Chapter Fifteen
Only soldiers like these could endure, with undiminished discipline, the sniping, shelling, and casualties which are their daily lot.
—from a press report on the Legion peacekeepers in Beirut, French Foreign Legion, 1983
“Lieutenant? Wake up, Lieutenant. They need you in C-cubed.”
Fraser’s eyes focused slowly on the Padre’s face. Fatigue dragged at every muscle, and his whole body ached. He remembered an instructor at the Academy telling him once that a real soldier could grab a few minutes sleep anywhere, but a cramped passenger seat in a moving Sandray didn’t make much of a bed.
“What is it, Father?” he asked, stifling a yawn.
“Targets, Lieutenant. Looks like a squadron of aircraft inbound from the direction of the capital. Mr. Bartlow has been tracking them. Best computer estimate is that they’re ground-attack planes carrying some pretty heavy bomb loads.”
He came fully awake with that. The battle at the fort had proved the legionnaires could deal with native aircraft … but images of Ganymede lingered, a brutal reminder of what the enemy could do if any of their planes slipped through the Terran defenses.
They’d left the river behind two days before, continuing the march north. Although they’d avoided further contact with ground forces, a drone from the command van had spotted a force of Dryien troops mounted on tracked personnel carriers trailing the rearguard. The report from Sergeant Ghirghik of possible high-tech weapons in hannie hands had been enough to make Fraser worry about further contact. Add the almost tangible presence of Zhairhee, the garrison city now no more than three hundred kilometers to the northeast.…
It hadn’t been easy to get to sleep despite his fatigue. These incoming aircraft made the unit’s prospects that much more bleak.
Legionnaire Russo and Subaltern Bartlow were huddled close over one of the video displays when Fraser entered the C3 compartment. Warrant Officer Hamilton was at another terminal.
“Confirming now,” Hamilton said without looking up. “Tornado tactical support aircraft. Prop-driven. One pilot. External bomb racks and twin HMGs.”
“How many have we got on the screen?” Fraser asked.
Bartlow straightened up with a look of relief. “Twelve, sir,” he said. “We’ve got the drone pacing them now.”
“Pacing them?” Fraser bit back a curse. “Russo, set the drone on a search sweep. Let’s see if they’ve got anything else out there.”
Charlie Company’s C3 tech glanced at Bartlow and nodded. “Already programmed, sir.” His fingers danced over the keyboard.
“Bartlow, get on the comm panel and alert the unit. Disperse the vehicles and have the men go to ground. And tell the Sabertooth crews to get some Grendels in the air.”
“Number One Sabertooth is down to four missiles, Lieutenant,” Hamilton reminded him.
“I know, Mr. Hamilton,” Fraser snapped. “But we can’t just ignore those bastards and hope they’ll go away.”
“Fafnirs’ll take ’em down, sir,” Russo said.
Fraser nodded. “Right. Deploy the weapon’s lances. But get some Grendels flying, too … just in case. Mr. Hamilton, try to ID the base those planes came out of and give me an idea of where else the hannies might try an airstrike from.”
He took Bartlow’s place at the command console as the others responded to the flurry of orders. Unlike his subordinates, he had nothing to do now but watch the screen and the cluster of moving lights that represented the enemy.
And worry.
* * *
Legionnaire Spiro Karatsolis closed his fingers around the joystick that controlled the Grendels in the air. “That’s it, baby,” he said softly. “Easy … easy … yeah! There! Eight … ten … twelve of the bastards.”
Bashar’s voice was loud in his headphones. “Sabertooth One has targets. Repeat, Sabertooth One has target acquisition.”
“Roger that,” Russo replied. “Stay with them.”
“What’s he think I’m going to do? Shell a clump of trees?” Karatsolis adjusted the missile’s course to center the native planes in the video monitor. The four Grendels were loitering over the rear of the Legion column, slaved together so that all of them responded to one joystick, using superheated air sucked through maneuvering thrusters to maintain station.
“Nah,” Bashar shot back. “He’s just afraid you spot a sheep and lose interest in fighting. Love at first sight, or something.” The Turk dropped the bantering tone abruptly. “Fafnirs in the air.”
Karatsolis checked his sensor display. “Got ’em,” he said. “Tracking … targets are breaking formation.”
The native aircraft dropped out of their tight welded-wing grouping, scattering. On the sensor display the pattern of moving traces swirled in a confusing dance, targets, rockets, and Grendel missiles dodging and weaving together.
