Chapter Twelve
The Third Company of the First Battalion is dead, but it did enough that in speaking of it one could say “It had nothing but good soldiers.”
—Sergeant Evariste Berg in his report on Camerone,
French Foreign Legion, 1863
“They’re alive! Look, Lieutenant, those’re humans down there!”
Fraser leaned closer to peer at Tran’s video display. The shapes caught in the drone’s cameras were unmistakable. He watched an armored soldier carrying an onager run across the open ground from the plantation building toward an odd-looking blockhouse. No … not a blockhouse, the turret of a Sabertooth FSV. Someone had heaped dirt over the front and sides of the hull, leaving the turret with its lethal-looking plasma cannon free. The onager gunner stopped and fired, then ducked into the vehicle’s rear hatch.
There were survivors from Charlie Company after all.
“Tell Garcia to circle wider. Let’s get an idea of what they’re up against.”
“Yes, sir.” Tran glanced at him. “Uh … do you want me to raise Charlie Company, too?”
Fraser hesitated before replying. “No. We don’t want to risk tipping off the bad guys that we’re this close. If we can hit them by surprise, we might have better luck nailing the bastards.”
Tran nodded and put through the call to Garcia.
The view on the monitor widened and blurred as the drone gathered speed, rising. Within moments it stabilized again, and Fraser could study a wider view of the battlefield.
It looked like Charlie Company had given a good account of itself in the fighting so far. Their hannie opponents were mostly infantry, with a small number of light tanks in support. From what Fraser could gather from the drone’s camera views and computer interpretation of the images from the command van, the natives were not as well equipped as the ones who had attacked Fort Monkey. Charlie Company had taken casualties, and plenty of them—the best estimate from the computers put the Legion losses at roughly fifty percent—but most of those had probably been due to surprise and early weight of numbers rather than superior firepower. The Commonwealth defenders seemed to be holding their own now against a native force that had lost a lot of soldiers … and a lot of cohesion as well.
One good blow could crack the enemy wide open.…
“Right,” Fraser said at last. The three vehicles were grounded less than two kilometers from the plantation by the time he’d put together a battle plan that looked like it would work. Watanabe and Platoon Sergeant Fontaine had joined him in the Sabertooth after deploying their platoon to watch the perimeter around the temporary camp. “Let’s get moving before any stray monkeys find out we’re in the neighborhood.”
As he outlined his plan to the others, Fraser suppressed his own worries. The situation was straightforward enough, and the Legion held all the cards in this hand.
But, deep down, doubt gnawed at his self-confidence, and Colin Fraser couldn’t shake the fear that he might be leading these men to their deaths.
* * *
Platoon Sergeant Ghirghik flicked his tail back and forth irritably. “How bad is it?”
Terranglic wasn’t as well suited to conveying the full range of his anger as his native Khajrenf, but the three humans in the plantation office took a step back as he spoke. Of course, humans were often nervous around members of the Iridescent Race, even an outcaste like Ghirghik. He often wondered how they would react if confronted by one of the true Ubrenfars, a high-caste Drakhmirg or a Zhanghi warrior.
Had his father not dishonored the Line with cowardice at the battle of Jirghan, he would have been a Zhanghi himself. Instead he had fled his own kind, ending up among the humans. Once he would have called them “weakling humans” as any Zhanghi might have done, but twenty cycles serving in their Foreign Legion had taught Ghirghik that not all humans were weak. Some might almost have been Warriors themselves.
Now they would face their end like true Warriors, here on the planet they called Hanuman.
“We’re down to less than two magazines per man, Sarge,” Corporal Johnson said. “There’s only one Grendel left, and maybe ten Fafnirs. If they all work.”
Ghirghik touched his forehead, then gave the human equivalent of the gesture and nodded his head. Among his own kind, the gesture would have been degrading, but humans seemed unable or unwilling to learn any body language but their own. “Go on.”
