Chapter Eighteen
With or without helmet, death knows when it is your turn.
—Lt. Colonel Dmitri Amilakvari,
French Foreign Legion, June, 1942
“This is it, people, so make sure everyone’s set. All platoons, report readiness.”
Fraser looked around the cramped interior of the engineering van that was now serving as the unit’s command vehicle. It was much more cramped than the old one, with lower overheads and more massive bracing throughout. These rigs were meant for brute force construction work, not headquarters duties.
Beside him Legionnaire Garcia balanced her unfolded C3 unit on her knees, with Russo on the other side of her helping as well as he could. Across the dim compartment WO/4 Vandergraff and Kelly Winters looked on helplessly. Myaighee, kys eyes wide, was crouched in one corner. Excited or afraid? Fraser didn’t know the little alien well enough to be sure.
“First Platoon, ready,” Fairfax’s clipped, precise voice was the first to reply over his headphones.
“Second Platoon, set,” Watanabe chimed in. The young Pacifican subaltern sounded calm and in control. He had been a tower of strength throughout the march.
“Fourth Platoon is ready.” That was Sergeant Baker, nominally second in command of the provisional unit formed around the survivors of Charlie Company. Sergeant Ghirghik, along with Gunny Trent, had been assigned a special role in this operation, leaving Baker to run the platoon. Fraser didn’t know much about the man, but he had decided to keep a familiar NCO in charge of the outfit.
“Third Platoon. Wait one.” That was Sergeant Qazi, acting platoon leader since Subaltern Bartlow had stepped on a hannie land mine near the edge of the swamp. Bartlow was in a regen unit aboard the medical van. If they could get him to a civilized hospital facility, he might be able to walk again some day. “Third Platoon ready, Lieutenant. We’ve cut loose the damaged Sandray.”
“Guardian ready, Alice One,” Trent’s voice added a moment later.
“All units,” Fraser said. “Move out on my signal. Guardian, switch to channel two-nine.”
“Two-niner, confirmed.”
He nodded to Garcia, and there was a crackle in his headphones as she tuned in the private channel reserved for contact with the senior NCO. “Last chance for recommendations, Gunny,” he said. “After this we don’t get any time for new plans.”
“Can’t recommend anything when I don’t know what we’re up against, L-T. This is one where all we can do is wing it.” Trent sounded tired. Fraser tried to imagine what it was like for the Gunnery Sergeant. He was strapped onto the outside of the unit’s remaining FSV, his armor clipped to a ring hastily welded into the vehicle’s hull the night before. It would be crowded on the back of the Sabertooth, with ten soldiers riding with him. But Trent had insisted that he needed to be outside, where he could see what was going on for himself.
“We could still send out a recon unit. Try to scout out the lay of the land, maybe knock out some of the bad guys before we make our move.”
“It would be damned risky, L-T, like I said before. One slip-up and we’ve lost the only chance we’ve got.”
Twenty hours had passed since Fraser and Trent had watched the column of hannie soldiers winding out of Zhairhee. Now, hidden in darkness, the Legion unit was poised near the edge of the jungle ten kilometers northeast of the city, as close to the road through the pass as they could get without breaking cover. The move had been carried out cautiously so as not to reveal the off-world presence to the patrols that were thick in the valley. Luckily, most of the Dryien attention was directed north, through the pass.
But that would change soon enough. Watanabe had gone out on patrol with one section of his platoon earlier in the evening and brought back word that there were fresh hannie troops skirting the edge of the swamp south of their last camp. The pursuers were beginning to catch up at last.
Trent had come up with this last-ditch escape plan, of course. They had already overloaded the vehicles once before, for the passage of the marshes. They could do it again tonight, counting on surprise, speed, and superior maneuverability to get them past the hannies in Zhairhee before the enemy had a chance to react.
That would probably work, Fraser conceded. It was what would happen later that worried him.
