Chapter Eight
I could not expose them, as an officer of the Legion, to such a dishonorable solution.
—General Pierre Koenig,
French Foreign Legion, 1942
“So there’s the situation,” Fraser finished grimly. “We’re on our own.”
The headquarters building was full for this meeting. Fraser sat behind LaSalle’s desk, with Garcia nearby to operate the computer in case they needed reference material or other data. All three of Bravo Company’s subalterns were there, together with their platoon sergeants. Watanabe had one arm in a sling, while Platoon Sergeant Fontaine wore a bandage on his head that gave him a piratical air. A fourth platoon sergeant, Persson, represented the transport platoon; his unit’s officer, Subaltern Lawton, had been at one of the Charlie Company outposts when the crisis began.
The unit’s four warrant officers were clustered together in one corner. Ramirez looked exhausted. The Padre seemed more discouraged than tired, with a look of despair Fraser thought he could understand easily enough. Fitzpatrick had watched too many men die today.
Gunnery Sergeant Trent rounded out the gathering.
“Well, the damage to the east wall can’t be repaired in less than two days,” Trent said. “But we’ve plowed up dirt to block the worst gaps, with some sandbags thrown in where we could. It’s not what I’d call defensible, but at least the monkeys won’t get in too easily.”
“I’m more concerned about the remote sensors,” WO/4 Vandergraff put in. “The crash knocked out a good chunk of the east-side perimeter, and I don’t have enough in stores to replace them all. That’s going to be a weak spot until we can cannibalize enough spares out of other electronics.”
“Sensors aren’t all we’re short on,” Trent added. “We’ve got a good mix of supplies, but a few more battles like what we did this morning’ll eat up our ammo faster’n anything. If the hannies keep launching attacks on us—”
“They will,” WO/4 Hamilton, the native affairs specialist, said. “Depend on it, they will. We’re becoming a symbol to them. If they’re trying to oust the Commonwealth, our presence here will goad them into more attacks.”
“If so,” Trent continued, shooting an irritated look at Hamilton, “I think we could run into some pretty serious supply problems. We can handle two or three more pitched fights … but as long as they can keep coming, time’s on their side.”
“Shouldn’t we try to get Battalion to change their minds?” Ramirez spread his hands. “I mean, they can’t be serious about leaving us on our own, can they?”
Sergeant Fontaine snorted derisively. “Another civilian heard from!” he muttered. The words were loud enough, though, for everyone to hear.
“What was that, Sergeant?” Fraser asked softly.
Fontaine met his look with an icy stare. “Any legionnaire knows the only thing we can count on is getting screwed by the damned civs!” Qazi, Third Platoon’s senior NCO, nodded agreement.
“That’s enough, Sergeant,” Fraser said dangerously.
“If it was up to Commandant Isayev, there wouldn’t be a problem,” Trent put in. “The Legion takes care of its own. It’s when the politicians get involved that we get the short end of the stick.…”
“What about negotiating with the locals?” Vandergraff suggested. “Surely we could strike some kind of deal. Even if we had to surrender, it would be better than sitting here waiting to be slaughtered.”
“Surrender, hell!” Sergeant Fontaine said.
“Legionnaires don’t surrender,” Karl Persson added.
Fraser opened his mouth to speak, but Hamilton beat him to it. “It just won’t work,” he said quietly. “You all heard what happened in the capital last night. We can’t negotiate with them.”
“But if we open a dialogue.…”
“If the hannies wanted to talk surrender with us, don’t you think they would have given us the option before now?” He shook his head. “Haven’t you heard the way they refer to us among themselves? We’re demons … and this thing is turning into some kind of Holy War to get rid of us. They don’t want us as prisoners. They want us dead.”
“There can’t be any question of surrender,” Fraser agreed, nodding. “As for making a deal … they’re the ones that started this. With all due respect, Padre, turning the other cheek isn’t going to get us very far. If they want to offer some kind of solution … we’ll see. But I think Mr. Hamilton is right. The only kind of settlement the monkeys are looking for is one we aren’t going to like at all.”
“Then what’s left, Lieutenant?” Subaltern Bartlow asked.
It was Trent who answered. “We can’t stay here and we can’t give up,” he said. “Looks to me like our best bet is to try to pull out.”