“Connie’s starting to run low on juice, and I don’t think we can get the powerplant going again,” Johnson continued. Connie was Charlie Company’s nickname for the Sabertooth FSV they’d managed to salvage from the chaos of the first hannie surprise attack. One of their tanks had put a round through her engine, and despite the best efforts of their lone mechanic, Legionnaire Brecht, their makeshift repairs kept giving way. The vehicle was now a pillbox on the southern perimeter around Shelton’s Head, but on battery power it wouldn’t be useful for long. “We’ve only got enough for five or six more shots, at best.”
“Not good,” Ghirghik said. “What about the men?”
“There’s fifty-three guys still on their feet, Sarge,” Legionnaire Delandry replied. She was one of the last two medics left with the unit. Although Ghirghik normally had nothing but contempt for the whole idea of medics, he respected the human woman’s courage. He had watched her drag an injured comrade out of a trench and across fifty meters of open ground under heavy fire. It still struck him as foolish to rescue casualties—a Zhanghi warrior would have fought until he died, regardless of wounds—but that didn’t detract from Delandry’s personal bravery. “That’s including walking wounded. We’ve got five more who’re in pretty bad shape, including Subaltern Lawton.”
That human had been another surprise. Ghirghik had naturally assumed that the commander of the transport platoon would be like most of his caste—a mechanic and a teamster, not a Warrior. But after the native surprise attacks took out the officers of each separate platoon, it was Lawton who had pulled them together and led them out. Ghirghik hoped the man would recover enough to face his death as a Warrior should, with a weapon in his hands and an enemy in his sights.
Sergeant Baker, the third human, cleared his throat. “What are we going to try, Sarge?” he asked. “If we keep sitting here, they’ll take us sooner or later. Once the ammo runs out …” He trailed off.
“Are you suggesting we surrender?” Ghirghik showed his teeth in disapproval. Very few humans were likely to misinterpret that gesture as one of their “smiles.”
“N-no, Sarge,” Baker said. “But … well, what the hell do we do?”
“We fight. If we have to, we die.” Ghirghik flicked his tail again. “At least we will die as Warriors!”
The door to the office burst open. Legionnaire Russo, the C3 operator, stood framed in the door, his face a grim mask. “We got troubles, Sarge. Hassan’s spotted movement down the main road. Tanks and infantry.”
Ghirghik nodded. “Time to fight,” he said. “Get the men ready. Johnson, put a lance out in the jungle on either side of the compound in case they try another flank attack like last night.”
“Okay, Sarge.” Johnson and Delandry hurried out of the room.
Ghirghik intercepted Baker before he could leave, closing one massive hand over the human’s collar. “There will be no surrenders, Baker,” he told the man in a low, even voice. “Do not dishonor this unit.”
He released the sergeant and followed him out of the room. Outside, gunfire and explosions heralded the native attack.
Now Legion and Zhanghi alike would see that Ghirghik could face battle as well as any true Warrior.
* * *
Fraser drew his FE-PLF rocket pistol and chambered a round. “Almost time, Sergeant,” he said.
Platoon Sergeant Fontaine nodded and made a hand signal: Prepare to attack. The legionnaires of Corporal Radescu’s lance stirred in the undergrowth, checking weapons one last time, shifting to better vantage points, selecting targets.
Next to Fraser, Legionnaire Tran bent over his C3 terminal, watching the twin displays that showed the drone’s eye view of the battlefield and the computer-generated map depicting terrain and positions. Watanabe’s understrength platoon was deployed in a scattered skirmish line along the west side of the main road into the beleaguered plantation. Farther down the trail, near Shelton’s Head, gunfire interspersed with larger explosions echoed as the native attack got under way. Timing was crucial. He had to wait until the hannies were fully committed without giving them a chance to overrun Charlie Company.
Tension knotted his stomach, and even with his uniform’s climate controls Fraser was sweating. This time, he would be leading his men in person instead of watching and directing from safety. Every man would be needed for this fight. He reminded himself that he’d been in the same position during that first hannie attack on Fort Monkey. It wasn’t like this was his first time in battle.