There were surely hannie troops higher up, in the pass itself … and a whole army on the other side of the mountains. Could the legionnaires break through to safety against those odds? Or could they reach a defensible spot and hold out until help arrived.
If there was any help available. Fwynzei might be a burned-out ruin by now.
“Understood, Gunny,” he said at last. “But it still sounds like the cafarde to me.”
“The bug’s not biting me, L-T,” Trent replied with a chuckle. Le cafarde—literally “the cockroach”—had been a part of Legion life since the pre-starflight days when the Foreign Legion was still French. Legionnaires went mad from le cafarde, deserting, running wild, committing suicide. “Anyway, we have to try. There are legionnaires in Fwynzei, and we can’t let them down.”
“Then it’s settled. Switching frequencies.” Fraser waited as Garcia adjusted the commlink. “All units, ready to move out.”
He saw Russo speaking into another microphone, and seconds later the van was filled with the hum of the fans beginning to rev up. As the magrep fields built, the vehicle swayed slightly.
Adrenaline pumped through his veins. This is it!
* * *
The Sabertooth rose slowly on balanced magnetic fields, its fans roaring as the FSV gathered speed. Gunnery Sergeant Trent double-checked his harness one last time.
Beside him Legionnaire Karatsolis nudged Corporal Bashar. “Never saw the view from the outside of one of these babies,” he said. “Makes a change, doesn’t it, Bashar?”
Bashar spat over the side. “Just so Zak remembers we’re out here. You cannon jockeys like to play with the turret controls too much.”
Some of the other legionnaires clinging to the hull laughed, but Trent saw a few of them looking up nervously at the looming bulk of the turret.
“Hey, Corp,” someone said. “Is it too late to tear up those reenlistment papers I signed last month?”
Corporal Pascali chuckled. “All you gotta do is get to Fwynzei, Reuss. They probably lost your papers down in Personnel and are just waiting to get you in to fill out a new set.”
Trent tuned out the chatter and tried to scan the terrain ahead. He knew a lot of noncoms, especially from the Commonwealth Regulars, who wouldn’t tolerate talking in the ranks under conditions like these. But it kept up morale and helped the others keep their minds off what might happen in the next few hours … the next few minutes, even.
Anyway, these were legionnaires. Regular Army standards hardly applied to them.
The streamlined bulk of APC Number Two flashed past the FSV. Trent squinted at it through light intensifiers. Ghirghik, the Ubrenfar platoon sergeant, was crouched just behind the vehicle’s CEK turret. A mix of legionnaires from recon and heavy weapons lances were clustered around him.
These two vehicles and forty-one soldiers were the vanguard of the column, the all-important strike force that would smash through the enemy defenses so the rest of the company could pass. They had been deliberately overloaded, but the troops they were carrying were the best equipped for the kind of fighting they’d be doing. It had to be hit-and-run tactics this time around: smash through anything in the way and keep going, no matter what. These two lead vehicles were a little slower than the rest, but they’d taken a good head start. As they cleared the way, the rest of the column would catch up and push on.
Or so everyone hoped. It wouldn’t take much to derail the plan entirely, and once the legionnaires were bogged down the game would be over.
Almost side-by-side now, the two Legion vehicles raced over the dark, misty surface of the ylyn paddies. That was one advantage they had, at least. Any native transportation fast enough to keep up with them would be limited to the network of causeways and roads, while the legionnaires could cross the waterlogged fields at will.
But the rising ground on the upper end of the valley funnelled everything into the one north-south road that wound up toward the pass above. That was critical. They could reach the road by way of the relatively safe paddies, but once they were on that road they’d be almost as badly hemmed in by the rugged terrain as the natives.
That was why surprise was so essential. They couldn’t allow the hannies to prepare.
He spared a glance over his shoulder. The rest of the Legion APCs were breaking from the cover of the jungle now. Ten left, aside from the two in the vanguard, and three of those probably wouldn’t make it all the way to the top of the pass. They’d lost half their strength over the course of the march, and the men and machines that were left were near the breaking point.