“Damn!” That was Legionnaire Ignaczak in the second Sabertooth. “Looks like they’re learning. I read two planes playing decoy for the others. What do you think, Spear?”
“Concur,” Karatsolis replied tersely. His fingers were running over the terminal keyboard, programming new instructions. Two hundred meters above the forest floor and two kilometers away, the four Grendel missiles responded to the new commands. Their thrusters revectored to channel the air streams aft, and rocket burners cut in to add more speed. Like the hannie planes, the Grendels dropped out of formation, no longer slaved to a common controller. Each had a separate target now among the native aircraft that had not received attention from any of the Fafnirs. At the same time, Karatsolis knew, Ignaczak would be setting up similar programs for Sabertooth Two’s five Grendels.
“Targets locked in,” Ignaczak reported. “Missiles running.”
“That’ll teach the primmie bastards not to mess with the Legion,” Bashar said.
“New targets! New targets!” That was Russo, a nervous edge in his voice. “Another flight. Coordinates feeding now!”
“Goddamn!” Ignaczak shouted. “Where’d the buggers come from?”
Karatsolis checked the computer feed with a sinking feeling. “Hedgehopped in on us,” he said. The coordinates told the story. While the first hannie flight made its approach openly, more aircraft had circled wide, skimming just above treetop level, unobserved by Legion sensors. “Those primmie bastards know what they’re doing, Bashar.”
“Fafnirs, prepare new fire mission,” Russo was saying. “Sabertooths, report status.”
“Sabertooth One dry,” Karatsolis reported.
“Number two, four missiles left,” Ignaczak added. “Plotting fire program.”
“Wait one.”
On his screen, Karatsolis saw the first lights winking out as the Legion missiles found their targets. Usually a successful strike gave him a lift, an almost sexual release. This time it left him cold.
The monkeys had outmaneuvered the Legion. What else were the hannies planning to throw at them?
Fraser stared at the tactical screen, his stomach a hard knot. The second hannie attack wave was bearing down on the Legion column from the east. That second attack group had probably come from Zhairhee, skimming in at treetop level to avoid detection as long as possible. With missile reloads running low, it was going to take every bit of luck the Terrans could muster to meet the new threat.
They were already banking too heavily on luck as it was. The drone’s search sweep had brought the enemy formation in view with bare minutes to spare.
Damn! If Bartlow had set up the search sweep right away…! But Bartlow had made a natural mistake. He was inexperienced.
Anyway, blaming the kid wouldn’t change things. Fraser was CO, not Bartlow, and in the end it was Fraser who was really responsible.
“Fafnirs have fired, sir,” Russo announced. The traces appeared on the monitor at almost the same moment.
Hamilton leaned over the back of Fraser’s chair. “They’re breaking formation again,” he said, pointing. “Somebody in that bunch of monkeys has been going to school, Lieutenant. That kind of wild weasel maneuver would only be useful against high-tech weapons. The lokes never had to deal with homing missiles before.”
Fraser glanced up at him. “Sounds like Ghirghik was right, then. Do you think there might be Semti behind this?”
“Could be. The monkeys are getting tips on how to handle our technology from somewhere. They knew enough to dodge the remote sensors around the Enclave … and they didn’t seem very frightened of Ganymede. Like they knew she was unarmed.”
“Yeah.” Fraser stared at the screen a moment longer. “Russo, tell Sabertooth Two to launch Grendels.”
“It won’t be enough,” Hamilton said quietly.
“I know. But we have to cut down the odds somehow.” He scowled. The trees here were thick enough to make maneuvering difficult. Could a Sabertooth swing around and bring down the intruders with plasma fire? That had worked in Fort Monkey … but there had been room to move there. The jungle canopy would make it hard to track the aircraft, too … though it might also give the Legion vehicles some cover.
Cut down the odds.…
“Tell Sabertooth One to circle to the east side of the column and give us some cover fire,” he ordered. “And get some more Fafnirs up, for God’s sake!”
Russo shot him a worried look. Fraser took a deep breath, fighting for calm. He knew there was a panicky edge to his voice, and he had to get it under control. The unit needed a leader.
The unit needed him.
* * *
Zeeraij Kyindhee yanked hard on the control stick and the agile Aghyiir fighter-bomber climbed and banked, its overstrained engine screeching in protest. Kyindhee blinked as a brilliant flare of light engulfed squadron-leader Wyjlin’s aircraft. Turbulence from the explosion made the Aghyiir buck like a maddened zymlat.
