Starfist: Firestorm (19 page)

“What do you want me to do with him?” The sergeant grinned.

“Throw him down a well.”

“You cain’t!” O’Quinn screamed, real terror edging his voice.

“On second thought, I don’t want to poison our water supply, Sergeant. Take him home. You are on your own, Mr. Mayor. But you get in my way and I’ll have you shot.” General Sneed turned to Major Spinoza. “General Josephus is standing by, Major; he has troops to put at your disposal. Do what you can to get these people moving. Do
not
let anyone down the Ashburtonville road, though. We’ll need that for our own movements.”

“I’ll commandeer all civilian vehicles in town, sir,” Major Spinoza said, “and put them on the road south, away from the coast. There’s a national park with camping facilities about twenty klicks in the direction of Gilbert’s Corners. I’ll get as many people there as I can.”

“Very good, Major.” They exchanged salutes and Spinoza left General Sneed alone with Captain Nigh.

General Sneed sighed and sat on the edge of his desk. “Quang, we’re headed for some real action. Chow down and take it easy while you can because for the rest of the time we’re here we’ll be hopping.”

“Sir?” It was the division intelligence officer.

“Yes, Burton? What’s recon got for us?”

“Sir, it appears that the enemy landed at least a FIST-size element somewhere along the coast and managed to surprise the 7th MPs, rolled ’em up like a rug. They are presently consolidating their position and so far have not moved toward us.”

General Sneed stood up and stretched. “Just a FIST? Good news!” He turned to his aide. “Quang, that female MP, whatshername?”

“Queege, something like that, sir.”

“Yes. Well, put her in for an award. Screwed up as she is, she appears to have been the only soldier in the 7th MPs who kept her head. Write her up a decoration for valor and I’ll present it to her as soon as she’s cleaned up and sober.” He laughed and patted his thigh. “Burton, keep tabs on those Marines!”

“Should we call off Plan Red, sir?” the G2 asked.

“Hell no, Burton! This is good training for them and for the civilians. Plan Red stays in effect until the threat is eliminated. Now, Quang, I’m going to the mess and have me some breakfast. Bring that award recommendation to me there. Gentlemen”—he stretched again—“just a FIST? Shit, I can handle a FIST with one fist tied behind my back!”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Senior Sergeant N’dolo M’kwazi stood at rigid attention before Major General Barksdale Sneed. Beside him was the commander of the 4th Composite Division’s reconnaissance company, Captain Cangama. The company, known as the Trinkatat Scouts, had been assigned to the 4th Independent Infantry Division when it was formed and General Sneed considered them one of his best assets.

“At ease, gentlemen.” General Sneed grinned and extended his hand. “Captain, you and your men have done good work for this division. Sergeant, they tell me you could track a fly across slate in a hurricane.”

“Without a doubt, sir, he’s the best tracker in this army!” Captain Cangama said, nodding at Sergeant M’kwazi.

“That a fact, Sergeant?”

M’Kwazi grinned and nodded. He did not need to confirm what the general had just said. He possessed the easy confidence of a man who knew he was so good at what he did that convincing others would be a waste of valuable time.

“Well, your fine reputation has preceded you. Now, here’s the reason I called for you two. As you know, I’ve initiated Plan Red based on information we have received from a survivor of the 7th Independent MPs who apparently were overrun by Confederation Marines. I have sent the 319th Battalion of the 222nd Brigade up the coast road to block it here.” He indicated the blocking position on the vid screen. “The problem is this: Is this a raid, a reconnaissance in force, or a full-scale invasion? I have
got
to know. So far we’ve detected no other forces in this area”—he swept the entire coastline—“but that means nothing. I’ve got to have eyes out there to make sure we know what’s facing us here. I
cannot
rely solely on electronics to tell me what’s going on.”

“Very wise, sir. Electronic surveillance, if you will permit me, sir, is unreliable,” Captain Cangama said. “It can be fooled. I guarantee you”—he nodded at M’kwazi who pointed to his own eyes—“those peepers can be relied on.”

“Deploy your entire company, Captain. I want every sector between here and the coast, in all directions, thoroughly searched. Senior Sergeant M’kwazi, the fate of this division and possibly the outcome of this war may very well depend on your skills as a reconnaissance man.”

