around a bit, and relieve themselves. It was undesirable to enter action with a full bladder or colon.

According to his HUD he had just 1800 yards to go. Quietly he radioed orders. The column slowed, then deployed just behind the brow of a low rise, and a new HUD replaced the others all along the line. Just across the brow the ground dipped mildly, then rose again, becoming a steep ridge 1200 yards ahead. Less than 300 yards from where the tanks sat, forest began.

His tankers knew what to do. "On my count," the major said, then paused. "Ten, nine, eight…"

At zero the night flared. Penetration pulses slammed deeply into rock, and for the first few salvos it felt really good. Then the rug was pulled from beneath the major's feet. Prior to the arrival of the Liberation Corps, the Wyzhnyny had cut gun emplacements into the bluff. And after a very brief delay-the crews had been sleeping-they'd returned fire. Lots of heavy fire. He lost thirteen of his forty-one tanks and four of his flakwagons before he reached the riverine woods again. In their cover he stopped, to throw off the enemy gunners' timing, and reorganize. And open his turret hatch again. His HUDs suggested it was safe for the moment, and he didn't like the stink of sweaty fear.

Pat, he told himself, you really kicked the hornets' nest that time. Still, his heavy trashers had sent tons of rock crashing down on the road-and presumably onto the entry to the Wyzhnyny cavern complex. Pak, from surveillance information, had concluded it was the Wyzhnyny headquarters base. Actually it wasn't. It was an important Wyzhnyny supply base.

From the riverine woods, Major Phayakapong traveled mostly westward, targeted from time to time by Wyzhnyny attack floaters, but unmolested by ground forces. The floater attacks were hit and run, directed mainly at his flakwagons, which gave as good as they got. And vice versa. He lost another tank, had two more with problems, and was down to two flakwagons. Then a flight of good guys arrived, and chased the bogies off. Shortly afterward his battered battalion reached the Mickle's, and turning north, crossed on the first bridge they came to. They continued mainly west then, jogging north from time to time at crossroads.

Shortly before dawn they reached the relative safety of the forest, well away from any Wyzhnyny. There the tankers paused to heat and eat field rations. Then they lay down on their fart sacks and slept in the open air. They could hear distant fighting, back in the forest, but it didn't keep them awake.

The woods were thick with the devil's music: the rapid popping of blasters and slammers, the crackling of pulses creating miniature vacuums through the air, the hard sound of pulses striking trees.

Ensign Rrokic spotted a source-humans behind a breastwork of logs. "Up there!" he shouted, then sheltered as well as he could behind a thick trunk. He hated to gesture; it attracted enemy fire. "Don't just lie there!" he snapped into his helmet mike. "Shoot, damn it! And don't bunch up!"

Ensign Rrokic was a nanny-as large as some warriors, almost as strong-and protective. Genetically, protection meant care and guarding of the young, but the master and warrior genders massaged the nanny protective instinct and extended it to cover defense of the species. The purpose being to turn nannies into surrogate warriors when necessary. In fact, the nanny gender provided many reserve unit noncoms.

Gender manipulation and noncom training worked about as well with Rrokic as it did with any nanny. He yelled well, and could manhandle his troops when necessary. But the hard authority of the warrior gender was never really duplicated.

What was compelling was his rank, and the sense his orders made. His platoon took cover as best it could, behind tree trunks, or in the visual cover provided by the tops of trees the humans had felled. From there they fought back.

All day they'd been moving slowly through the damnedest mess Rrokic had ever seen. The humans had felled thousands on thousands of trees, in unpatterned bands through the forest. Usually with the upper parts in your face. The barriers weren't everywhere; that wouldn't have been practical. They'd been located to extend or connect natural terrain features, crowding the advancing Wyzhnyny into whatever situations the humans wanted them. Or simply pinched the advance off, so they had to turn back to find a way around. Typically the barriers led into cleared fields of fire, and there was little anyone could do about it. Little by little we advance, Rrokic told himself, yet it seems we're always on the defensive.

Now as before, when his platoon had taken what cover they could, the fight turned into a grenade exchange, delivered mostly by launchers. And his people were more exposed.

So he called for a flamethrower again.

