CHAPTER 3
I DIDN’T THINK THAT THE PRESENCE OF PORRACCI on the other side would affect our porracci noticeably. If anything, I figured that it might put a little extra zest into them. They make more of a habit of fighting each other than humans ever have—and that is saying one hell of a lot. The macho dominance thing isn’t just on the personal level among porracci, but extends through every layer of their society from what I’ve read. Some of it has become ritualized over the centuries, but even the most polite political or diplomatic debate at the highest levels can turn into a fight to the death. One estimate I saw suggested that the destructive nature of relationships among porracci may have held up their expansion into space by as much as a thousand years. Cooperation does not come easily for them.
We humans like to think we’ve outgrown that kind of warfare with our own kind … not that Earth has been totally peaceful, even in the last century. Our internecine wars are generally smaller, shorter, and less destructive than they used to be. The Paul Bunyan Rebellion in the Pacific Northwest had been the only serious conflict on Earth in several decades. And this was our first war involving other species. Call it progress.
We didn’t have time for philosophical musings just then.
Charts of Durestal were downloaded to our maps, and we started going over the terrain and the latest known troop deployments, hostile and friendly, even though we had not received orders concerning our deployment once we were on the ground. When those orders finally came, we might not have time for study.
Durestal was the last divotect colony world still under the control of the Ilion Federation. Once it was liberated, the Alliance of Light would have accomplished the last of the specific official “war aims” enunciated when the Alliance decided to respond to the IFer invasions of the divotect colonies. That would leave all the vague stuff about making certain the Ilion Federation “paid for its outrages” and guaranteeing a peaceful future for the galaxy—the verbal diarrhea politicians and diplomats can’t help spewing.
Preinvasion, the divotect population of Durestal had been under a million. It was the newest of their colony worlds and minimally developed, like most divotect worlds. Durestal had virtually no defenses. The IFer invaders had killed perhaps 8 percent of the divotect prior to the Alliance’s attempt to kick the IFers off. More locals had died during our first try at that, some killed intentionally by the IFers, others simply unfortunate enough to get caught in the middle. By the time we mounted a second invasion, the divotect population of Durestal was estimated to be 750,000. That doesn’t take into account the Alliance troops who died there, or the IFers.
Now 1st Combined Regiment was to reinforce the second force we had sent to liberate Durestal. We were supposed to be strong enough to finally bring the battle to a successful conclusion.
“I JUST CAN’T HELP FEELING THAT SOMEBODY near the top of the chain of command still isn’t certain we’re up to snuff,” I told Tonio when we got a couple of minutes alone—off to the side of the compartment thathoused the entire company—before the fleet’s second hyperspace jump. “We’re assault troops, special operations, not the mop-and-bucket brigade.”
Tonio shrugged. “Maybe we were the only combat-ready unit available on short notice. Or maybe the situation on Durestal is more iffy than we’ve been told. Don’t stick that chip on your shoulder until you know it belongs.”
“Bullcrap! After that messed-up exercise, they don’t think we can cut it anymore.” Yes, Tonio was my superior, but he was also the best friend I’ve ever had. I knew I could say anything to him, in private, without getting marked as insubordinate or worse. And I knew he would give me any news, good or bad, as honestly as he could. “It’s like the way Wellman has it in for me. Somebody farther up the line has it in for the whole regiment—maybe somebody who was against the idea of the combined regiment at the beginning and wants us to look like failures, no matter what it might cost the Alliance.”
“Or maybe we’ve got a guardian angel who thinks we deserve a break after Dintsen and Olviat,” Tonio said. “There’s not a whole lot we can do about it one way or the other. We go where they send us and do what they tell us to do.”
THEY DIDN’T SEND US TO THE SHUTTLES UNTIL after we came out of our last hyperspace jump—three hours out from Durestal. At least we would be riding the shuttles all the way in, not airsleds, and it still looked as if we could look forward to a peaceful ride and not have to worry about getting out of the box—the shuttle—fast on the other end to jump right into the battle. The last word we had before they sealed us in our shuttles was that we would be landing in an area forty miles from the nearest hostile ground troops, and that the Ilion Federation didn’t have any aerospace fighters on station that could cause us grief on the way in.
I hoped they were right, mentally crossed my fingers, and remained my usual nervous self through the ride in. I was relieved, not to mention surprised, that the ride in was everything promised—smooth, easy, and safe. More than that, once we were on the ground and away from the landing zone, there was a hot meal and coffee waiting.
