6
The gymnasium, the only training facility available to Alpha Company on Long Snake, was small, cramped, and minimally equipped. Each company had a similar room. There was only space for one platoon at a time. Lead Sergeant Jim Ziegler posted the schedule the first evening the battalion was aboard.
Lon alternated his own schedule, taking his exercise with each squad in his platoons in rotation. Some days, he went through two sets in the gym, not so much for fitness as to keep himself occupied. On Long Snake’s eighth day out, he was in the gym with Tebba Girana’s squad. He paid little attention to the men around him. Lon was too focused on his own exercises, pushing himself, using exercise to keep his mind somewhere near where it needed to be—instead of drifting back to Earth and the family he could not reasonably expect to see again.
It can’t be homesickness after all this time, he told himself. It’s not the way it was during the trip from Earth to Dirigent, or my first weeks in the Corps. This is … different. He could not explain it any other way. It was nothing as simple as a retreat from fear. He did not know what was coming on Calypso, and even if he had been certain of the most desperate combat, that was something he could accept. That was his profession. Until an answer surfaced in his mind, he compensated by pushing his exercises almost to the point of abusing his body. Subconsciously, there was the faintly ridiculous thought that self-torture might force his mind to produce the answer, or set aside the weakness that had come.
“Lieutenant?” It took a few seconds for the word to penetrate Lon’s concentration. Lon blinked. He had not noticed Sergeant Dendrow standing five feet in front of him.
“What is it?” Lon asked, almost gasped.
“The platoon has finished, sir,” Dendrow said, moving a pace closer once Nolan halted his almost frantic workout. “And the bridge made the thirty-minute warning for our next Q-space transit.”
Lon looked around. Tebba’s squad had left the gym. He and Dendrow were alone. Lon shook his head. “I guess I got a little carried away, Ivar. I was so focused that I didn’t even notice.”
“Yes, sir. I got that impression.” If there was an undertone of concern in the platoon sergeant’s voice, it was too subtle for Lon to notice. But Dendrow was concerned. Any real or suspected aberration in a commander was cause for concern.
“How long ago was the warning for Q-space?” Lon asked.
“Been eight or nine minutes now, Lieutenant.”
“We’d best be getting back then, hadn’t we?” Lon said. The full power of all three Nilssen generators would be required for the transit. Long Snake’s occupants would be deprived of artificial gravity until the ship returned to normal space. The hiatus was rarely more than six to eight minutes, during which the ship’s position might alter by scores of light-years.
“Yes, sir.” Dendrow paused. “Are you all right, sir?” he asked then, hesitantly.
Lon did not answer immediately. He turned the question over in his own mind a couple of times first. “I’m fine, Ivar. This is going to sound a bit ridiculous, but I’ve just been feeling a little homesick the past few days.”
“Not Dirigent, I gather?”
Lon shook his head. “No, Earth—the one planet in this galaxy I know I’ll probably never get to again.”
For the duration of the Q-space transit, Long Snake was effectively in a universe of its own. The Nilssens generated a bubble of Q-space—quantum space—around the ship. The ovate bubble’s long diameter was barely greater than the ship’s length. Looking out from Long Snake, all that anyone could have seen was a featureless dark gray, lit only by the few exterior lights on the ship. Theoretically, the bubble of Q-space was contiguous with every point in the universe of “normal” space. By stressing the Q-space envelope around it at the proper point for the proper length of time, Long Snake could—in theory—reemerge in normal space at any desired point. But the stresses did require calculation. In practice, that was why ships normally made three separate Q-space transits during each voyage—one from the point of origin out to a customary “shipping lane,” one along that well-documented route, and a final jump from it to the point of termination. The days spent in normal space before and after each jump were meant to reduce the chance of variable fluctuations that could affect the accuracy of the calculations. There was no measurable distinction between one Q-space bubble and any other. It was merely an inescapable part of interstellar travel, no more remarkable for the traveler than transferring from one bus to another in a large city.
During the three days between the second and third jumps, the approach of the end of the voyage, with its uncertainties and possible danger, gradually took Lon Nolan’s mind from Earth and the melancholy memories.