Near one flank of C Company's position, Captain Freddie Bibesco Singh crouched in his command post, scanning with his small camouflaged periscope. His blastermen, slammermen and grenadiers were reaping well. As before, the Wyzhnyny had moved into the visual cover of the abatis. Now they'd no doubt call in a flamethrower. Meanwhile, the Wyzhnyny grenadiers and mortarmen were using timed fuses to produce airbursts, exploding above his troopers' improvised shelters.

It was time to deliver his new surprise. Setting his mike, he voiced the ignition command. Barely hidden by old leaves, ground vegetation, and the outermost foliage of the abatis, explosions erupted like a string of giant ladyfingers, as camouflaged shot-mines blew along a line of detcord. Debris rose, and cries of pain. Meanwhile, his people kept firing.

From where he crouched, he couldn't see the Wyzhnyny flamethrower being brought up, but from treetops a little distance off, his camouflaged snipers could. They'd already been making things hot for Wyzhnyny mortar crews. Though they paid; the Wyzhnyny had learned that this enemy climbed.

A sniper spotted the flamethrower and felled the Wyzhnyny carrying it, but another picked it up. Then some Wyzhnyny threw smoke grenades, concealing both flamethrower and mortars. "B Company pull out!" Bibesco ordered. His own smoke bombs popped and billowed, his blastermen and grenadiers got to their feet, his snipers lowered themselves on ropes, and they all pulled back. Concealed a short distance to the rear, out of sight of the Wyzhnyny, were their squad-size APCs. These would take them to their next ambush position much more quickly than they could manage on foot, and they needed to set up before the Wyzhnyny arrived.

Not all of C Company would ride with their squad. The medics loaded some of them out to the hospital, or to the "bot shop," or simply to Graves Registration.

It was noon before Major Phayakapong ordered his crews back into their tanks. General Pak had given him his next assignment. Three battalions of Wyzhnyny armored howitzers were on the move, four batteries in each. With tank escorts. It looked as if they planned to establish fire bases-probably three of them. It was unlikely they knew about Lonesome Moses, and Pak didn't want them to, so he hadn't started molesting them yet. Phayakapong was to continue westward, and be ready to hit them after nightfall.

The major decided to pick his way through the forest for a while. It would keep him out of sight. He hadn't mentioned that he now had only twenty-five battle-worthy tanks and two flakwagons. The general would already know that, or close enough, from Lonesome Moses, and anyway there was nothing to be done about it.

Normally, in the evening, Esau heard all the sounds of the forest. Fell asleep listening to the chirping of crickets, the peeping of tree lizards, the occasional grunting basso of a bull owl, or the warbling alto of a mouse owl. Even, barely audible, woodborers chewing tunnels inside a nearby fallen tree. And best of all, from above the trees, the thin piercing whistle of night hawks catching insects.

But this evening none of it registered.

Most of the division had been fighting all day, in the forest off both east and west. Far enough away, he hadn't heard any of it. And it seemed to Esau that tonight the war-their war, on New Jerusalem-would be won or lost. Not over, but won or lost. Weren't hardly any fighting units left on base, except the strategic reserve.

Which included the airborne qualified platoons, and now they were being sent out, trotting northward through the evening forest. There'd been no time to drill the mission-it was that urgent-but their briefing had been thorough, with a demo on the screen.

Probably it would work out all right. They were all veterans, and drilled or not, they had a clear sharp picture of what needed to be done.

He glanced at the man he trotted beside. He'd known Ensign Hawkins for-about a year he guessed. Esau wasn't someone who kept a mental calendar. But he had little idea of what the ensign thought about in the privacy of his mind. Didn't know all that much about him. He'd grown up in a Sikh neighborhood in a Terran town called Padstow, where it rained a lot; had a wife and children; and before the war he'd lived by a lake somewhere in North America. But what counted was, he was honest, and able, and treated people right. His platoon liked him and could depend on him.

Somewhere ahead were APFs: four of them, for four airborne platoons again. Tonight they were being called "A Company Airborne (temporary)," and 2nd Platoon simply "Hawkins' Platoon." But all four had jumped and fought together at the Pecan Orchard, and felt confident about each other.