“Maybe things aren’t as bad here as we were told, Sarge,” Robbie McGraw said during our meal. “If they can put a feed like this on for us, they can’t be too worried about IFers.”
“Don’t start planning your vacation yet,” I said. “The officers have already been pulled off for a briefing, so it looks like they’re going to find something for us to do. And the nicer they are to us now, the worse the job is likely to be.”
“Spoilsport,” Robbie said with a laugh. “You’re no fun at all anymore.”
I didn’t bother to reply. I was sitting where I could look off in the direction Captain Fusik and our lieutenants had gone, wondering how long it would be before they laid the news on us—and despite Robbie’s buoyancy and my own surprise at how easily things had gone so far, I had the gloomy feeling that we were going to catch our share of hell before we got home.
The only joy to being a pessimist in the army is that you’re right more often than you’re wrong.
THE BRIEFING THE SERGEANTS GOT WHEN THE captain got back confirmed my notion. We weren’t forty miles from the nearest enemy force, we were—maybe—fifteen. Probably less. That was where the heaviest current fighting was concentrated. The three line battalions and heavy-weapons battalion of 1st Combined Regiment were going to move in the direction of that enemy concentration. The line battalions were going on foot.
Don’t say it, Captain, I thought, after Fusik laid that much of the situation out, but he said it anyway.
“We’ll be going in by airsled, behind the enemy, to raisewhat ruckus we can from that side.” The shuttles had already gone back up to the ships to have the passenger seats folded out of the way and to have airsleds installed. Each shuttle can carry eight sleds, just enough for a ranger platoon. “All of Ranger Battalion is going in—various places,” the captain continued. “B Company will operate in four platoon-sized teams. Some of the other companies will be broken down to squads. If the situation warrants, we might split up as well.” He shrugged. “It depends on what we find and what we’re able to do. Get back to your men. It’ll be an hour before the shuttles get back in.”
I went back to where my men were sitting and gave it to them the way the captain said it. “Get your rest while you can,” I added. “No telling how long we’ll be on the go once we start.” I sat at the edge of the group and shrugged off my pack, then used it as a pillow. I knew I wasn’t going to get any sleep, but I would conserve as much energy as I could … and try to keep the butterflies from multiplying in my stomach.
DIVOTECT HAD BEEN ON DURESTAL A CENTURY, and they’re not as rough on the environment as some of the other sentients are. They build small communities and leave a lot of greenery between buildings, blending in with their surroundings. Probably more than 95 percent of the planet was virgin wilderness. The primary continent—the one we were on—was about the size of the Americas on Earth, but shaped something like Australia, tilted about forty degrees counterclockwise, with ocean all around it. From my study of the map, it looked as if about 70 percent of the continent was forest, broken only by the occasional region of savanna or prairie and the rivers—a couple of them as broad and grand as the Mississippi or Amazon on Earth. To the west there were thousands upon thousands of square miles of obvious prairie, with desert to the southwest.
We didn’t have long-term meteorological records of theworld, but it looked as if perhaps only the northernmost section of the continent might see really heavy winter weather. Where we were, two thousand miles south of the northern edge, it was late spring, almost summer, with the early evening temperature not far below seventy degrees. Beautiful … if you could get past the possibility of a kill-or-be-killed situation.
TO MY SURPRISE, I DID DOZE—FOR A FEW minutes. We had adjusted our day-and-night routine before leaving Earth so that we would be set for the different cycle on Durestal, which meant that I couldn’t have been really tired, but somehow I dropped off anyway. The noise of incoming shuttles shocked me out of sleep quickly enough.
“Up and on ‘em!” Tonio shouted over the platoon radio frequency. I was awake by his second word and halfway to a sitting position before he finished. I used my rifle to help lever me to my feet. By that time I was also saying pretty much the same thing Tonio had, on my squad frequency, while I started moving around the circle, ready to use a boot to encourage anyone who was moving too slowly. But they were all getting to their feet, most of them more spryly than I had.
The order to “fall in” came three minutes after Tonio’s first shout. Shuttles were still coming in, three or four at a time, and a few platoons from the battalion were already boarding the lead shuttles. We stood in formation for ninety seconds before Captain Fusik started us moving at the double. We were told which shuttles were ours and got aboard with a minimum of fuss … then squeezed into airsleds by fire teams.