“You’re the one who said we can’t get an evac,” Fairfax said.
“So we do it ourselves,” Trent answered. “Overland.”
There was an explosion of comment from around the room. “Overland?” Fairfax began. “How—”
“We’re surrounded up here,” Bartlow was saying. “We’re trapped—”
“Do you have any idea…?” Vandergraff said.
Fraser held up his hand. “One at a time!”
“You’re talking about a march of nearly fifteen hundred kilometers to reach Fwynzei,” Vandergraff persisted after the others had fallen silent. “Through Hanuman jungles and across the Raizhee Mountains … some of the worst terrain on the planet. That’ll take a hell of a lot longer than waiting here for another transport.”
“And we’d be crossing hostile territory,” Fairfax added. “Their army isn’t going to sit still and let us go marching out, you know.”
“Once we break contact, we’ll be home free,” Trent insisted. “Even if we have to fight once or twice, our ammo stocks’ll be good for it. That’s better than what we’ll have if we try to fight it out here.”
“It’s still a hell of a long way,” Persson pointed out. “Hauling the wounded, I don’t know if we’ll have enough vehicles to mount everybody. There won’t be any room for error, at least. It’ll slow us down if we have to move at a marching pace.”
“We’ll still move faster than the lokes, though,” Qazi said. “We can let the men rest aboard the APCs while the column keeps moving.”
Hamilton nodded. “The Dryiens aren’t fully mechanized, anyway. That tracked junk they use isn’t cut out for long-distance jungle movement, while our MSVs can handle damn near anything we’re likely to pass through. Hannies on foot’ll fall behind pretty quick, so all we’ll really have to worry about are the garrison troops between here and the border. The worst problem is Zhairhee, right below the pass to Fwynzei. There’ve been reports of a troop buildup there. ‘Maneuvers,’ the monkey staff calls it.”
“What about supplies?” Fairfax asked. “Can we even make it that far?”
“That’s your department, Ham,” Trent prompted. Sergeant Qazi doubled up his duties as a platoon sergeant with the responsibility for Bravo Company’s logistics.
Qazi stroked his pencil moustache thoughtfully. “We’ve got more stuff here than we can carry in the two supply vans,” he said. “If we cut down our troop capacity some more, we can stock up pretty good. Say a month’s worth … six weeks with rationing.”
“That’s cutting it tight,” Fontaine said. “Fifteen hundred kilometers of rugged ground in six weeks.…”
“We can supplement our food from local sources,” Vandergraff admitted grudgingly. “Biochemistry’s compatible … there’d be some vitamin deficiencies, but those won’t start hurting anybody in six weeks.”
Fraser had deliberately kept quiet while the discussion unfolded, taking in everything. It sounded like Sergeant Trent’s idea would work … but the task was daunting at best. “I guess we don’t have a lot of options,” he said at last. “Gunny, looks like your scheme’s the only one we’ve got.”
Trent shrugged. “It’s the only one that has a chance of getting anybody out alive, L-T,” he said. “Like they say, ‘March or Die.’ Don’t get me wrong. This ain’t gonna be a picnic. We’ll lose a lot of men … and there’s no guarantee we’ll make it at all.”
“It still sounds better than any other options I’ve heard,” Fraser replied. “All right … I want you people to start sizing up the job. We need to be sure we can handle this once we get going. There won’t be time to turn back later.” He looked around the room, studying them. Not everyone was convinced, but they all looked more hopeful now that they had something to shoot for. “You each have your own responsibilities. Coordinate through Gunny Trent. I want a report in six hours. Understood?”
* * *
“Okay, let’s run over what we’ve got,” Trent said at last.
He had appropriated the command APC; its computer terminals were tied in to the company HQ network, and it offered him privacy to go over the unit’s options. Ramirez, Qazi, Persson, and Legionnaire Garcia were with him.
“The vehicles we have left give us a lift capacity of 194 men,” Persson said, consulting his wristpiece. “That’s assuming no wounded … and no extra space for supplies or equipment.”
“We’ll lose some space to litters for the casualties,” Trent said. “What do you need, Doc?”
