Chapter Five
Most legionnaires have nothing to lose and life itself is not held very dear.
—Legionnaire Adolphe Cooper,
French Foreign Legion, 1933
Gunnery Sergeant Trent peered cautiously over the embankment of the slit trench. “What’ve you got, Pascali?”
“Heat sources there,” Corporal Pascali replied, pointing. “And there … there … down there. Goddamned big ones, Sarge.”
Trent switched to his IR helmet display. In the eerie green light of the infrared screen, the bright plumes of heat stood out like brilliant stars on a dark night. “Hmmm … power plants. Vehicle engines. Looks like our monkey friends aren’t settling for half-measures this time.”
Sunrise was still almost an hour away, but a pre-dawn glow was already suffusing the eastern sky. Hanuman’s rotation period was close to thirty-four standard hours long, and everything—day, night, twilight—seemed to stretch out endlessly.
The trouble was, the hot, moist climate made heavy morning mists inevitable. A thick fog clung to the lower slopes of the Monkeyville plateau, masking the jungle … and the native troops assembled there. Visibility was better around the Enclave itself, but not by much. Even infrared was obscured to some extent.
Perfect conditions for an attack, Trent thought. He keyed in his radio to the command frequency. “Alice One, this is Guardian.”
“On line, Guardian,” Legionnaire Garcia replied promptly. “Go ahead.”
“I’ve got four confirmed heat sources on the north road. Probably vehicles. Better tell L-T the monkeys are on the warpath again.”
“’Firm. Wait one.” Static crackled as long seconds passed. Then Garcia’s voice came back on the channel. “Acknowledged, Guardian. Lieutenant says to come back inside and take charge of the main perimeter. Strauss and Braxton will reinforce the trenches.”
“On my way.” As Trent cut the channel, an alarm siren wailed behind him, inside Fort Monkey.
Those vehicles were climbing the main road from the northwestern valley. No doubt there were more behind them, and enemy troops filtering through the jungle and up the slopes to support the armor. It looked like the long-expected hannie attack was finally grinding forward.
“They want me inside,” he said crisply. “Pascali, take charge out here. L-T’s sending the other two recon lances, and I’ll get you a couple of heavy weapons for support. Don’t fire until they’re right on top of you. We want to sucker as many of the little bastards as we can.”
Pascali nodded. “We’ll nail ’em, Sarge,” she said confidently. She and Reinhardt were the only survivors from her recon lance, but two legionnaires from one of the First Platoon’s rifle lances had been drafted to join them on guard. They looked ready to wipe out the hannie army without any help at all from the rest of the company.
He slapped the top of her helmet and scrambled out of the trench.
The trenches had been Subaltern Watanabe’s idea. With most of the native troops gathered on the northwest side of the plateau, and the only decent road running straight up into Fort Monkey from the north, it seemed likely that the main threat would be to that side—the same area they’d attacked the previous night. Two slit trenches on either side of the road and thirty meters from the north gate would be a nasty surprise to hannies who thought they knew the terrain. Trent smiled. Watanabe was shaping up into a real legionnaire—tough and cunning.
Of course, there was always the chance the hannies would try to bypass the main route. They had troops on all sides of the fort, but getting tracked vehicles across the rugged ground surrounding the plateau would be quite a challenge. It looked like they were going to take the easy route, and they’d pay for that.
He crossed the road and headed for the hole the hannies had blasted in the north wall on their first attack. Bravo Company’s second FSV was grounded in the opening. Despite the alarm siren, Legionnaire Ignaczak was still lounging in the open turret hatch, eating from a ra-pack while he studied a pornographic magazine.
“Button up, Zak,” Trent called. “We’ve got company coming, so put that shit away and get ready.”
“We’ll kick ass, Sarge,” the gunner replied. He stuffed the magazine into his fatigue jacket and sealed it up. Taking a last mouthful from the ra-pack, Ignaczak crumpled the package and tossed it carelessly into the compound behind the Sabertooth.
“Better go after it, Zak!” another legionnaire called from the parapet above. “That’s a week in cells for littering!”
“Yeah?” Ignaczak shouted back. “Then what do those monkeys get for knockin’ down the wall last night?”
“Well, shitfire, Zak,” the other man answered, patting his FE-MEK barrel and grinning. “They’re not in the Legion. I guess we’ll either send ’em home without their dinners or shoot ’em. How ’bout it, Sarge?”
“New directive from the Colonial Office, Gates,” Trent responded. “We’re supposed to make them go to camp sanitation lectures.”