Esau really didn't want to die yet, because he hadn't seen Jael since before her body had been killed. He needed to go visit her, so she could give him Tophet for lying to the medic, and maybe tell him she never wanted to see him again. He owed her that much, at least. When he'd got back from the Pecan Orchard, he'd gone off alone in the woods and wept hard bitter tears, with choking sobs that like to have torn him apart. But he'd have lied again if need be, because he couldn't just let her die, he loved her so.

Every day, floaters flew off north to the bot shop and the hospital, and he'd asked Captain Zenawi for a half day off. But the captain reminded him that after someone got bottled, they spent a few days in a kind of sleep. For what they called "neurological detraumatization," that helped them heal.

Remembering had started silent tears. Bottled. He hoped it wasn't too bad. She could have been in the loving arms of God, if it hadn't been for him.

Now, courtesy of night vision, their APFs were visible among the trees, and his attention returned to real time. Above the forest roof there was probably a little twilight left, but down where they were it was dark night. The armored floaters were lined up in two ranks along a sizeable creek. From there they could lift through the slender break it made in the forest roof.

Major Chou was already there from Division, overseeing. He'd land afterward with E Company, to lead the demolitions follow-through.

They broke ranks to pick up their gear, which had been hauled there by AG cargo sleds. They wouldn't be jumping from high enough to require thermal coveralls. Gloves and winter underwear would do. They simply buckled on their chutes, snapped on their gear, checked each other out, then boarded their floaters and belted themselves onto their seats. Then the APFs rose carefully through the trees and into the young night sky.

Sergeant Isaiah Vernon sat on another APF, on a short hop east. As part of Pak's tactical reserve, all six bot platoons were going out together as a combat team-132 warbots plus 12 salvage bots and a command staff of four.

Their mission commander was Major Einer Arslanian Singh. The story was, Arslanian had been taking airborne training on Masada, got caught in a squall, and came down in a rock pile, tearing up his knees. Afterward, back on Terra, he'd specialized in bot tactics, even though there were no bots. That was before anyone had heard of the Wyzhnyny.

Then had come the message from Tagus, and suddenly bots were dearer than diamonds. But at that time, having lost one's legs wasn't enough to qualify. Then Arslanian had another accident. Except the rumor was he'd set it up-had sacrificed his eyesight in order to be bottled. Isaiah didn't know if the story was true or not, but Arslanian ended up a major, commanding the 1st Jerrie bot contingent. He'd planned and led two different platoon actions. Now he'd lead a long company.

Isaiah, whose nature it was to like and accept people, was happy to have the major in command. Because this would be the most dangerous mission they'd been on. They'd be set down in the midst of a Wyzhnyny operations headquarters, if they got that far.

The evening breeze was cool and clean, but Major Patrick Feliks Phayakapong's T-shirt was wet with sweat. They'd traveled buttoned up for a while, because after they'd left the forest they'd been shadowed by Wyzhnyny floaters. Whether scouts or fighters he didn't know; Moses wasn't up to such distinctions. Then word came that a flight of Indi fighters were on the way, and he'd opened his turret hatch to watch. He didn't see much; most of it was out of his view. The Indi flight commander radioed that they'd shot down two of three, and the third had fled. The major appreciated that someone was looking out for him.

Meanwhile he was running low on time. His orders had been updated, and his HUD showed a Moses-eye view of the Wyzhnyny force he was supposed to attack. Four batteries of howitzers-forty-eight guns in all-escorted by a company of tanks. Apparently they planned to set up a fire base to shell the Jerrie regiment manning the eastern forest defenses.

But the tanks had changed direction, apparently to attack his own battered force.

Eight additional batteries and another tank company were headed farther west on a different road, apparently to set up another fire base or bases. Probably to shell Headquarters Base.

According to Moses, the Wyzhnyny no longer had scouts up, or out on the ground for that matter. Hard to believe, but if true, then neither enemy force knew what he was doing in real time. "Well crap," the major muttered, "it's now or forget about it." He keyed his mike and ordered twelve tanks, two groups of six, to diverge from his line of advance. Each group was to hit the Wyz tank force from the flank. To maximize surprise, he'd tell them when to fire, unless of course the Wyz fired first.

Then, if it looked doable, he'd take the rest of his force through or around the Wyz tanks, and attack the east base howitzers. It looked like the best move he had available.