Trent hoped Lieutenant Fraser wouldn’t hesitate when the battle started. If Trent’s men ran into trouble, the lieutenant’s natural instinct would be to try to support them. That would be fatal.
The Legion looks after its own. Maybe Fraser had learned the lesson too well. But there were more legionnaires on the other side of those mountains, and it was just possible Bravo Company could still help them—provided Fraser kept his priorities straight.
He looked ahead again. The main road was much closer now. They might make it all the way out of the valley undetected.…
As if to mock the hopeful thought, a piercing wail lifted from the direction of Zhairhee, shattering the night. An alarm siren.
They’d been spotted.
* * *
The shriek of the alarm siren interrupted Asjyai Zyzyiig as ky was debriefing the pilots who had been flying reconnaissance beyond the pass throughout the previous afternoon. The noise made kys ruff bristle. What could be happening at this late hour that would make the guards sound the alarm?
Fear gripped kys bowels. Could it be a demon attack? Had Shavvataaars been wrong in his estimate of when their reinforcements would arrive?
An aide rushed into the conference room ky had appropriated for planning. “Asjyai! The sentries on the northern perimeter report demon vehicles crossing the farmlands!”
It was true! Ky slammed a fist against the table. “Why weren’t they spotted sooner?”
“They … they were hidden, Asjyai,” the junior officer stammered. “In the jungle. They must have approached under cover.”
“What about our air defences? Do you mean they can move at will over the mountains and not be seen?”
The aide stared at Zyzyiig uncomprehending. “But … but Asjyai … these did not cross the mountains! They are the demons from the south, the ones who escaped.”
The legionnaires! Zyzyiig turned a baleful stare on kys subordinate. “Am I one of the Ancients, to know your mind without speech? Never mind. Are you sure of this?”
“Y-yes, Asjyai,” the officer replied. “One of their vehicles was recognized. It has the markings of the unit from the Demon Plateau. There is one less vehicle than our last intelligence report estimated, but …”
“Enough! I will join you in the command center shortly. Meantime, order the Regiment Blooddrinkers to resume march immediately, and turn out the garrison.” Ky could barely suppress the fury building within. Their damned Foreign Legion again! What would it take to stop them? “And pass the word to all checkpoints to be ready. I want them stopped—stopped, do you understand me?—no matter what it costs! Before they escape again!”
* * *
Spiro Karatsolis hefted the bulk of the FE-MEK and checked his magazine. It felt strange to be strapped to the hull of the speeding Sabertooth instead of cocooned within the armored security of the turret.
At least he’d acquired a decent weapon. The MEK had belonged to Legionnaire Verdura, but he had been stung by a spineleech crossing the marshes. Before he’d died he’d given his weapon to Karatsolis and his armor to Bashar, who shared his short, squat built. Verdura had been a magger once, before getting busted and transferred to an infantry outfit. He’d understood how Karatsolis and Bashar felt.
The Sabertooth’s fans changed in pitch as the FSV nosed over the embankment onto the broad causeway that carried the north-south road over the ylyn paddies. Up ahead there were brilliant points of light strobing in the darkness marking hannie gunners. A bullet pinged against the front of the turret.
Bashar returned fire with a short burst from his FEK. Then the Turk switched from needle rounds to his grenade launcher, and a ripple of explosions lit up the ragged line of natives ahead.
“Easy on the grenades, Bashar,” Corporal Howell admonished. “Make ’em last.”
They had plenty of ammo for their Gauss weaponry; it was easy enough to fabricate the metallic slivers in the workshop van. But grenades were running short after the weeks of skirmishing.
“Fireball!” Sergeant Trent shouted.