But that time he hadn’t been given time to think. He’d reacted to the enemy, moving to counter threats as they occurred. This battle, though, would be different. If he failed to anticipate something, the whole attack could go wrong. Men could die … he could die … all because of what he decided.
“Goddamn!” Tran said beside him. “Lieutenant, Charlie Company’s Sabertooths stopped firing.”
“Hit?”
“I don’t think so … my guess is they’re low on power.”
“Without that plasma cannon, those guys are sharv meat,” Fontaine said. “They can hold the hannies for a while with onagers and Fafnirs, but not long.…”
“They’ve fired a Grendel!” Tran said. “Looks like … yeah, the racks are empty. They’re leaving the Sabertooth now. Falling back toward the plantation buildings.”
“Lieutenant …” Fontaine’s voice was low but urgent.
Fraser clicked on the radio command channel. “Go! Go!”
He was up and running with the words. Fontaine rushed past him, firing his FEK at the nearest knot of hannie soldiers as he ran. Radescu’s legionnaires were in motion as well.
The hannies barely had time to react. Needles tore through the native soldiers before they even realized they were under attack. A few tried to run, but none lasted more than a few meters. Then the firing stopped. There were no more targets here.
Fraser hadn’t fired a single shot.
“Right!” Fraser said over the comm circuit. “Mason, start your run. Dmowski! Get your lance into position! Everybody else form on Watanabe. Move!”
The plan was proceeding smoothly so far. Over a stretch of nearly 500 meters the platoon had knocked out the native troops moving up in support of the attack on Shelton’s Head. Now Dmowski’s heavy weapons lance would block one end of the trail, delaying monkey reinforcements while the rest of the platoon swung around to take the attackers in the rear. Mason’s three vehicles, meanwhile, would support the infantry attack and then break into the plantation compound to pull out the besieged legionnaires from Charlie Company.
“Sergeant Fontaine, take Radescu’s lance and support Dmowski,” Fraser ordered. “I’ll join the subaltern for the main attack.”
The Frenchman saluted crisply. Fraser turned east and moved out at a trot, with Tran close behind.
Maybe everything would work after all.…
* * *
Ghirghik knelt over the body of Legionnaire O’Neil and pried the Fafnir missile launcher from the human’s dead fingers. Neither the soldier’s headless body nor the machine-gun fire slamming into his own torso armor distracted the Ubrenfar NCO as he double-checked the weapon calmly, trained it on the nearest native tank, and ran through the targeting sequence. The missile leapt from the launch tube as if eager to do battle.
As the rocket exploded just over the driver’s slit, Ghirghik bared his teeth in defiance. I am Zhanghi! I am Warrior!
“Come on, Sarge! We’ll cover you!” Corporal Johnson was shouting from the door of the nearest of the plantation buildings. He had an MEK cradled in his arms. Its harsh, grating hum sounded in counterpoint to the whine of nearby FEKs when Johnson fired.
Ghirghik checked O’Neil’s pack hastily, but there were no Fafnir warheads left. He threw the useless launch tube in the direction of the enemy and unslung his own kinetic energy rifle. Firing a ragged burst, he sprinted for the door, ignoring enemy bullets.
“Report!” he snapped as Johnson closed the door behind him.
Russo looked up from his C3 terminal. “Two more dead … I guess it’s three with O’Neil. Delandry says the monkeys are getting close to the med hut. She doesn’t know how much longer her gang’ll hold out.”
“Baker’s down to less than half a clip per man,” Johnson added. “Hell, I’m about ready to start throwing rocks myself.”
“I’m on my last Fafnir round,” somebody else said.
“Hey, Sarge,” Russo broke in. “I’m gettin’ some funny signals on the terminal. Like input from a relay.…”
“Never mind that,” Ghirghik ordered sharply. “Get your weapon.”
“What’re we doing, Sarge?” Johnson asked.
“We will attack,” Ghirghik told him. “Break out into the jungle. Pass the word: take any native weapons or ammo you find on the way out.”
