7
Seventh Regiment was twelve hours from shuttle launch. There had been no changes in the announced plan. The regiment would land in safe areas, well away from any chance of fighting. The only threat—seen as minimal—was that Aldrin East might stage an air raid, trying to catch the shuttles on the way down. But Aldrin West promised to have its air force up, and Colonel Flowers planned to have the fleet’s squadron of Shrike fighters out to provide protection for the shuttles as well.
The last day before grounding on a contract was always free of duty, except for those with command responsibility. Men slept and ate, fortifying themselves against the possibility that both food and slumber might be in short supply. Squad leaders tried to make sure that the rookies, men who had never been on a combat contract before, did not get too nervous. Officers and noncoms took time to study the operational orders. But they, too, tried to get in as much food and sleep as possible.
Lon was lying on his bunk, eyes closed, but he was not sleeping. He had given himself a schedule. Ten hours before the programmed launch of the shuttles, he would put on a sleep patch to make certain he got six hours. Now he was going over the files on Aldrin again, working to keep from forgetting anything that might prove vital later. Like cramming for a test at the academy, he thought during one break in his concentration.
The knock on his door was soft, as if whoever was on the other side did not want to wake him if he were asleep. “Come in,” Lon said. He did not open his eyes until he heard the metallic noise of the door latch. Then he swung around to sit up on the edge of his bunk.
“Hello, Phip,” Lon said, smiling as Steesen came in and shut the door. “Something on your mind?”
“Just checking, Lon. You going to be all right on this?” There was no mistaking the concern in Phip’s voice—concern of a soldier for his commander, and the concern of a man for his friend. “I mean, you’ve got Sara on your mind now.”
Lon stood face-to-face with Phip. “I’ll be okay. Thanks for asking. But I’ve had time to get my head straight. I think.” He grinned. “Anyway, I’ve got ninety-eight of the best men in the Corps looking after me.”
Phip grinned back. “Sometimes I forget you’re no rookie anymore. We’ve been through a lot, on contract and on pass.”
“We have that, Phip.”
“I see that cadet that Lieutenant Hoper is training, and I remember what it was like when you first came to us.”
Lon laughed. “Yes, I know I was once that raw. But once we get home from Aldrin, Officer Cadet Esau O’Fallon will get his lieutenant’s pips, like I did after Norbank.” O’Fallon had been with the company eleven months, waiting his chance to earn his commission in combat.
Phip started to say something but bit it off. He had nearly mentioned that it was on Norbank that Lieutennant Arlan Taiters—Lon’s mentor during his apprenticeship—had been killed. Not at all the thing to say now, Phip told himself. But mentioning Norbank had brought the same memory to Lon.
“I’ll be okay, Phip,” he repeated. “I have every intention of staying smart and alert, to make sure I get back to Sara. You can tell the others that I’ve got my head on straight.”
“I think everybody knows that. I just figured I’d better come in, see was there anything distracting you. Anyway, compared to what we’ve been through before, this looks like it might be a far sight smoother.”
“I hope so, but don’t count on it. There are thirty million people on Aldrin, and the two colonies don’t like each other. We could end up smack in the middle of that, like getting between a couple of lovers who are having an all-out brawl.”
Phip shook his head. “We’ve seen a couple of those, too, haven’t we? That one in the Purple Harridan, the one the MPs had to come in to break up?”
“I remember.” That had been a year before, the worst incident of violence that Lon had seen on Dirigent … apart from the mock violence of combat exercises. A man and a woman had gotten into a knock-down, drag-out fight, the kind that breaks furniture and totally disrupts business. The other soldiers in the bar would have broken it up, except that the woman—a civilian—was clearly able to defend herself, giving as good as she got. That had not saved her boyfriend, a private in 3rd Regiment, from court-martial, conviction, and discharge with prejudice from the DMC after receiving a dozen lashes in front of his regiment. “Whatever happened to that gal?” Lon asked.
Phip shook his head. “I don’t know. Haven’t seen her in six months. Probably back with her boyfriend by now, or training recruits in hand-to-hand fighting.” He laughed. That was unlikely. The Dirigent Mercenary Corps did not have any female soldiers, and all boot training was done by combat veterans.
A meal, sleep, another meal. Two hours before his men were scheduled to board their shuttles, Lon was dressed in camouflage battledress, ready. In a few minutes he would go to spend time with his men, stopping briefly with each squad, chatting, trying to spot potential problems, and trying to reassure his men—both about the coming work and his own calmness. If his men saw that he was easy about what was to come, they would be, too. As long as I don’t run around like a chicken with its head cut off, he reminded himself, recalling how he had been the first time in—until Captain Orlis put him straight.