As far as I’m concerned, an airsled is the ultimate torture chamber. Basically, it’s a length of sewer pipe, barely large enough for the five soldiers of a fire team to squeeze into. We fit together like the members of a bobsled team, but with less elbow room. The sleds protrude in throughthe bottom of a shuttle. The shuttle takes us partway, then drops the sleds, which have a little more lifting surface than a rock and just enough rocket power to do minimal steering and brake us before we can plow into something at two hundred miles an hour. A sled hits the ground and skids. Then we get out as best we’re able and get away from the box.
It’s always a miserable ride.
We didn’t get much information on our mission before we were sealed into the sleds. Detailed instructions don’t always mean a lot. Once you’re on the ground and out of the box any mission profile can be blown sky-high. You can’t expect the enemy to cooperate and do exactly what you want them to. Captain Fusik linked to all the sergeants in the company—he had a specific radio channel for that—to remind us that we were going behind enemy lines. “Not very far behind,” he added. “When we land, get your men out and move to the rendezvous point as quickly as possible.” That rendezvous would be one hundred yards to the right of the tracks our sleds left going in, and fifty yards in front of the lead sled—the one that landed farthest north, not necessarily the first one in. No one would stay at the rendezvous long. The general idea is to get as far from the sleds as possible, quickly. Those airsleds generate a lot of heat landing, and the trails they left on the ground would be brilliant beacons in infrared to anyone looking for us … like several regiments of IFer soldiers.
WE LOST ONE FIRE TEAM FROM FOURTH PLATOON going in. Their airsled missed its landing point by thirty yards and smashed into a rock outcropping headfirst at two hundred miles per hour. The five guys inside didn’t have a prayer. Airsleds don’t leave any room for error. Even if you do everything right, there’s a chance a sled will bite your head off.
A squad from C Company landed almost in the laps of half a battalion of IFer porracci. Our people didn’t make itout of their sleds. The IFers used two rockets at short range. The second fire team of fourth squad in my platoon was luckier. They had a rough landing that cost two men broken legs and effectively put the team out of action for the next several hours.
This is starting to look like that exercise we blew on Earth, I thought, when the reports started coming in. Sometimes it’s hard not to be superstitious. Having so many things go wrong at the beginning of an operation had the words bad omen running through my head. I needed a few minutes to shake them loose. I don’t believe in omens. Most of the time.
WE COULDN’T HANG AROUND THE RENDEZVOUS. The men with broken legs were hauled by comrades, though that slowed us considerably. We go into battle loaded down with about as much weight as we can carry and still function. But we were not going to abandon injured comrades, except in the final extreme. The other three men in that fire team had minor injuries, but were ambulatory. Junior Lieutenant Trivauna and Platoon Sergeant Xeres got us gathered and moving. The lieutenant was with our platoon. That was okay by me. That gave us one more rifle and pistol. And you know a porracci is going to give any fight everything he’s got.
All of fourth squad was left as soon as we got far enough from the landing zone and rendezvous for safety. That would give the injured men a little protection until they could be evacuated, or until medtechs could get to them with the gear to treat their broken legs. The rest of us changed direction and kept moving. We received our briefing in two doses—thirty seconds at the rendezvous, maybe twice that when we left fourth squad. We were observing electronic silence, not using radios, so the briefings had to come while we were stopped and the lieutenant could talk to us without using the radio.
The battle plan still wasn’t elaborate or elegant, so thelieutenant didn’t need a lot of time to lay it out. We were to move toward the rear elements of one of the IFer battalions, take them under fire, then pull back and move to one side or the other and hit them again. Our job was strictly harrassment. With most of Ranger Battalion involved, we would be like a massive swarm of killer bees, attacking at will, swarming in to get in a lot of stings, then regrouping to do it all over again.
I once saw a bull that had been killed by bees like that.
NIGHT IN THE FOREST. THERE’S NOT MUCH MORE that a spec ops squad can ask for on a combat mission. Trees and darkness both contribute to survival. We moved at a steady—and fairly rapid—pace toward the nearest known enemy positions. But we moved carefully, with biraunta out as advance scouts, most of them up in the trees. On the ground, the three squads of the platoon moved along separate tracks. My squad had the point. The others flanked us and held back about fifty yards—about the same distance each was off to its respective side.
Ala and Oyo, our biraunta, were twenty feet or so up in the trees, thirty yards ahead of the first man on the ground. That was Toniyi, our divotect. Kiervauna, my assistant fire team leader, came next, then Claw, then me. Except for Oyo, the rest of my squad’s second fire team was behind me, with Souvana at the tail. Souvana was that fire team’s leader and assistant squad leader. According to the “book” he shouldn’t have been the rear guard, but he liked that position, and I couldn’t have asked for a better man watching our backs.