“That’s suicide!” Legionnaire Griesch said loudly.
“A few of us will make it out,” Ghirghik said. “The rest … better to die like Warriors than skulk here.”
Johnson showed his teeth. It took a moment for Ghirghik to realize the human was grinning in agreement, not arguing with his orders. “I’m with you, Sarge,” he said. “Come on, you apes! Let’s give ’em hell for the Legion!”
* * *
“Legionnaires!”
Fraser took up the battle cry along with the others as they burst out of the jungle in the rear of the hannie attackers. A detached part of him wondered at the transformation in Subaltern Watanabe, normally so diffident and quiet, but now shouting and waving his FEK with an enthusiasm to match any common soldier’s.
Not far away, Legionnaire Hsu dropped to one knee and fired a Fafnir missile at a hannie light tank. The warhead struck the vehicle at the juncture between hull and turret, sent a gout of flame and smoke spiralling skyward. An FEK whined somewhere, and a knot of native soldiers toppled in an untidy clump.
This end of the wide plantation clearing was thick with hannies mustering for the assault against Charlie Company. The buildings where the legionnaires had taken refuge were not visible, nor could the sounds of that more distant struggle be heard over the din of the firefight here, but that fighting was playing a key role in Fraser’s battle plan. Caught by the Legion attack from an unexpected direction, the natives were completely unprepared. Despite their superior numbers, Watanabe’s understrength platoon was handling them easily.
He wondered how Charlie Company was managing in the meantime. Fraser had kept firmly to his decision not to contact the survivors or use any frequencies they might monitor to preserve surprise right up to the moment of the attack. Since the locals had demonstrated their ability to locate Legion remote sensors he had developed a hearty respect for their capabilities. And Kelly Winters had mentioned seeing a Semti working with the hannie general who seemed to have launched the coup. If so, the natives had access to information and equipment outside their own technological capacity.… It had seemed best to let Charlie Company act and react without the knowledge of the relief force, just to minimize the chance of giving something away too early.
Apparently the gamble had paid off. If the enemy was monitoring Legion communications, they weren’t listening to any of the channels Bravo Company was using, and they hadn’t been ready for the attack. In a few more minutes, it would be time to let Charlie Company know the cavalry had arrived.
Hsu fired another Fafnir as a hannie tank pivoted. This shot wasn’t quite as good. It tore a gouge in the hull armor along the left side but didn’t keep the tank from finishing the turn. The vehicle lurched forward on clattering treads while a hull-mounted machine gun hammered at the legionnaires. Hsu fell under the deadly hail, blood seeping from a half a dozen wounds in his arms and stomach where the high-caliber bullets had pierced the duraweave uniform.
Legionnaire Tran snatched up the Fafnir launcher and moved closer. For a horrified instant Fraser stood frozen, watching the turret track toward the legionnaire. With a roar the tank gun fired, hosing Tran with a stream of flame. The legionnaire screamed, dropping the Fafnir, as the fire engulfed him.
The flamethrower tank shifted aim and fired again, narrowly missing Watanabe and another soldier a few meters to the right of Fraser’s position.
Fans raced as the Sabertooth appeared in the clearing. The Legion vehicle swerved easily into the path of the flames, its armor proof against the fire. Ignaczak’s plasma gun locked on and fired, and an instant later the tank exploded with a curiously flat, dull thud. The blast knocked Fraser flat. He had a brief impression of a pillar of smoke and flame spouting high in the air, raining burning debris across the clearing. A chunk of armor drifted lazily above it all, spinning end for end, hanging for a long moment before falling back to the ground. A hannie trapped under another piece of the vehicle was screaming.
Fraser rose unsteadily, afraid of what the explosion might have done to his men. But the legionnaires were on their feet already, pushing forward across the smouldering field as the remaining hannies wavered. Here and there natives threw away their weapons and fled for the safety of the jungle. Others died where they stood.
Then the firefight—perhaps the entire battle—was over.