“We’re not going to have anyone shooting at us first thing,” he reminded his men. “We’ve got good intelligence on the ground, and we’re going to land far from the enemy. We won’t be going in with rounds in the chamber and safeties off.”
“They gonna have dancing girls to meet us?” someone in fourth platoon asked.
“I don’t know. It’s not on the program,” Lon replied.
“We’re in good shape, Lieutenant,” Tebba Girana said, “the best I can remember going in on a combat contract.” Lon was with his two platoon sergeants in his cabin. They still had forty-five minutes before moving to the shuttles.
Weil Jorgen nodded his agreement. “The idea that we’re not going to have to fight our way off the shuttles makes a big difference,” he added. “I’ve had a couple of men suggest that they might not feel so good if that was coming. ‘Been so long we might be rusty,’ one of them told me. This way, everyone figures they’ll have a chance to ease into anything.”
“When it comes, it may still come in a hurry,” Lon said. “I wouldn’t encourage that ‘ease into it’ idea.”
“I won’t, but they’re ready. It may be a long time since we’ve been in combat, but we don’t let no rust accumulate.”
“I know, Weil. You and Tebba supply all the oil that’s necessary. I’m not worried about preparedness. And, with a fair bit of luck, this might turn out to be an easy contract. But we can’t count on that. It could turn ugly fast, and there are a lot of Aldrinians carrying weapons, on both sides.”
Both platoon sergeants nodded. They had seen the intelligence estimate that each side had more than a hundred thousand men under arms, more than half career soldiers. East and West each had maintained a standing army for generations. The colonies had never trusted each other.
“It’s a big place, lotta people,” Tebba said. “Not like most worlds we get to, not all concentrated in one or two places.”
“No, it’s not,” Lon agreed. West had a half dozen cities whose population was above a quarter million, and Syracuse, the capital, had well over a million residents. There were scores of smaller cities, as well as the more common towns and villages. The population distribution was similar in Aldrin East. There were probably no more than two dozen colony worlds anywhere with more people. And the amount of tolerable land area was smaller than average. That’s the whole problem here, Lon thought.
Lon inspected his troops again, superficially, in the troop bays before the platoons marched to the armory to draw weapons and ammunition and move on to the shuttle hangar. There was no audible joking. The mood was serious—business-like among the veterans, nervous among the rookies—but not extreme.
Second Battalion would be landing near the town of George’s Gap, three hundred miles east of Syracuse, two hundred from the nearest enemy troops. The other battalions would land near other towns, in an arc roughly centered on the point of the enemy advance across the mountain chain that separated the colonies. Aldrin West had its own troops farther east, with units doing what they could to harass the enemy and slow their advance.
“It looks as if they’ve been playing it smart,” Captain Orlis had told his lieutenants and Officer Cadet O’Fallon during their last private talk before landing. “Keeping their risk to a minimum while holding up the enemy columns. A damn good piece of generalship, from the reports I’ve seen.”
“If they’re so good, why do they need us?” O’Fallon asked.
“Maybe West would rather spend money than blood,” Carl Hoper suggested. “They have no emotional stake in us.”
Lon thought that O’Fallon flinched at that. “As long as we do the job, we’re as expendable as bullets,” Hoper added, and Lon was certain that O’Fallon flinched this time. I suppose I would have, back when I was going in the first time, Lon thought, trying to be fair to the younger man. He’s never been in combat.
“That’s our job, O’Fallon,” Orlis said. “That’s why there’s always going to be a market for professionals like us.”
“Yes, sir,” O’Fallon said, not quite stuttering.
The attack shuttles did not attempt a “hot” landing, accelerating into the atmosphere to get their passengers down and out of the boats as quickly as possible, but the ride was not as gentle as a civilian shuttle. The video monitors spaced around the bulkheads of the troop compartment in Lon’s shuttle gave them a good view of the town below, and the small hydroelectric dam set up across the river in the gap that had given the town its name, George’s Gap. The landing zone was on the north side of the river, away from the settled part of the community.
There were no dancing girls to meet the soldiers. Until after all the shuttles were on the ground, there was no one at all. Only after the last boat touched down did a car come across the top of the dam. The troops had been formed up by company by then, with their supplies stacked behind each platoon.
Colonel Black had passed the “stand easy” order.