Calling Division command, he told them what he planned. "Fine. Do it," Pak said. "And, Pat, you need to know I've got airborne raiders scheduled to take out the central fire base. That's why I let the Wyzhnyny scouts shadow you as long as I did. It fixed their attention on you.

"The jumpers will be in mortal jeopardy if the tanks from the east base show up there. So the more hell you raise, the better chance the airborne will have. They've got a very tough and dangerous job. Like yours."

The first salvo of 5.6-inch shells-forty-eight of them-was fired while the APFs were en route. To Arjin Hawkins it sounded like a distant thunderstorm. And the guns continued in unison, which struck him as peculiar.

If we'd gotten off half an hour sooner, he thought, we might have prevented it. But there hadn't been time, and at any rate, a half hour earlier it hadn't been dark enough.

For weeks the Burger engineers had worked their butts off day and night, building the base, abatises, and breastworks-and the backup base. Now they were working furiously, without Jerrie help, to move the more sensitive Headquarters Base installations there.

The flight was short, even though they bypassed the fire base and jumped six miles to the south-a subterfuge to avoid Wyzhnyny suspicions. Now the troopers of Airborne A temp were planing back northward beneath their parasails. Even with night vision, Hawkins couldn't see most of his people. But they had their HUDs.

The salvos paled the darkness with great flashes of light, and as Hawkins planed nearer, the booming became less like thunder. It just sounded like artillery. His central HUD showed the fire base. Its layout seemed idiotic, though obviously the Wyzhnyny didn't think so. The HUD was too small for detail, but Lonesome Moses had provided the essentials during the briefing, and Hawkins had imprinted them mentally. Six ranks of howitzers, eight in a rank, formed a compact square. Their spacing provided aisles, adequate for firing safety, and for howitzers to jockey in and out if necessary. Grav sleds would no doubt use the aisles to distribute ammo from the two massive caissons on the south edge. The border of dotlike icons along the east, south and west sides indicated squad APCs: twelve on the east and west, and eight on the south, where the center of the rank was occupied by the caissons and a heavy, armor-recovery vehicle. About twenty yards off each corner were two flakwagons, eight in all.

If a wolf pack were available, that compactness would make a marvelous target, but an airborne attack would have to suffice. His platoon's primary job was to take out the flakwagons at the two south corners, and the APCs along the south side. Dreiser's Platoon would take out the west-side APCs, along with the two northwest flakwagons. Castro's would handle the east side. Hussain's was the reserve, ready to defend the landers when they came in with Division's demolitions company.

The overall mission was etched clearly in Hawkins' mind. But if even two or three flakwagons escaped destruction, or most of the APCs survived, there'd be serious problems in carrying it out. Especially since it wasn't enough just to disrupt the barrage for the time being. The howitzers, or most of them, had to be destroyed. Which meant Demolitions' floaters needed to land safely.

He didn't consciously review all that. It was part of his mental database, not looked at. Just now, Hawkins was manipulating his black, night-jump parasail to set him down in his platoon's designated drop zone. When he reached 100 feet local altitude, he let his gear drop, felt it jerk the dangle line, felt its air drag, sensed the ground reaching for him. The strong gravity slammed him hard. He felt agonizing pain, and almost cried out. His left leg had broken below the knee. Broken badly. He knew it at once.

Fortunately the breeze was light, and his chute had collapsed. He released his harness, and hand over hand pulled in his combat pack, rocket gear, and blaster scabbard. Then he drew his combat knife, cut away his left pant leg, and stared. He'd already felt the blood. Now he could see a sharp end of broken bone protruding through skin and underwear, and shivered at the sight. Suppressing the reaction, he activated his casualty signal. Get it tended to before the Wyz find out we're here, he told himself. The medics will have plenty to do then.

He spoke to his helmet mike. "Hawkins' Platoon, this is Ensign Hawkins. I've broken a leg. Esau, you're in full charge of the platoon now. Proceed with the mission. The medics will pick me up." He was surprised at how normal he sounded. Taking his blaster out of its scabbard, he loaded it, then lay back to wait for a medic. And defend himself if necessary.