Looking through a night-vision system, the night is a strange combination of greens and grays. Depth perception suffers, and you can’t see quite as far or as well. That’s the drawback. The advantage is that any enemy will have the same degradation of vision. You swivel your head frequently, trying to watch the darkness around you, looking for movement that doesn’t belong. Ears strain for anynoise—anything that might give you a fraction of a second’s warning of trouble. The longer you go without contacting the enemy, the more the tension builds. Each step can seem to take an eternity. You worry about giving yourself away by the proverbial snap of a twig or by a motion that’s too abrupt to be natural.
It was fifty minutes after we left fourth squad when Ala dropped out of a tree ten yards in front of Toniyi and gave a hand sign that we were approaching the enemy. I stopped my squad and relayed the information—by hand signals—to Tonio and Lieutenant Trivauna, who stopped the rest of the platoon and called the squad leaders to him. I brought Ala along so he could tell what he had seen.
“I believe it’s an enemy command post,” Ala whispered. The six of us were gathered close, all with helmet visors tilted up out of the way so we could talk—whisper—without using our radios. “A camouflaged position with at least three humans inside. About a platoon spread in a loose perimeter around it, and about forty yards out.”
I did the quick math. That would mean about five yards of perimeter per man. I also noted that Ala had specified humans. We knew there were human IFers on Durestal. It didn’t help that I wished we hadn’t been the ones to come up against them. They were still the enemy.
“A complete perimeter?” JL Trivauna asked.
“Yes, sir.” Ala also nodded. “Oyo and I went far enough around on either side to be certain. The spacing between men is regular, not weighted to one side or the other. This is not part of a larger line. If there are other units, they are far enough off that the line is not continuous.”
“Lieutenant?” Tonio used the one word, asking for permission to speak. Trivauna nodded. “If our job is to mess with their minds as well as inflict casualties, we might really stir the pot if we hit them from the far side. Even if this group has a complete perimeter around a CP, they must know that all the landings were on this side. If we make them think that we’re between them and the bulk of their forces …”
Trivauna hesitated for half a second before he nodded again, then bared his teeth in a grin. “It would help if there were one or two survivors to spread that news,” he said. “We’ll do that, circle around, first and second squads to the left, third to the right. On my order we’ll hit from three points—ten, twelve, and two by the clock, considering our current position six.” He looked around to make sure everyone got the message. “We will engage only briefly. When I give the order to cease firing, first and second squads will withdraw due west. Third squad will go north far enough to break contact with the enemy before also heading west.” He unfolded his electronic map, found our current location, the position of the enemy command post, and pointed to a spot three-quarters of a mile west of the enemy position. “This is where we’ll rendezvous afterward.”
IF EVER THERE WAS A “TEXTBOOK” SPEC OPS action, this should have been it—a quick night raid against a lightly fortified position. It’s something a single squad should have been able to handle without much trouble, inflicting enough enemy casualties in the first volley that there would be no difficulty getting away. We had three squads, and the majority of us were combat veterans. Our only serious concern should have been making sure that we left those one or two survivors JL Trivauna mentioned—someone to make sure the enemy higher-ups knew we were around.
I don’t know what went wrong. Maybe we didn’t spot an electronic snoop planted out away from their perimeter. Maybe someone on that perimeter spotted movement and gave the alarm. Whatever the reason, the IFers opened up on us before Trivauna gave the order to fire. We were more than a hundred yards from the IFer perimeter. We came under both rifle and RPG—rocket-propelled grenade—fire, coordinated and disciplined. Second and third squads were hit simultaneously. My squad was a little luckier. Wehad time to go to ground and seek what cover from tree trunks we could find before any of the heat came our way. I don’t think that the IFers spotted us until we opened fire on them—trying to take pressure off the rest of our people—but I couldn’t swear to it.
JL Trivauna was with third squad. He didn’t survive the first volley. Neither did the squad’s sergeant. Tonio was with second squad, which also lost its squad leader—and two other men. There were several wounded men in both squads as well.
The rest of us put down all the firepower we could, but it was no longer a question of hit-and-run. We had too many wounded to pack along and withdraw under fire. We had to finish off that command post and its defending platoon before we could see to our wounded. It was them or us.