M’kwazi came to attention and saluted. “You can count on me, sir!”

Senior Sergeant M’kwazi had learned the rudiments of his trade by leading the way for gnuttle raids on neighboring kraals when he was a boy. After the first, disastrous raid he’d scouted for, he never again led a raiding party into a trap or had a raiding party lose a man because of him. Twenty years in the Trinkatat Scouts had honed the skills he’d developed in those raids. Nearly all of his peers and subordinates, as well as most of his superiors, considered him the best recon man in the Trinkatat army, and therefore in the entire Coalition army. As for M’kwazi’s own opinion of his skills, he wished he’d been sent after the Confederation Marine Force Recon patrols that had ravaged the deep rear of the Coalition army. He knew he would have put fear into them. Any patrols he encountered would have been driven off—any he didn’t manage to kill outright.

So it was inevitable that Senior Sergeant M’kwazi was assigned to lead a four-man patrol to locate the Confederation Marine infantry battalion that had apparently succeeded in overrunning the 7th Independent Military Police Battalion’s position along the coast. Thinking of the MPs, Senior Sergeant M’kwazi sneered. Doughfoot amateurs, that’s what they were! Had he and his squad been stationed along the coast instead,
nobody
would ever have surprised
them
. Oh, he’d find out what was out there!

He also thought it was well past time he was given something to do. He thought the 10th Trinkatat Scouts were being wasted performing routine tactical patrolling. Strategic reconnaissance, that was the name of the game, and “Strategy” was N’dolo M’kwazi’s middle name! General Sneed had finally recognized that fact and M’kwazi respected him for making that judgment. M’kwazi would handle the rest.

The Marines had overrun the MPs, that much was known. M’kwazi’s first stop before mounting out was to interview this Corporal Queege, the only known survivor of the raid on the MP positions.

“I hope you are sober now, Corporal.” M’kwazi grinned as he took a seat opposite a somewhat composed Puella Queege.

“Unfortunately, I am,” Queege answered. She sized M’kwazi up; tall, whipcord-thin, but he held his body like a coiled spring radiating not only enormous physical energy but strength. His teeth gleamed pearly white against his dark skin and his eyes regarded her with frankly intelligent appraisal. She knew instinctively that this man could see right through her.

“I am going out to your old camp, Corporal. Would you care to come along with me?” He grinned.

“Not only
no
, but
fuck
no!” Queege shouted, shifting her weight nervously and casting an apprehensive glance at the recon NCO.
Is this guy kidding?
she asked herself, licking her lips. She badly needed a beer.

M’kwazi laughed. The laughter came from deep inside his chest. “I want you to tell me everything you can remember about the 7th MPs’ camp out there, where the units were, what kind of tents or buildings they occupied, everything you can remember about the layout and what you can recall from the attack. I don’t have much time, so please be quick, but be thorough.” He flashed her a grin and bid her begin with a gesture of his hand. The fingers on that hand were long and delicate, the fingers of a pianist, Queege thought.

“Well, okay. Y’see, I was out behind the first sergeant’s tent, takin’ a shit…”

M’kwazi left the interview smiling to himself. What a character the corporal was! He shook his head. Well, she was no fool; a drunk, yes, but not a stupid drunk, and she’d given him all she could and that would be a big help. M’kwazi wondered how in the world she’d ever convinced anyone she was an MP.

The question still to be answered was, where were the invaders going now and who might be with them? M’kwazi had little time in which to find the Marines. Therefore, he broke his normal operating procedure and took his patrol down the coast road, carefully paralleling the highway until he could smell the sea. Before they reached the late camp of the 7th Independent MP Battalion, he reached the ground where the Marines had most recently attacked. He dismounted his men and they crept carefully forward until they could see the battlefield. He spent only a quarter of an hour examining the ground. He saw where the defenders had thrown up an inadequate sandbag wall and where the Marines had attacked from, then where the Marines had swept along the abandoned defensive line at the end of the firefight. He saw where the main assault line had boarded air-cushioned vehicles and headed toward the coastal road, and where a second line had boarded aircraft—he had no way of knowing for certain where the aircraft had gone, but the coast road to Phelps was a good guess.

He boarded his men back onto their vehicle and headed out at speed.