Long Snake emerged from its third transit of Q-space in Calypso and Belletiene’s star system, eighty hours out from Calypso. The first order of business was to reestablish contact with the other ships of the armada, all of which emerged in normal space within the space of less than a minute. The fleet was, of necessity, well dispersed by this point. DMC policy was to require considerable separation between ships when they entered and exited Q-space, to minimize turbulence.
The second order of business was to learn the latest news from Calypso. Less than two hours after the end of the final Q-space transit, Colonel Flowers called his officers together.
“Belletiene’s invasion of Calypso began five days ago,” Flowers said as soon as everyone was assembled. “I don’t have many details yet. Regiment and fleet CIC”—combat information center—”are still trying to determine what the situation is. What we do know is that fighting continues. We can expect to either make a combat assault landing or to enter combat shortly after arrival. As soon as I know anything more definite, I’ll pass the news along to you.”
Rumors had a short lifespan in the transports of 7th Regiment. Colonel Arnold Gaffney, the regimental commander, and CIC aboard his ship, Star Dragon, processed information from Calypso as quickly as it could be obtained. At times there were as many as four separate communications links open between the ship and Calypso. Colonel Gaffney shared what he was learning with his battalion commanders and their staffs, who passed each bit of solid news along to their subordinate officers. Facts killed rumors, but—phoenix like—gave birth to new rumors.
The history of the fighting was compiled and distributed—troop movements, battles, and various intelligence estimates of the relative abilities and equipment of the two sides. There was even video of the Belletiener landings and many of the firefights that had taken place. In the Calypsan army, only officers and sergeants had video cameras in their battle helmets, but those were of Dirigentan manufacture, so the quality was as good as video from the helmets that the DMC used. The video of the enemy landings came primarily from other sources, including the cameras of tourists and the civilian complink nets.
“Don’t wait for someone to tell you what you should or shouldn’t bother with,” Lon told third platoon during one of his briefings. “There are plenty of complinks available. Use them. The more you know about what’s going on down there now, the better equipped you’ll be when we hit the ground.”
“Lieutenant?” Corporal Wurd of first squad raised a hand.
“What is it, Heyes?” Lon asked.
“Any idea yet when that’ll be? When we go in, that is.”
Lon shook his head. “Not when or where. Regiment hasn’t firmed up a plan of attack yet. We’re still forty hours out from attack orbit, so it’s going to be at least that long before we go in. My best guess is that we won’t wait too long after that. Our employers might not take kindly to the paid professionals sitting safely in orbit and watching while they take all the heat. We’ll reach our orbit about sunset in Oceanview, the capital. Figure that a landing is most likely that night, or dawn the next morning. But that’s just my guess, worth what you paid for it.” During the trip, the diurnal cycle had been gradually adjusted so that time aboard the ships would coincide with time in Calypso’s capital.
“Night won’t give us an advantage here,” Corporal Girana of second squad said; it was definitely not a question.
“Expect the Belletieners to be equipped as well as we are,” Lon said. “That means weapons as well as electronics and full night-vision capability. They’ve spent liberally over the past twenty years to build and maintain a modern army, shopping anywhere they could find good gear.”
“We gonna be facing anything made on Dirigent?” Heyes Wurd asked. “Damn near all my relatives work in military industries.” That garnered nervous laughter from about half of the platoon.
“Dirigent hasn’t sold anything to them directly, I do know that,” Lon said with an appreciative grin. “And it’s unlikely that anyone has transshipped anything in the sort of quantities they’ve been buying.”
Lon conducted at least two sessions a day with each of his platoons, answering questions and sharing information—doing what he could to keep his men loose, ready for action. That had started during the interstellar part of the voyage, and the sessions got longer once the fleet was in-system.
At least for the length of time that the sessions lasted, Lon was able to set aside his own concerns about the contract. The closer to Calypso that the fleet got without a definitive battle plan from regiment, the more nervous he got. Lon was not the only one. Matt Orlis and Carl Hoper both admitted to nerves as well. “I don’t know what the colonel’s problem is,” Matt said when the three officers gathered in the captain’s stateroom after supper, one day out from Calypso.