“That’s cruel, Sarge,” Gates said, shaking his head and laughing. “Real cruel. We’d better just put ’em out of their misery.”
Trent laughed and broke into a trot across the parade ground. The banter was a good sign; the legionnaires were ready for a fight.
And a fight, Trent reflected as he watched Bravo Company boiling out of the fort’s barracks buildings, was exactly what they were likely to get.
O O O
“Go! Go! Go!” The corporal’s voice was hoarse with excitement.
Slick jumped into the trench, wincing as the motion jarred his bruised ribs. DuPont climbed in after him, taking care not to bump his laser rifle. Though the Whitney-Sykes HPLR-55 was rugged enough to be the standard infantry weapon of most Terran Army light infantry units, the Legion snipers who used the laser rifle were inclined to handle them with exaggerated caution. The least little flaw in the alignment of the crystals could spoil the Legion’s reputation for fielding the best snipers in the Commonwealth Defense Forces.
Rostov and Vrurrth were last, and paused to pull the chameleon tarp into place. Except for narrow gaps along the front of the trench, the tarp completely covered the legionnaires’ position. The microcircuitry worked into the weave of the cloth would analyze the reflective qualities of nearby terrain and adjust the tarp’s colors accordingly. The same principle was used in duraweave battledress coveralls and made the cloth—and anything it covered—a nearly perfect match for most backgrounds.
Across the road Braxton’s lance was already in place beside Pascali’s improvised unit. Thirteen legionnaires awaited the hannie army, joking, swearing, laughing … Thirteen legionnaires, and Slick.
As he chambered a round in his FEK and poised the rifle on the rim of the trench, Slick found himself recoiling from the others. Overnight he’d had his baptism of fire, his first exposure to the realities of battle. But he still felt totally out of place here. Rostov had started to make him feel welcome, but these legionnaires were still almost as alien as the monkeys creeping through the mist.
Fear gnawed at his stomach. The trench was constricting, like a box … or a coffin. No room for stealth this time, he thought. What the hell am I doing here?
O O O
“Ganymede, Ganymede, this is Alice One,” Fraser said into the handset of his C3 unit. He was hunched over the computer map table in the front compartment of an M-786C, the command variant of the Legion’s ubiquitous Sandray APC. “Say again your ETA, Ganymede.”
“Alice One, Ganymede.” Captain Garrett sounded tired, irritated. “ETA is thirteen, I say again, one-three, mikes. What’s your situation, Alice One, over?”
“Ganymede, I have hostiles advancing on the north wall,” Fraser responded. “I can’t cover the fort and the landing field, too.”
The captain’s voice took on an even sharper edge.
“Well, you’re the one who knows the score. How do you want to play it, Alice One?”
Fraser released the transmit key and looked down at the computer-generated map of the compound. Bravo Company was already mustered on the perimeter, ready to meet the hannie attack. The command APC was near the center of the compound, together with a handful of other Sandrays, ready to deploy as needed. He glanced at Legionnaire Garcia, who sat at one of the other C3 terminals monitoring reports from the rest of the unit.
They could wave off the transport until the natives were driven off, but Fraser didn’t like the idea of more delays. It had taken all night to get the ship to Monkeyville, and that had given the hannie army time to muster for a big push. What if the hannies just kept throwing troops at the legionnaires all day? If numbers finally overpowered Bravo Company, they’d want Ganymede down and waiting to dust them off in a hurry.
But if she set down at the Enclave’s landing field south of the fort, Ganymede would be exposed, vulnerable to any attack mounted from the southeast through the deserted civilian facilities of the Enclave. A pair of Sandray APCs were sufficient to keep an eye out for patrols working along that side of the plateau, but they couldn’t cover the landing field. And Bravo Company just didn’t have the men to spare to cover the landing field in the middle of an enemy attack.
There was one other solution.…
“Ganymede, Alice One,” he said at last, keying in the handset again. “Can you put down in the open space on the east side of the fort? Over.”
“Wait one,” the captain answered crisply. Fraser could visualize him calling up the computer files on Monkeyville to cross-check sizes and distances. “Alice One, that’s affirmative.”
“Then that’s the drill, Captain. That’ll keep you under my guns.”
“And away from the natives, I hope,” he said. “This bucket wasn’t designed to play around in a hot L-Z, Lieutenant. We’re not armed, and even that primmie stuff the monkeys have is enough to put a hole in the old girl.”
“I hear you, Captain,” Fraser said. “We’ll do our best for you. Alice One, out.”
He replaced the handset. Fraser examined the map again. Did I make the right decision? he wondered. Damn it! I wish LaSalle was here.