Unlike the previous scouts and defenders who had faced the Marines this day, M’kwazi and his men had infrared capability. And used it. The scout vehicle skidded to a stop while it was still a kilometer and a half shy of the coastal road. M’kwazi saw infrared shapes through the trees ahead. Some were large, like vehicles, but most were man-size. He knew these must be the Confederation Marines he was seeking. They didn’t seem to be doing anything, just holding in place as though they were waiting for something. And what could that something be? To him it was obvious—they were waiting for more forces to move toward them.

So where were the other forces?

The only way to find out was to go in search of them. M’kwazi had his driver turn north and circle around behind the Marine battalion he’d located. He did not forget to report the current location of the Confederation Marines he’d found.

Twenty minutes behind where the Marines were waiting, the recon patrol had to stop and go into hiding from an armored convoy coming along the road at speed. It was Confederation Army. M’kwazi read the markings on the lead vehicles, which was easy to do with the naked eye as the vehicles weren’t painted in Marine chameleon, and identified them as belonging to the 27th Infantry Division.

Curious
, M’kwazi thought. Part of M’kwazi’s duty as the senior recon sergeant in the 10th Trinkatat Scouts was to keep himself informed on every aspect of the war. He did that by reading all the after-action reports generated by General Lyons’s commanders. He followed very closely the action on Pohick Bay. The 27th was the division that beat off the amphibious assault against the enemy’s flank from the bay. How had the 27th Division gotten off of the peninsula without General Lyons knowing about it? Or was the earlier intelligence that the 27th Division was one of the trapped units wrong? Privately, M’kwazi had thought that the Marines raiding behind the Coalition’s lines had been freshly landed. But if the 27th Infantry Division had gotten off the Pohick peninsula, were these Marines also from the besieged garrison? If so, were there more Confederation forces that had managed to escape the trap now threatening the Coalition forces from the rear?

Senior Sergeant M’kwazi waited impatiently for the convoy—trucks, now that the armored vehicles had passed—to go by so he could get around to its other side and find out if any more units were closer to the shore. He reported the approach of the division.

When the column began to slow its passage, M’kwazi decided to stop waiting, as the division must be forming for an attack. He had his driver slowly back out of the hiding place and speed toward the back end of the column, staying just out of sight of the road. He hoped he wouldn’t find another division behind the 27th Infantry. Soon, in fleeting glimpses through the trees, M’kwazi began seeing the self-propelled vehicles of the division’s artillery regiment. Not long after that the patrol reached the end of the column. M’kwazi had his driver cross to the east of the road and take them closer to the division’s rear. If another division was farther out, they’d be able to find it, and if it was there, it wouldn’t block the patrol from the side of the road that he wanted to recon next.

When after two kilometers the patrol neither saw nor heard sign of a following unit, M’kwazi abandoned the original plan of reconning the 7th MP camp; the 27th Infantry Division was a more important quarry, and likely there was nobody left at the MP camp. He had his driver turn about and head back toward Phelps, close to the coast road. They went fast for a while before M’kwazi had the driver slow—he didn’t want the noise of his own passage to alert any Confederation forces that might be ahead. After a short while longer, he had his driver stop and the patrol dismount. They continued on foot.

Half a kilometer farther, M’kwazi sensed his patrol was getting very close to someone. He stopped, had his men go to ground, and continued on alone.

Scouting for gnuttle-raiding parties had taught M’kwazi several valuable lessons at which he only became more expert with age and experience. Among them were how to move silently, and how to blend in with the background; in effect, how to be invisible even within sight of the enemy. M’kwazi firmly believed that he was every bit as undetectable as the scouts of the legendary Confederation Marine Force Recon units.

Of course, M’kwazi had never personally encountered the Force Recon Marines, he knew them only by their reputation. For that matter, he had never encountered
any
Confederation Marines. He knew what reputations were; the best reputations were always exaggerated.

Senior Sergeant M’kwazi never saw the Marine from 17th FIST who spotted him, and he didn’t hear the
crack-sizzle
of the plasma bolt that Marine fired at him; the bolt that killed the one-time scout for gnuttle-raiding parties.

Half a kilometer back, his men
did
hear the
crack-sizzle
, and feared what it might mean. They waited the one hour M’kwazi had instructed them to wait, then radioed in their report. By then, though, it was too late.