Esau was on the ground when he got Hawkins' order. Foop! he thought, then dismissed his chagrin. He'd already retrieved his gear. Now he slung his pack and blaster. At least to start with, his primary weapon would be his short-barrelled, antiarmor rocket launcher. One of its three lightweight rockets was already seated. The other two he'd snapped on his harness.

Esau had been the cleanup, the last jumper out, so he was pretty sure the others were all down. "Hawkins' Platoon," he said, "you heard the ensign. Squad leaders assemble your squads." Almost at once he saw their light wands signaling, visible via a wave-length window in their visors. Each squad leader had his own signal. He gave them half a minute, then called: "1st Squad report… 2nd Squad report…" One after another they responded, all alike: "All present and accounted for, Sergeant."

Only one man hurt or missing. I hope the other platoons are that lucky, he thought. Though to lose your leader…

He looked toward the artillery. All that noise-the Wyzhnyny sentries should be numb by now. We'll know soon enough, he told himself. He saw no sign of their infantry. Maybe they're all in their APCs. We can hope. The nearest were less than 300 yards away, but hitting them needed to be synchronized with the attack on the flakwagons all around the square. And Hawkins' Platoon was the key. The others were to start firing when it did.

"Hawkin's Platoon, any questions? Form up to attack." They did, counting off by pairs, one man with his launcher in hand, the other with his blaster to provide covering fire. When the launcherman had expended his rockets, they'd switch. Esau changed to Captain Zenawi's command channel. "Captain," he said, "Hawkin's Platoon is ready to move."

"Fine, Wesley. I'll tell you when."

Esau waited. Any time now, he thought.

Suddenly, midway between salvos came a premature burst of blaster fire from the Wyzhnyny square, followed quickly by more. "Hit 'em, Airborne A!" Zenawi almost shouted it into his mike.

"Let's go, Hawkins' Platoon!" Esau said, and they started toward their targets at a lope. "Fire when you think you can hit your target!" Their rocket launchers were cheap and light, aimed simply by pointing. The briefing had specified not firing them at ranges beyond 50 yards on this mission, but that assumed they'd be able to approach that close before being discovered. So his troopers began firing at twice that range-when the first APC turret blaster began hammering slammer pulses in their direction. They took out both southwest flakwagons before either could fire, and rocket hits flashed at one, two, three, four APCs. One of the southeast flakwagons began firing at them before its guns were sufficiently depressed, the pulses angling skyward. But its controls were nimble. Its platform swiveled sharply, as the trajectory of its fire adjusted. In the instant before streams of trasher pulses swept toward them, troopers hit the dirt. If Esau had been able to squeeze between the grains of soil, he would have. He rolled his head to the side, to see without raising it. Pulses swept over him about knee-high, then he rolled to a knee and fired. The range exceeded 150 yards, but a second later his rocket struck the flakwagon, almost simultaneously with two others.

The remaining southeast flakwagon had busied itself with Castro's Platoon. "Hawkins up and at 'em!" Esau called, and the survivors were on their feet again, charging the south-edge APCs. A turret slammer didn't put out nearly the volume of fire a flakwagon did, but at least some had located their targets and were firing aimed bursts. Rockets impacted APCs, even as more APCs got their guns into action. And now the platoon was receiving blaster fire, as Wyzhnyny emptied from troop compartments.

The surviving APCs were pulling out of line to evade trooper attacks, and to disperse themselves as targets. One came almost toward Esau, its turret slammer riveting the darkness with bright pulses, and he punched a rocket into its front armor panel, unsure if it could penetrate there. The vehicle swerved, careened, then lost its AG cushion and stopped, plowing a short broad furrow in the ground. Wyzhnyny emerged from the rear, and firing, began to back toward the base's perimeter.

Esau sprinted to take cover against the front of the derelict APC, his partner staying behind, delivering covering fire. In the shelter of the APC, Esau paused for a second, receiving Zenawi's radio traffic along with his own platoon's. There was more of Zenawi's; Hawkins' Platoon was busy at a different level, fighting. The battle had become a melee.

The APC didn't have rungs to the top, like the human version did. He climbed to the roof via a front cowling and the top of the driver's compartment, then lay there. Saw an APC pass, separating itself from the chaos, fired his last rocket and saw it hit the troop compartment. The vehicle continued. He threw away his now useless launcher, and with blaster in hand, scanned for opportunities. He was some thirty yards outside the original row of APCs, now marked by wreckage. There was shooting everywhere. Soldiers were running around on two feet and four. "Hawkins' Platoon," he said, "when you unlimber your blasters, fix your bayonets!"