But LaSalle was dead, and if his men didn’t hold the hannies on the perimeter there would be a lot of legionnaires joining the captain before dawn came.
And whatever happened, it would be Colin Fraser’s responsibility.
“Assault column in position, Asjyai,” the radio operator said.
O O O
The army command post was a ramshackle hut in a small jungle clearing near the base of the Demon Plateau. It was crowded with radio equipment and the big table where topographic maps of the area were spread out to accommodate tactical planning. There wasn’t much room left over for personnel, so most of Zyzyiig’s staff waited outside for orders. The arrangement had advantages; ky could think and plan better with fewer underlings clamoring for their leader’s attention.
Zyzyiig stroked kys muzzle slowly. “What about the turning column?”
“Jyiedry Ghyzyeen reports it will be ready to attack in another five dwyk, Asjyai,” ky replied. “The terrain to the east is very difficult for the armored vehicles.”
“Tell Ghyzyeen I want action, not excuses,” Zyzyiig growled. “They must be ready to strike just as soon as the enemy is fully engaged.”
“Yes, Honored.”
Behind them, Shavvataaars stirred. “You would do well not to underestimate the offworld demons,” he whispered. “They will detect your maneuver.”
“I handle this my way!” Zyzyiig snapped. Ky glanced back at the Semti, suddenly aware of who and what ky was speaking to. Zyzyiig was a civilized kyen, far too sophisticated to believe that the Semti were really the Ancient Gods of Dryien myth. But they were an old and powerful race, long-lived, wise … and vital allies. “Honored One,” ky continued, “I have planned this carefully. Two attacks on the ground will keep the demons off-balance. Armored vehicles can kill them. So can rockets, and we have issued launchers to soldiers in both columns.”
“Many of your soldiers will complete their journeys,” Shavvataaars said. “The demons will not be caught by surprise this time.”
“I know, Honored One. But if we can keep the enemy occupied on the ground, our last surprise will have a chance of getting through.” Zyzyiig smiled grimly. Ky turned again to face the radio operator. “Order the assault column to attack!”
O O O
“Here they come! Get ready!”
Slick tightened his grip on the FEK and fought the temptation to fire. Green shapes glowed against a darker green backdrop on his IR display: heat sources, the larger, brighter ones hannie vehicles, the smaller but more numerous ones individual native soldiers creeping forward to the attack. It was quiet, except for the distant clank of vehicle treads. The enemy movement was slow and cautious. Were they expecting the legionnaires to spring a trap, or was the fog hampering their advance? Probably the latter, since hannie IR gear was still scarce in Dryienjaiyeel’s army.…
“Wait for the onagers to fire, mes amis.” Platoon Sergeant Henri Fontaine was in command in the trenches now. Second Platoon’s senior NCO had joined the three recon lances with two heavy weapons units, bringing the total strength of the advanced force to twenty-four men—nearly a quarter of Bravo Company’s strength. There was a lot of firepower here … but would it be enough against the weight of the hannie attack? “Steady … pick your targets.…”
A burst of native machine-gun fire erupted from the left, loud in the pre-dawn stillness. More hannies joined in the firing, accompanied by a chorus of shouts. Slick couldn’t make out what they were yelling, but from the way the gunfire fell silent he guessed the monkey officers or non-coms were trying to get control over nervous troops.
It helped to think of the enemy soldiers as being just as nervous as he was. Slick shifted his FEK, lining up on the closest heat source. The closest troops were no more than twenty meters from the concealed trenches now. The vehicles were still lagging behind the infantry, hindered as much by the rugged terrain as by the visibility. When would Fontaine give the order to fire? Couldn’t he see how close the monkeys were?
The onager gunner next to Slick chambered a round with an audible cha-CHUNK. Clad from head to toe in plasteel armor, with a modified helmet that covered his entire face and contained sophisticated sighting gear that slaved the aim of his plasma gun to the movement of his eyes, Legionnaire Childers was the very image of the ultimate high-tech soldier. The man’s weapon shifted minutely in its ConRig harness as Childers lined up on his target, one of the vehicles lumbering up the main road.
“Onagers …” The tension was plain in Fontaine’s voice. “Ready … fire!”
Childers squeezed the trigger. Slick blinked back tears as a blinding flash of raw light and heat surged from the barrel of the onager and hurtled toward its target trailing a visible streak like some impossibly straight bolt of lightning. The French who had first developed the plasma weapon had called it the fusil d’onage, or “storm rifle.” Seeing it in action, Slick didn’t think the label was strong enough.