“Can’t tell there’s a war goin’ on here,” Phip muttered.
Lon did not turn, but heard Tebba tell Phip to stop talking in ranks. I hope it stays that way, Lon thought.
The first few hours on Aldrin were an almost giddy experience for Lon. Gravity was 6 percent below Earth normal, 4 percent below what he had become used to on Dirigent. The atmospheric pressure also was low, but despite that, the air seemed “rich”—higher in oxygen.
“A man gets to breathing hard, he could get so lightheaded he’d float away,” he commented to Captain Orlis while the men erected tents that had been brought down by supply shuttles. The battalion was setting up camp a half mile from George’s Gap.
“We’ll get used to it,” Orlis said. “A couple of days and this will seem like normal.”
“I’m not worried about here, but what’s it like up in those mountains?” Lon asked. “If we have to meet East’s army too high, it could get to be a problem. Back on Earth, operating a mile above sea level took careful acclimation.”
Orlis nodded. “That’s one of the reasons we set down here. The plan is to give us two full days here. Then we’ll move east, higher, get into position in front of East’s line of advance with two or three days in hand. I know it’s been covered before, but warn your men against the ultraviolet danger to eyes again. We don’t want problems.”
Lon nodded. The men’s molecular health maintenance systems would prevent long-term disability from UV exposure, but the medical nanobots needed time to operate. “I’ll make sure the word gets to everyone, Cap.”
The captain grinned suddenly. “You weren’t with us on Blayne. That was about eight years ago. Blayne’s just a little more massive than Mars, minimally breathable atmosphere. Gravity forty percent of normal. Winds over a hundred and twenty miles per hour. Blayne wouldn’t have been worth much but for its minerals—gold, uranium, and several transuranic elements. There was a large mining colony, and people who wanted to raid the world to make a lot of quick money. We spent eight weeks there, and a couple of weeks getting readjusted to full gravity when we got home. This is a piece of cake compared to that.”
The real surprise of the first day came an hour before sunset, when the western sky turned lilac, the color deepening as the sun moved closer to the horizon. The sight was novel enough to draw the attention of even the most jaded of Lon’s men.
“Any idea what causes it, Lieutenant?” Phip Steesen asked.
“Not offhand. Must be something organic in the air, spores or something like that. It wasn’t mentioned in the files on Aldrin. I’ll check on it.” Later, he told himself. For the moment he just wanted to watch it, like most of the other men standing out in the open and staring into the west.
Two days later, 2nd Battalion was a hundred miles east of George’s Gap and fifteen hundred feet higher. The lilac-colored sunsets continued, but with diminished intensity. Lon learned that his guess had been correct. The phenomenon was the result of airborne spores, rising in the afternoon heat of the river valleys. It was an annual event, lasting three to five weeks. The spores were for a native tree that was almost like southern pine in appearance, but the wood was softer, unsuitable for use in construction. According to the report Lon got, its only “saving graces” were the colorful displays the spores provided and the tree’s citrus scent.
The battalion made camp again. Twice daily, the officers gathered to hear the latest updates on the progress of Aldrin East’s invading army and the delaying actions the DMC’s hosts were taking. More detailed tactical maps were provided of the area where the regiment was expected to be inserted to stop East’s advance completely.
“Two full days here,” Colonel Black told the officers as soon as the second camp was established. “Then we bring the shuttles in after dark to move us into position. If East keeps coming, we wait there for them, pick our ground, and prepare. If they change course, we move to intercept them—most likely on the ground, as long as that’s practical. We hit them with everything we’ve got, including Shrikes. Try to score heavily enough that they give up or turn for home.”
The enemy force numbered more than eight thousand, nearly twice the size of 7th Regiment. Aldrin West had a battalion, five hundred men, involved in the delaying action. They were moving three more battalions into position to support the mercenaries in what was hoped would be the decisive engagement.
“If that doesn’t settle the matter favorably, Colonel Flowers is ready to send a message rocket back to Dirigent to order 12th Regiment here to back us up,” Black said. “We will withdraw to wait for them, not try to stay engaged no matter what. The government of West has been notified of that decision, which seems to have had something to do with their decision to put four full battalions of their own troops into the fight.”
There were no civilian communities close enough to the enemy’s line of advance to be in early danger, or to complicate matters for the defenders. George’s Gap was the nearest large town, and the nearest village was thirty miles west of the battalion’s current camp.
A more businesslike way to run a contract, even if we do end up with one hell of a pitched battle, Lon thought after that briefing. No do-or-die heroics, no taking impossible orders from the contracting government.