Karatsolis reacted quickly, cutting in the polarizer in his helmet display. A moment later, Trent fired his rocket pistol into the air. The projectile rose quickly and burst, briefly turning night into day. For the legionnaires, prepared by his warning, the flare was a momentary inconvenience. Hopefully the hannies would find it much more of a handicap.
The Sabertooth’s plasma cannon pulsed with an ear-tearing shriek of searing air and another blinding flash of light. Karatsolis, crouched on the other side of the turret, could still feel the heat of the shot washing past him. A hannie machine-gun nest up ahead vanished in flame and smoke.
“Pour it on!” Trent called.
Legionnaires braced against hull and harnesses and began to fire as the FSV raced toward the hannies. Karatsolis swung the MEK in a wide arc, the trigger held down to fire continuously. The flare was beginning to fade now, but he could still see the natives running, twisting, falling under the onslaught. One hannie with a bulky weapon, possibly one of their blunderbuss rocket launchers, was lifted from the ground and hurled backward five meters by the MEK fire. Ky toppled over the edge of the causeway with a splash.
For the first time since losing the Angel Karatsolis felt alive. After the long days of marching and evading and hiding, the pure rush of adrenaline was a welcome relief from the boredom that so often bred le cafarde. A legionnaire lived for battle.
Now they were rushing past the enemy troops, hurtling toward the rising ground of the pass. He had a confused glimpse of scattering hannie infantry being mowed down by the withering fire from the two vanguard vehicles, of a native tracked APC with smoke boiling from a hole where an onager had sliced through its armor. Then there were no more targets to fire at.
Karatsolis heard a complaining click-click-click sound that stopped as he released the trigger. Only then did he realize that he had burned up the entire five-hundred-round drum.
It had taken less than half a minute from the time Trent had fired the flare.
As he replaced the spent drum, he saw the Sandray carrying Sergeant Ghirghik’s part of the vanguard pull past the Sabertooth. A couple of legionnaires waved nonchalantly. Bashar was waving back, and some of the men were cheering.
Karatsolis peered over the top of the turret and felt the enthusiasm of the first, easy victory ebbing. Up ahead, the hannies were preparing a more elaborate welcome.
The last of a double line of squat tracked vehicles was slowly taking up position blocking the road. He scanned the terrain with a sinking feeling. The hannie who had arranged this roadblock knew kys stuff, all right. On either side of the road fast-rising slopes would hamper the Terran APCs as much as any of the local vehicles. They would have to go through that barrier … and Karatsolis wasn’t sure they could break through this time.
* * *
Slick clung to his harness straps and tried to keep his head down as the APC gathered more speed. Around him his lancemates and some of the other soldiers clinging to the manta shape of the vehicle were keeping up a desultory fire against the hannies behind the barricade, but Slick’s rifle remained unused at his side.
The Ubrenfar sergeant was scanning the barricade through his LI display. “Full revs, Singh!” he called to the Sandray’s driver. “We have to get through those tracks!”
Nearby, Legionnaire DuPont raised his head for a quick look. “Come on, Sarge! You don’t think we can make it in one piece, do you? Those carriers look heavy.”
“Ve haf to try,” Strauss said heavily.
“All right, listen up!” Ghirghik said harshly. “I do not know if the Sandray can take it or not, but we are going to break that barricade no matter what! It is the only way the others will have a chance to reach the pass!”
A blinding flare of light seared past them as the Sabertooth opened fire on the barricade from behind and to the left. Slick glanced back. Beyond the FSV the other vehicles were beginning to climb onto the causeway.
“Remember,” Ghirghik continued. “If the APC cannot go on, dismount. Try to get aboard the other vehicles as they break through. You will have only one chance. The column will not stop if you are left behind.”
“And meanwhile, keep those hannie bastards from forming up,” Corporal Braxton, the leader of the Third Platoon’s recon lance, added sharply. “We’ve got a lot of buddies counting on us this time.”
Slick closed his eyes. They all sounded so coldblooded. How could they talk about it so calmly?