Ramirez consulted his wristpiece computer. “We have twenty-seven wounded. If we stack the litters, I can make do with … hmmm. Looks like I’ll need the medical van, an APC, and something else … say one of the engineering rigs. We’ll need to mount extra fittings to hold stretchers, but that shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Good.” Trent looked at Qazi. “What about the supplies, Mohammed?”
“If we strip the place, and I think we’d better, I’ll need a hell of a lot of space to carry it all,” the Arab sergeant replied. “For starters, let’s talk about throwing everybody but the crews out of both supply vans, both fabrication vans, and one of the APCs. That might do the job … but I’d be happier with a couple of the engineering vans carrying supplies instead of troops, too.”
“There’s a problem,” Persson put in. “Three of the engineering rigs are in pretty bad shape. They were pulled for maintenance last week, but Battalion never sent the parts to repair them. They’ll break down inside of a couple of days.”
“So if we take two for supplies and one for the Doc …” Trent trailed off.
“We can mount everyone in the company,” Persson finished. “But just barely. We’ll have ten guys clinging to the outside of APCs or crammed in where there ain’t room. First time we have a breakdown, we’re slowed to marching pace.”
“That’s better than I thought it would be,” Qazi said. “Hell, we’ll all ride out!”
“There’s gonna be breakdowns, Ham,” Persson said. “We’re talking about loading up a lot of high-tech MSVs and pushing them to the limit with nothing but field maintenance. We’ll be lucky if half those puppies make it to the border.”
“It’s still worth trying,” Trent said. “With everybody mounted, we’ll be able to break contact with our buddies down there in the jungle and put some distance between us and the Dryien army.”
“Yeah,” Persson said. “Maybe …”
“What’s the matter, Swede?” Qazi asked. “It checks out, doesn’t it?”
Persson grunted. “Sure. But everything’s riding on the Exec. He ain’t a Legion man, know what I mean? Too much of the old officer-and-gentleman about him … not much in the guts department.”
“Knock it off, Swede,” Trent growled. “I don’t want to hear that kind of talk!”
“Ah, hell, Johnnie, you know I’m just tellin’ it like it is! The way I heard it, he screwed up on his last assignment and got transferred to the Legion ’cause he had friends in high places to keep him from being court martialed!”
“And I heard he got reassigned because of some political mess,” Qazi added. “If he’s screwed up in that kind of peacetime shit.…”
“I said knock it off!” Trent repeated harshly. “L-T can hack it, as long as you screw-ups do your jobs!”
“But, Johnnie …”
“I mean it, Swede! Things are gonna be tough enough without you trying to second-guess the L-T, so just lay off! He’s doin’ all right … and he’ll get us out.”
Qazi and Persson nodded reluctantly. “If you say so, Sarge,” the Arab said.
“I do. Now let’s finish up.” Trent turned away, making a pretense of studying his ’piece. The two sergeants didn’t have the whole story on Fraser’s transfer to the Legion, but they had parts of it right. The lieutenant’s previous CO was the man blamed for sending the faulty intelligence reports that had led to the loss of two battalions of Commonwealth Regulars on Fenris. From what Trent had heard, it was Fraser’s testimony that had damned the man at his court martial … but he had some influential friends. Not powerful enough to save the officer, but with sufficient pull to ruin Fraser’s career. The lieutenant was given the “opportunity” of serving in the Colonial Army … and like so many officers under a cloud had wound up in the Legion.
Fraser wasn’t trained as a combat officer, and he was out of his element here. Trent was sure of it. But the sergeant wouldn’t allow that kind of talk to spread, for fear of what it might do to the unit’s morale. He’d make sure the lieutenant didn’t screw up.
Or he’d die trying.
* * *
“Lieutenant Winters? I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
Kelly Winters looked up from the laptop terminal across her knees. “What is it?”
The young officer in the Legion lieutenant’s uniform looked tired and worried. “I’m Fraser. Acting CO of this post. Doctor Ramirez said you’d asked to see me.”
They’d brought her unconscious to the fort’s tiny hospital, where the unit’s doctor had treated her for anaphylactic shock. Apparently she’d had a strong reaction to the alien proteins of the hannie soldier’s quills. She’d spent some time in a regen chamber, dead to the world, but after the Ganymede crash they’d pulled her out to make room for some casualties who needed far more treatment. For the most part, Ramirez and his assistants had ignored her since, except as strictly necessary.