He fixed his own by feel, his eyes busy elsewhere. A flakwagon appeared around the southeast corner, a little distance outside the square, its multiple barrels hammering bursts of trasher fire in the direction of anything it saw on two legs. It would pass within ten feet. He rolled onto his side, his right hand freeing a fragmentation grenade from his harness, setting it to "impact" by feel, tossed it as the wagon passed, then jumped. The grenade roared and Esau sprinted, gripped the rim of the armored side with one hand and tossed his blaster over, running hard. He lost stride, and almost his hold, then pulled himself up and over, coming down on a Wyzhnyny body. Another Wyzhnyny hung slack in the gunner's harness, bleeding, eyes wide, jaws gaping as if for breath. Esau recovered his blaster and put him to rest.

In the cab, they'd felt and heard the explosion, suspected what had happened, and querying the gun crew, got no answer. The vehicle stopped, a door opened, and a Wyzhnyny head peered over the side. Esau shot it, then vaulted out, losing his feet as he landed, recovered quickly and fired through the open door.

"4th Squad! 4th Squad! This is Esau! I've captured a flakwagon! About… thirty yards west of the west caisson. I need a driver or two, and a gunner! Respond!" As he said it, it occurred to him he didn't know whether anyone in 4th Squad was alive. "This is Tyler, on my way!" "This is Hoke. I'm a-coming." "This is Felspar, on my way!" The answers came almost simultaneously. Esau waited tensely.

Hoke was the first to arrive. He and Esau shifted the Wyzhnyny body to serve as a driver's seat for Tyler. Tyler sat on it, and Esau climbed in back. Felspar had freed the Wyzhnyny gunner from his gun harness, and with a little ingenuity had adjusted it for himself.

For a moment Esau hesitated. "Felspar, do you need me?" he asked.

"Be good to have someone to set a new power drum when I need it."

"Okay. I'm your man. Airborne A, Hawkins' Platoon now owns a flakwagon on the south side. For God's sake don't hole us. If anyone knows of a live Wyzhnyny flakwagon, let us know. We'll see about taking it out."

He stepped onto the gunner's platform to see better.

"Wesley," Zenawi called, "there's one on the west side about a hundred yards out, stalled; I think her driver's hit. But the gunner's raising hell with Dreiser's Platoon, and it's got a couple of blastermen in back."

"I copy, Captain. We're on our way. Tyler, let's go. Felspar, don't fire at APCs now. I don't want to get tied up with fighting till we take out that other flakwagon."

"Wesley-" It was Zenawi. "That other flakwagon has a driver again. It's moving erratically toward the southwest corner, firing heavily."

"Copy, sir."

The reported flakwagon rounded the southwest corner and came toward them. "I see it, Esau!" Tyler shouted. Felspar said nothing. He swung his gun on target and at once fired a long burst. Like the APC, the Wyzhnyny-manned flakwagon swerved and stopped, but it still directed its fire elsewhere. Apparently its gunner didn't know they'd been hit by one of their own.

"Pull past it, Tyler. Felspar, wait till you've got a clear shot at the rear end, then pump her again."

Felspar liked this machine. It was a heavy flakwagon, like the one they'd trained on. They passed the other on the outside, at ten yards, and he fired a long burst into the rear. There was a surprisingly powerful explosion. A trasher bolt must have hit the enemy's power drum.

"Tyler," Esau said, "stop a minute. I want to make sure the sonofabitch is totally out of action." Then he slung his blaster on a thick shoulder and turned his back on the gunner. "Get me a P grenade out of my pack," he said. Leaning, Felspar got it for him. Esau hooked it on his harness, vaulted over the side, ran the twenty yards back to the other vehicle, tossed a frag grenade into the rear for insurance, heard it roar, and peered over the side. It looked like a slaughterhouse. The power drum that had blown had already been seated, and had torn the trasher's firing mechanism apart.