All around him, the rest of the defenders were shooting now as legionnaires threw back the tarps to improve their fields of fire. Corporal Dmowski had the other onager in action over in Pascali’s trench, and the two plasma rifles kept up a measured, accurate fire. Kinetic energy rifles whined, while the deep-throated hum of a pair of heavier MEKs droned a deadly harmony. The hannie line faltered under the weight of a barrage equal to what a regiment of their own troops might have poured out.
Slick fired, then ducked down involuntarily as a native anti-tank rocket leapt from a blunderbuss launcher toward him. The rocket passed over the trench, exploding harmlessly near the base of the fort’s north wall. When he peered over the rim of the trench again, Slick saw that one of the vehicle heat sources was now much brighter. Raked by multiple onager hits, a hannie tank was on fire.
The scene reminded him of the carnage inside the fort after the first assault … had it only been a few hours go? There were dead hannies everywhere, but more were advancing to take their places. He fired at them mechanically, hardly caring if he scored a hit or not. The deadly hail of Legion firepower would mow them all down long before they could be a threat.
Another rocket skimmed above the trench, much lower than the first. Again Slick couldn’t help ducking, though he knew the thing was only really a threat if it scored a direct hit. Even without plasteel, his uniform would keep out most shrapnel and ordinary bullets, and this morning Slick had added plasteel plates over his chest and back. In this kind of fight, armor counted more than freedom of movement.
“Come on, nube!” DuPont grabbed his uniform collar and hauled Slick to his feet. “Get with it!”
“Incoming! Incoming!” Rostov yelled. Something screamed overhead and exploded behind them, showering the trench in dirt.
“What the hell?” DuPont shouted. “I didn’t see any of the tanks firing!”
“That wasn’t a tank,” Childers said, firing his onager again. “Too big. Must’ve been one of their big howitzers, down in the jungle somewhere.”
“Who’s sighting for it?” DuPont asked wildly. All his bravado had fled. “Where are the bastards calling in the fire, dammit?”
“Steady, mon brave,” Fontaine’s voice cut in smoothly on the radio circuit. “Keep the line clear. I’ll see what the lieutenant wants us to do.”
Slick fired a spread of grenades, more by reflex than design. He felt trapped in the narrow confines of the trench, trapped and helpless under the fall of those shells. Not even full plasteel body armor would save the defenders once the enemy artillery found the range.…
O O O
“Lieutenant! Sergeant Fontaine reports the natives are calling in arty.”
“Damn!” Fraser turned in his seat to face Legionnaire Garcia. He had hoped that the poor jungle roads would make it impossible for the hannies to bring up heavy guns. The natives didn’t have much in their arsenal capable of breaking the Legion defenses, but artillery was definitely a threat. “What size guns?”
Garcia shook her head. “He’s not sure, Lieutenant. One-oh-eights … maybe one-twenty-ones.”
Fraser looked down at the map table. “All right. Order Fontaine to pull back … heavy weapons first. That’ll buy us some time.”
“Yes, sir.” She turned back to the radio.
Fraser swiveled his seat to face a control console. The command version of the Sandray lacked the weaponry of the ordinary APC model, substituting a satellite dish for the usual turret arrangement. It did, however, mount something the other M-786s lacked: a launch rack for surveillance drones. His fingers danced over the controls, programming one to search out the enemy artillery.
First they had to know what they were dealing with. Then the legionnaires would take steps to counter the threat.
O O O
Another shell arced toward the defenders. It fell short this time, the explosion ripping through a clump of hannies in an improvised foxhole thirty meters from Slick.
“Goddamn it!” DuPont shouted, “They’re bracketing us!”
“Once they get the range …” Rostov said. His voice was cold and flat.
“All right! Listen up!” Fontaine broke through the clatter. “The lieutenant knows what’s going on. Weapons lances, fall back to the main gate. Recon lances, cover them. On my mark … move!”
Rostov was helping Childers scramble out of the trench, while farther down the line Childers’s lancemate, Legionnaire Hsu, was already running for the fort wall, the elongated tube of a Fafnir missile launcher slung over one shoulder. There was a renewed volley of FEK fire from the trenches as the recon lances laid down covering fire. Slick opened up at a hannie soldier fifty meters away, saw the tiny native spin backward and fall.…
“Incoming!” The call came again, this time from Strauss. There was another screech as a howitzer shell rose from the jungle fog, streaking heavenward, then arcing over and down, plummeting straight toward the trench. Slick stared up at it in horror, unable to react at all, unable to move, to think, even to scream.…