Twenty hours before the scheduled move from the battalion’s second camp, it started to rain. For the first few hours it came as a series of isolated showers. Then the rain became constant, and heavier, pushed by a thirty-mile-per-hour wind. Before the rain, the daytime highs had been in the upper seventies. The day of the rain, the temperature never got above fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit, and by sunset, when the battalion broke camp, the temperature had fallen to forty-eight.
“So much for your ‘another tropical paradise,’ Phip,” Lon mentioned while the folded tents were being stacked.
“I don’t mind the chill,” Phip replied, wiping water from the faceplate of his helmet, “but I could sure do without the ice water. How long is this stuff supposed to keep coming?”
“At least through the night,” Lon said. “Maybe through tomorrow morning, too.”
“Great. Just great.” Phip moved away, shaking his head.
Nothing wrong with a little rain, Lon thought, grinning behind the cover of his visor. Until you have to sleep in three inches of water and mud.
The battalion formed up by company and used darkness and the high forest to cover their movement from any spy satellites that might still be operational. Colonel Black set a hard pace. His goal was for the battalion to cover fifteen miles—most of it severely uphill—by dawn. Ten-minute breaks each hour were all he permitted. The rain continued, with only a few short halts. In the morning, the battalion made camp in the rain, the men taking what care they could to stretch tarps above them when they settled in to try to sleep for a few hours.
“Give us tents when it’s nice and sunny, then take them away when the weather gets rotten,” Girana said as he got ready to settle in himself for three hours. Either he or Weil Jorgen would be awake, on duty, at all times. The men would stand watch one hour in three, even though the enemy was—supposedly—still more than twenty miles away.
“Just to let us know this isn’t a lark,” Lon replied. “There are good trees overhead to keep off the worst of it, and to hide us. Try to keep the men from frolicking out in the open, in case there’s anyone watching.”
“I’ve already told them to keep their heads down. You sound like you enjoy this,” Tebba accused.
“It could be worse, Tebba. This could be snow and sleet and the temperature sixty degrees colder. Or it could be as steamy as New Bali.” Lon could not give himself the “pleasure” of trying to sleep yet. There was a battalion officers’ call first. Colonel Black wanted to share the latest information.
“We’ll stay put today,” he said after congratulating his officers on the distance they had covered. “Move another eight miles after dark, then set up and wait for East. The good news is that the rain should end before noon. The bad news is that it doesn’t look as if the temperature’s going to get any warmer. ‘Unseasonably cool’ is how the meteorologist put it. Maybe forty for the low tonight. We can deal with that even though we can’t have any open fires.” The thermal insulation of DMC battledress would hold in body heat. Helmet faceplates would keep any breeze from faces. Gloves. “After your men have had their first round of sleep, put them to cleaning weapons. We’re getting close enough that the chance of the enemy pulling a surprise can’t be ruled out, no matter how good we think our intelligence is.”
The colonel paused before he added, “The way things look now, we could be seeing combat not much more than twenty-four hours from now. I want us as ready as possible.”
Despite his earlier show of cheerfulness, Lon did not manage any sleep while the rain continued. It eased off by midmorning and was over before noon, but the ground remained wet, water continued to drip from the tree he had his bedroll under, and the sky remained threatening well into the afternoon. He did manage to doze, off and on, but never anything that was satisfying or restful. He was almost relieved when it was time to pack his bedroll and get ready for the evening’s march.
The battalion did not make as good time the second night. The pace was slower and the breaks longer. Colonel Black did not push his men. It helped that they had little more than half as far to go. The sky started to clear after sunset, too late for there to be any hint of the air show to the west. I don’t think even that would have picked me up tonight, Lon conceded. When they finally reached their destination, a self-heating meal was welcome more for the warmth of the food than for its taste. The battalion ate before it started preparing defensive positions and planting electronic snoops and land mines farther out, before scouting patrols were sent off to get a better view of the land than they could get simply from photographs taken from orbit.
“We’ll be on half-and-half watches,” Lon told his platoon sergeants. “With a little luck everyone might get two hours of sleep before trouble reaches us.” And before anyone could try to get that minimal ration of sleep, foxholes had to be dug, other defensive preparations taken.
“Don’t let anyone slack off just because we haven’t heard a shot yet.”
Lon cleaned his own rifle and pistol for the second time in sixteen hours. Then, once his men had their emplacements ready, Lon finally allowed himself a chance to rest. To wait. Sleep came, but it was not particularly restful.