Kyindhee steadied the aircraft and adjusted course. Glancing up to the top of the cockpit canopy, ky took note of the digital readout on the face of the tiny black box fastened there in a hastily improvised mounting. The alien devices had only been installed a few days before as part of the Asjyai’s program for driving out the demon Terrans. Rumor in the barracks claimed that the devices had been smuggled into Dryienjaiyeel by the Ancients themselves.
Kyindhee could well believe it. The device was like some kind of magic, able to locate a target from a great distance and guide kys plane toward it even when jungle obscured the view. And it would, so kys superiors said, gauge the aircraft’s speed, range, and bearing precisely to tell the pilot the exact moment to release the bomb load slung on each wing.
A magical device, like having a co-pilot or a bombardier on board … but without the extra weight and loss of maneuverability larger crews entailed.
The instructions called for the pilot to lock out signals from other, extraneous targets before commencing the final bomb run, to keep the device from becoming confused. Kyindhee reached up and touched the stud at the bottom of the box and watched the numbers flash in a brilliant shade of amber.
Ky pushed the stick all the way forward, and the fighter-bomber dipped low toward the jungle below. Kyindhee’s left hand hovered over the bomb release as the pilot watched the countdown.
Four … three … two … one …
Kys finger jabbed the button, and twin 48-yiiz bombs tumbled from the bomb rack.
A plasma flare consumed Kyindhee’s aircraft three seconds later.
* * *
“Bomb release! Get clear! They targeted us!” Fraser barely had time to react to Hamilton’s shout before the first blast rocked the command van. The shock threw him against the rear wall, knocking the wind out of him. He staggered, bracing himself against the door leading back into the troop compartment.
Hamilton and Russo were on their feet now, struggling to maintain their balance as the uneven motion of the APC continued. The C3 technician pushed Fraser through the door as the second explosion went off.
This time the hit was much closer, tearing through the armor of the front left side of the vehicle. Fraser had a confused impression of screams from the driver’s cab.
Hamilton lurched against him, his mouth wide in mingled pain and astonishment. A trickle of blood ran down his chin as the warrant officer sagged to the metal floor plates.
A shard of metal the size of a regulation bayonet protruded from Hamilton’s back just above his heart.
Fraser stared numbly at the dying man until Russo took him by the arm and hurried him through the rear ramp door.
* * *
Legionnaire Karatsolis heard the servomotors whine in protest as the Sabertooth’s turret spun in search of a new target. “I’ve lost the feed from command!” he shouted.
“Yeah.” Bashar’s voice sounded calm, almost flat, in his headphones. “Looks like they took a hit. Switch to onboard sensors.”
“What’d’ya think I’m doing, man?” Karatsolis squinted at his targeting screen, trying not to think of what would happen if Lieutenant Fraser was dead. The lieutenant hadn’t been much of a replacement for Captain LaSalle so far, but the alternative wasn’t pleasant—three subalterns or a Navy combat engineer.
Demi-Battalion Alice needed a leader with some kind of experience … even if he was still learning, like the lieutenant. At least Fraser had started to understand his job.
This deep in hostile territory, they couldn’t afford to start breaking in a new commander. Not again.
“Look alive, Spear!” Legionnaire Ignaczak’s voice was static-crusted. “Multiple targets headin’ your way!”
He noted the blips at almost the same moment and smiled grimly as one faded out, smashed by plasma cannon fire from Ignaczak’s FSV-2. “Hammer ’em, Zak!”
He swiveled the turret again, letting off a string of rapid-fire bursts from his own gun. Each shot filled the turret with noise, the metal-on-metal clang as the solid steel round slammed into the chamber, counterpointing the raw noise of the ammo being superheated and then flung from the barrel by intense gauss fields, so hot it made the very air screech with its passage. Another hannie plane vanished from the screen. In his mind’s eye, Karatsolis could visualize the plasma fireball engulfing a fragile native aircraft.
A cluster of smaller blips detached themselves from the main targets at the same instant. The plasma cannon thundered twice more as he tried to center on the arcing bombs, but though another enemy plane vanished the deadly ordnance escaped his fire.
“Rev us up, Bashar!” he yelled. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”
He fired again, the noise of the shot drowning out the whining fans as Bashar banked the FSV and accelerated. Karatsolis braced himself against the motion and stabbed the button controlling the turret motors again.
Then the Sabertooth rocked and swayed with a sickening lurch. Karatsolis was slammed back into his seat by the force of the motion.
“Hang on to your lunch, Spear!” Bashar called.