Esau opened the cab door then. Inside were two Wyzhnyny almost certainly dead. He tossed in the phosphorus grenade anyway, and slammed the door. He never heard the P grenade pop. Felspar, watching from the back of the captured flakwagon, saw Esau fall, and called Tyler, who called for a medic while Hoke jumped from the cab and ran to Esau.

"Steve," Hoke called, "he's breathing, but there's lots of blood running from under his helmet."

"A medic's on his way," Tyler answered. "Now get your butt back here! In back, to help Felspar. The captain wants us to knock out APCs before the floaters get here."

"Right. I'm a-coming."

Hoke wouldn't have believed the fighting was less than ten minutes old.

Throughout it all, the howitzers continued to thunder. General Pak could hardly have been more pleased, despite the explosives raining down on his base, because it meant the howitzers were not pulling out. And he very much wanted them to be there when the demolitions company arrived.

They no longer fired in synch; it was as if the chaos around their borders had spread inward. But the volume of shells they threw across the miles remained as great.

Airborne A temp had done their job despite the fight's premature beginning. When the demolitions platoons with their petards and heavy rockets disembarked from the APFs, the fire they faced was light. Briefly they lay low, while Hussain's Platoon moved in ahead of them to help finish off the Wyzhnyny infantry. The other three jumper platoons had been seriously reduced.

More than the demolitions platoons had landed. There were two medivacs, and an APF with field medics and AG sleds to bring in the wounded. Esau was one of the first loaded. He was already on his way in, wobbly and on foot. A medic sprayed his scalp to inhibit further bleeding. Aboard the medivac, he'd refused to be installed on an evac litter. Refused to be bandaged, because he wouldn't be able to get his helmet back on. Refused to be injected, and shoved an insistent medic hard enough that the man fell on his butt. Tight-lipped, the Terran medical officer in charge let Esau be. He had better things to do than coerce some stubborn Jerrie. But when they got to the hospital, he'd see him charged and disciplined.

Meanwhile Esau posted himself out of the way, just inside the ramp, watching till it was nearly full. When the last of the wounded was being brought up the ramp, the doctor in charge again insisted to Esau that he lie down. Instead he got off.

Because Ensign Hawkins hadn't been brought aboard.

He then went to the other medivac. It was loading the dead while waiting for additional wounded. No, he was told, they'd seen no Ensign Hawkins.

"Well, you got to go get him. I know where he is. I'll take you. Not over there." He gestured toward the chaos of the fire base three hundred yards west. "Over there, in our drop zone. He broke his leg."

"How do you know that?"

"He radioed and told us. And turned his hat over to me."

"You people have casualty signals, right?"

"Maybe his didn't work."

This Terran major too was getting exasperated. He needed to finish loading and get his wounded to the hospital. But at the same time… "All right." Turning he called. "Corporal Chou, go with the sergeant here and pick up an Ensign Hawkins. The sergeant will show you where. And make it quick!"

Esau could have ridden on the AG sled, but he walked instead, leading off. He wasn't wobbling now. Not striding, but trudging purposefully. Having something to do had given him new strength. He didn't know exactly where the ensign was, but he'd be somewhere in the drop zone. Ensign Hawkins, he thought, if you'll help me to find you, I'll surely appreciate it. Then he repeated his appeal, this time to God.

Three hundred yards north of the drop zone, the thunder of howitzers had stopped. With the guns themselves under serious attack, the base commander had ordered them to cease fire and evacuate. But the evacuation wasn't happening. These howitzers were not only of lighter caliber, they were less heavily armored than those the wolf packs had savaged, and Demolitions was having their way with them. The initial spacing made orderly evacuation awkward, and the first howitzers destroyed were on the edges, where they were most in the way.

Esau paid all that no heed. He was busy. He spotted Hawkins from thirty yards away, lying in thigh-deep grass. The medic couldn't imagine how he saw him. The ensign's casualty signal was indeed not working. With the pant leg cut away, his wound was obvious, but more serious, he was in shock, and unconscious. With Esau's help the medic loaded Hawkins onto the AG sled and piloted it to the medivac.

They were the last loaded, and the medivac took off hastily. Esau gave up his damaged helmet and allowed himself to be treated, then lay down willingly, and quickly slept.

He had no idea-none of them did-of what was about to happen at the fire base.