“Yeah, you’d think he would have approved at least a preliminary plan by now,” Hoper said. “Something to let us start preparing the men for. No matter how fluid conditions are on the ground, CIC should be able to come up with something reasonable.”
“With all the policy about being open, you don’t suppose they’re holding something back from us, do you?” Lon asked.
Orlis shook his head quickly. “Not Gaffney. I’ve served under him too long to think that’s even conceivable. And he’s got twenty years more in the Corps than I do. The only explanation I can come up with is that there must be some sort of argument going on, that the Calypsans want us to do something that the colonel doesn’t want to do. That I could understand. The locals probably want us to drop right on top of the largest enemy concentration, and the colonel would resist that.”
“Too costly,” Hoper interjected.
“Colonel Gaffney won’t spend men thoughtlessly,” Orlis said, nodding. “And, with him, I’m sure it’s more than just because it’s bad for business.” Mercenaries looked at the idea of last stands or suicide charges with total horror. Casualties, deaths, were part of the business, but a mercenary needed to know that he had a reasonable chance of surviving any contract.
“If it’s something like that, wouldn’t he just pass the word?” Lon asked. “That way we’d know what’s going on and wouldn’t be worrying over it the way we are—and the way the men must be too.”
Matt Orlis looked at the floor between his feet for a moment. “If we haven’t heard anything by morning, I’ll ask Colonel Flowers, and ask him to ask Gaffney if he doesn’t know.”
Medwin Flowers anticipated the questions at breakfast the next morning. “You’re all wondering why we haven’t been given at least a preliminary plan of attack.” He paused. “Perhaps I’ve been remiss. I should have anticipated your concern sooner.”
Lon and Carl Hoper exchanged glances, but no one spoke. Colonel Flowers had obviously not finished.
“I know you’ve been studying the action reports we’ve been getting,” the colonel said. “There are two zones of fighting, one near the capital and the seacoast, the other in the area of the most productive gold mines. Those are the obvious primary targets for the invader. The Calypsan army is, for the time being, holding its own. The situation is fluid, changing dramatically, almost hour by hour. Our CIC has come up with three equally feasible scenarios for us. Calypso’s Defense Command Center has one other—and is pushing hard for it.
“Colonel Gaffney decided that it would be counterproductive to issue preliminary assault plans based on several possible, and contradictory, scenarios. He intends to wait as long as possible before making a final choice, depending on the latest information. He plans to put us down where we can be most effective, at that moment.” Flowers paused to make certain that everyone caught his emphasis. “I talked to Colonel Gaffney just before coming here. He assured me that he will try to give us a minimum of an hour before we head for the shuttles to study the plan he chooses.
“We should be going in tonight, sometime. You all know the routine for today. No exercise periods. Give the men all the time possible to eat and sleep. Do what you can to reassure them. It’s certainly not bad news that’s holding up a final plan.” He almost allowed a smile to sneak across his face. “Besides, you all know that even the best battle plan tends to get buried within minutes after we ground.”
After breakfast, Lon passed the news to the men in his platoons; then—after the usual question-and-answer session—he went to his cabin and settled in for a morning’s work. He pulled down the folding desk and logged onto the complink net. What would I do if the choice were mine? Lon asked himself as he called up the files on Calypso. It was an intellectual exercise, a holdover from his days as a student officer, first at the North American Military Academy on Earth, and then as a cadet-officer on Dirigent. It was also a practical exercise, one more way to help fix details of the situation on the ground in his mind, and prepare for action.
The bulk of Calypso’s population was concentrated in a thin strip along the east coast of the one continent that was heavily settled. It was in the southern hemisphere, so there was no danger from hurricanes. The capital, Ocean view, was relatively small, an enclave devoted to governmental business a couple of miles from the largest city on the world. A secondary concentration of people was located in the principal mining region, in the mountains two hundred miles west of the coast. There were no large towns or cities, but several dozen small villages, some little more than mining camps. Most of the mining activity was between two ranges, in the valleys and along the flanks of the mountains.