The legionnaire was about to shout a properly wisecracking reply when another blast caught the fast-moving vehicle from behind, slewing the FSV sideways. His head cracked hard against a projecting bit of hardware. Dazed, Karatsolis tried to clear his blurred vision. A warm trickle of blood ran down behind his left ear.
The pitch of the fans changed again just as a third explosion shook the Sabertooth.
“I can’t hold her!” Bashar yelled, all trace of his earlier calm gone. “We’ll—”
The FSV rammed into something hard and came to a shuddering halt. Even from the turret Karatsolis could tell that the Sabertooth had lost a magrep module in the crash. The front of the vehicle was tilting crazily to the right where the magnetic suspension had collapsed. The Angel of Death was listing like a boat taking on water from a hole in the bow.
“Bashar?” He felt groggy, disoriented.
Silence … then a groan from the driver’s cab.
And a crackle of shorting electrical systems, a tang of ozone in the stale air of the vehicle.
Hurriedly he punched the release on his seat harness and dropped through the hatch from the turret into the cramped center section of the chassis. His head was throbbing where he’d hit it, but Karatsolis ignored the pain and forced his eyes to focus as he squeezed past the heavy machinery that drove the turret and into the driver’s cab.
Sparks leapt from a half-dozen places on the control panel. He wrestled a portable extinguisher from the rack behind Bashar and sprayed fire-retardant foam on the damaged panels, then unsnapped the driver’s harness. Bashar groaned again, but didn’t move. There was a gash over his eye.
Karatsolis jabbed at the hatch release button, but the clash of grinding gears told him the mechanism was damaged. With a savage curse he reached up for the manual control lever. It took every ounce of strength to free it, and the effort made his head spin. Somewhere in the back of his mind a tiny voice was screaming, urging him to get clear before the hannies dropped more bombs on the helpless Sabertooth.
But he wasn’t going to abandon Bashar.
All at once the lever unlocked and the hatch beside Bashar’s seat sprang open a few centimeters. Karatsolis braced against it and pushed, and it reluctantly swung up and back. Breathing hard, the legionnaire pushed the Turk through the hatch, then followed. A choking cloud of smoke made him gag.
Then he was clear of the wrecked FSV, inhaling deep breaths of hot, humid, but blessedly clean air. Bashar groaned again and tried to sit up.
“What the hell…?” the corporal asked groggily.
Karatsolis knelt beside him. “I always knew you slept through MOS school,” he said, trying to maintain the traditional banter. “Look what you did to the Angel, city boy!”
The FSV’s front and right side were burnt and pitted where the first near miss had caught it. With the magrep module out, the vehicle was canted steeply, the rear still floating on magnetic suspension, but half the front smashed up against an embankment.
“Medic!” A legionnaire was shouting as he appeared beside the two FSV crewmen. “Hey, Watts! Two wounded over here!”
Karatsolis raised a cautious hand to the side of his head. It came away sticky with blood. He stared at it for a long moment.
Somehow the loss of the Angel of Death was the worst wound by far.
* * *
Fraser waved away Dr. Ramirez impatiently. “I’m all right, Doctor,” he snapped. “See to the ones who really need your help.”
Ramirez gave a reluctant nod and turned away. The Padre trailed after him with a mournful look that spoke volumes. Father Fitzpatrick would be administering the last rites many more times this day.
“What’s the damage, Gunny?” Fraser asked Trent. The sergeant had arrived as if from nowhere moments after Russo, Fraser, and the other survivors from the command van had staggered out through the rear ramp door. Even Trent looked shaken.
“Three vehicles out, L-T,” Trent said. “The command van, of course. One of the FSVs … and one of the vans carrying the wounded took a direct hit, too.” A spasm of pain crossed the sergeant’s face.
“Damn …” Fraser looked away. “How many casualties?”
“We’re still checking, L-T. Except for the wounded, not too many. Bashar and Karatsolis got out of the Angel after she was hit, and luckily the weapons squad had already dismounted before the hannies hit us.”
“How the devil did the bastards hit us that hard?” Fraser demanded, more to himself than to Trent. “That primmie junk shouldn’t have done this much damage!”
“Probably some kind of simple targeting computer,” Trent replied. “The planes that released their bombs knew exactly when to turn ’em loose.”
“But they didn’t get their licks in cheap,” Kelly Winters added from behind the sergeant. “The other Sabertooth knocked out the rest of their planes before they could make another pass or cut and run.”
“Yeah.” Trent spat expressively. “I’ll bet we killed every plane they had that was rigged with those damn computers.”
“Let’s hope so, Gunny,” Fraser replied wearily. “Because another attack like that one could finish us off for sure.”