There was a distant hammer of machine-gun fire, the terrifying sound of bullets rattling off the hull. DuPont rose to take a shot with his laser rifle but never finished the motion. He jerked back against the harness with half his face torn away below the visor of his helmet. The rifle spun lazily end over end, hitting the pavement far behind the speeding vehicle. Sickened, Slick turned his head.
The Sandray slammed into the barricade with a bone-wrenching force that stunned Slick. He was only vaguely aware of the sounds of gunfire, of screams and shouted orders and the jibbering calls of the enemy.
“Come on, nube! Cut yourself loose!” That was Rostov, shaking him. “Move it or you’ll miss the shuttle, kid!”
His hands fumbled at the harness snaps as he tried to clear his head. The strap came free and Slick half jumped, half slid to the pavement. The APC had smashed all the way through, pushing two bulky native carriers out of line. Now it hung in the air, bow down, one fan still whining as it pushed the vehicle uselessly against one of the enemy tracks. The rear ramp was down, and members of Dmowski’s weapons lance were already scrambling out even as the rear magrep modules failed and the Sandray collapsed to the ground with a crash.
Another enemy vehicle erupted in fire as the Sabertooth’s plasma cannon pulsed. Then the FSV brushed past the burning hulk, widening the gap. Hands reached down to help legionnaires scramble aboard. Slick saw Corporal Braxton make it up, shouting encouragement to the others as the FSV plowed ahead.
A hannie appeared from out of nowhere, kys rifle blazing. Bullets slammed into Slick’s chest armor, and he staggered back. He brought his FEK up and squeezed the trigger. The native’s scream seemed to go on and on.
Rostov dropped to one knee beside him and fired a three-round grenade burst into the open rear door of the nearest hannie track. Flame shot from the hatch, and Slick could hear Rostov’s satisfied grunt over his headphones. Then the demo expert fired again, and again.
The fourth time he pointed the weapon, nothing happened. Rostov cursed at the empty magazine and shifted back to needle ammo.
“Here comes the lieutenant!” someone shouted. Slick looked up in time to see the line of fast-moving Sandrays racing toward the breach in the barricade. He started forward to join the cluster of legionnaires. Something soft caught his foot and he tripped. For an agonizing, long moment he spun around, desperately trying to keep his balance. A shooting pain in his right leg made him twist again. Then he fell, sprawling painfully on the road.
The first vehicle barely slowed as it came through, but several legionnaires managed to scramble aboard. The wind from its roaring fans was hot as it went past Slick. Groaning, he got to his knees. There was blood all over one leg, and his foot and ankle hurt, but the blood was thinner, lighter in color than it should have been. It took long seconds for Slick to realize that the blood had come from the body of the hannie soldier he’d tripped over. His own leg throbbed but seemed intact. Meanwhile, two more vehicles shot past.
He got up carefully, trying not to put any weight on the injured limb, then limped toward the breach awkwardly. Slick saw Rostov and Strauss clinging to the side of the medical van as it passed him. Rostov shouted something he couldn’t make out. Only a few more APCs to go.…
He tried to hurry, and that sent him sprawling again. Suddenly strong arms were lifting him, holding him, urging him forward while supporting his weight. The rough, dry, scaly hide, almost black with glistening highlights in this darkness, could only be Ghirghik’s.
“Help him!” the Ubrenfar shouted. Slick felt himself being half-pushed, half-thrown. More hands closed around his dangling harness straps and his outstretched hands, hauling him aboard the engineering van. Legionnaire Vrurrth held on to him while someone else hooked his harness to a nearby ring.
“Ghirghik!” Slick gasped. “Where—?”
“He didn’t make it,” a legionnaire said quietly.
Slick looked back. There were no more vehicles behind this one … only a single dinosaurian figure towering above a swarm of hannie soldiers, wielding his broad-bladed knife as he howled a discordant battle song.