A spine for the continent, like the mountains in the Americas, from the Rockies to the Andes, Lon thought, as he added the topographical element to his map. Thinking of home was no distraction now—his mind was too focused. Everything going between the coast and the mountains went by air. There were no improved roads connecting the regions, no bridges or tunnels, and—so far as the available database knew—no one had ever attempted to make the journey on land. The area had been well charted, but only from space and from the air. No telling what might be in there. Lon grinned. No systematic survey of flora and fauna had been made, except in the areas where people lived—or thought they might want to live in the near future. Calypso could still hold plenty of surprises, even for its residents. In a rare moment of whimsy, Lon annotated his working overlay of the map with “Here There Be Dragons!” then leaned back and chuckled. It made him feel better, more relaxed.
CIC had put together an animated log of the fighting and troop movements with a voice-over commentary. A panel across the bottom provided numbers and links to supporting data. Belletiene had committed thirty-five hundred troops to the initial assault—slightly more men than were in a standard DMC regiment. The bulk of those troops had been targeted against the population centers on the coast. Only five hundred men had been sent west to threaten the mining region. The initial assault had been given limited air cover. According to the available information, Belletiene only had one fighter carrier, and its capacity was apparently twenty-four aerospace fighters. At least three of those fighters had been shot down by Calypsan air defense, and—if the government’s claims were valid—possibly as many as seven.
Lon went through the entire animation once without pause, watching as the two armies maneuvered for position and fought. So far, the Calypsan army had done its job well, protecting the cities and avoiding a decisive battle that might go against them. In the west, where only one company of the Calypsan army was normally stationed, the slack had been picked up by local militia groups supplied by the mining contractors. Gold and platinum mines always faced the possibility that they might need protection. The contractors had been prepared. The largely untrained units they had assembled might not stand for long against professional soldiers, but there were enough of them to keep the invaders occupied. Just hours before the Dirigent fleet emerged in normal space coming in, the Belletiener commander had moved another 250 troops west as reinforcements.
“The bullion is the vital link,” Lon muttered. “That’s the whole point of the invasion. Belletiene wants the precious metals.” He leaned back and shook his head. Why didn’t they put their whole army in there? They could have overpowered the local opposition and started hauling ore out, or the refined metals. Make Calypso come in after them. That would have given the Belletiener force the security of defending good ground.
He thought it over. Okay, I can see a couple of reasons for not doing it that way. Maybe they can’t sustain a long campaign without a broader base. They might be forced to cut and run, or get pinned down and destroyed piecemeal. They’re not in this just to raid what they can and run. They want the whole kit and caboodle, all of the gold and platinum, the refineries, and the industry that has grown up to exploit the deposits.
The most radical alternate scenario was harder to deal with. Then why not forget about the mining area altogether until the real work was done? Put all your resources to defeating the Calypsan army and taking the government and population centers. The only answer Lon could see was that Belletiene wanted the threat in the mountains to distract the Calypsans.
Okay, that’s the situation, he thought at last, however they got to where they are. Now, how would I use the regiment to do the most good in the shortest time, at the lowest cost? That was, after all, supposed to be the point of this exercise.
Lon started by noting objectives. The first was “Protect the government.” The paymaster, the boss. The second, “Protect the main population centers,” was a corollary of the first. The government of Calypso needed its base of support, and would have little power if its main cities were captured. “Force a quick, economical end to the fighting,” was the third note Lon made.
There could be infinite ways that 7th Regiment might be used on Calypso. Lon had to start with broad strokes, making basic assumptions, to narrow down the possibilities. It did not take him long to get to the point of writing “Land along the coast, near the primary action, but not immediately in it. Put the main Belletiener force in pincers between us and the Calypsan army, pressure them toward ground favorable for us, then force them to surrender or face destruction.” That meant ignoring the Belletiener soldiers in the mining region. Once the main force was neutralized, they would no longer be a serious threat.
“Now, how do I go about this?” Lon asked himself softly. He was feeling very pleased with his progress. In the long run, it would matter not at all that his deductions were entirely wrong.