She was going stir-crazy from lack of news. Just what was happening outside the cramped confines of the small storeroom they’d converted into a private room for her?
“You’re in charge? I thought Captain LaSalle was—”
“Captain LaSalle was in the capital when the hannies turned nasty. He’s officially listed as missing, but …” Fraser spread his hands. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
She studied him. He wasn’t anything like the unit’s old Exec, a worn-out lieutenant whose only real love was the bottle. Fraser looked like a competent, ambitious young officer on his way up in his profession. What was he doing with the Legion?
“I wanted to find out about evac plans, Lieutenant,” she said at length. “After what happened with Ganymede …”
He shook his head. “There won’t be another ship, Lieutenant. HQ won’t authorize it. We’re preparing for an overland withdrawal now.”
“Overland! We’re a thousand kilometers from friendly territory!”
“Fifteen hundred,” he corrected dryly. “But we can’t stay here. The Dryiens will get us sooner or later unless we break contact.”
Kelly didn’t answer. The prospect of crossing an entire continent … Could legionnaires do it? Or would they fall apart as soon as the going got tough?
“Doctor Ramirez assures me you’ll be able to travel,” he said after a long pause. “We’ll make you as comfortable as possible, but I can’t guarantee the accommodations will be very pleasant.”
“Don’t worry about me, Lieutenant,” she said sharply. “I can take care of myself all right.”
“That I don’t doubt,” Fraser answered. “You were the only one to get out of Monkeyville alive. That took some doing.”
“What about the native? I thought ky—”
“Oh, right. Myaighee, I think the doctor said kys name was.” Fraser smiled reassuringly. “Your loke friend’s well enough, under the circumstances. Still in regen, I guess.”
She sank back on the bed, relieved. Fraser wasn’t so different from the other legionnaires after all. Not even enough compassion to think about a native who’d risked so much to help the Terrans. “Just make sure ky is treated well, Lieutenant. My loke friend is a damned sight more a hero than any of your so-called soldiers.”
Fraser raised an eyebrow, then nodded. “I see. I’ll be sure the doctor does everything possible. Good day, Lieutenant Winters.” He spun on his heel and left the room.
* * *
“Sounds good,” Fraser said, nodding approval. “With everyone mounted, we’ll make good time.”
The entire staff was assembled again to go over the final details of Sergeant Trent’s proposed overland withdrawal. Fraser had tried to keep his face unreadable as he listened to the sergeant’s report. His doubts about his own abilities were only reinforced by the slim resources at their command.
Right now Bravo Company had only 106 officers and men available, plus Kelly Winters. There were twenty-seven wounded to be cared for. And while Trent’s report was encouraging in suggesting they could leave the fort mounted, their assortment of available vehicles was none too reassuring. There were only two Sabertooth FSVs at Monkeyville, plus a total of nineteen Sandray APCs of various types. The four standard carriers designed to hold two full lances each were the only ones mounting kinetic energy cannons, and two of them were going to be carrying supplies or casualties instead of troops. Each of the other vans was designed to carry only one lance plus specialized equipment: computer and comm gear for the command model, mobile workshops and parts stores for the two fabrication vans, and so on. Only the nine engineering vans—three of them apparently broken down beyond repair—mounted weaponry, and that only low-powered lasers designed for felling trees or fusing tunnel walls, not combat armaments.
All in all, it would be a delicate balance, and Fraser wasn’t happy at relying on such slim resources to make the long journey north. Not that they had any choice.
“All right, get the men ready to move out,” he said. “We’ll break out of here tomorrow morning.”
“Just how the hell are we getting out, Lieutenant?” Subaltern Bartlow asked hesitantly. “I mean, the lokes really have us in a bag up here. How do we break out?”
“We blast a hole and go through,” Fairfax said. “Simple enough.”
“We’ll take casualties, though,” Watanabe said thoughtfully. “This time they’ll have the defensive positions … and we can’t afford to waste our ammo on one battle.”
“Yeah,” Fraser agreed. He looked down at his desk. Tactics weren’t his specialty, but some kind of tactical trick would help them. “We need surprise … a diversion …”
Trent looked thoughtful. “If you’ll let me have Garcia and Tran for a few hours, L-T, I think I might have just the trick you’re looking for.…”