The day after: An apocalyptic morning (151 page)

              "Stu," Colby said, more firmly now. "We need to talk."

              Stu looked up at him impatiently. "What?" he said. "You wanna talk, then talk."

              "Over here," Colby said, jerking his head towards an area of privacy. He'd intended it to sound like an order but instead it came out sounding like a request, and a very meek one at that.

              "All right," Stu sighed, walking over that way. "But let's make it fast. We can't let those fucks dig in any further than they are."

              Colby followed him over and turned to face him. "I think we need to pull back," he said.

              Stu looked at him as if he were an idiot. "We already did pull back," he said. "Now we need to regroup and push forward."

              "No," Colby said, shaking his head. "I mean pull all the way back. To the highway and then... and then to Auburn."

              Stu digested these words for a moment and then took an angry step forward. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" he asked. "Pull back when we're almost within sight of the wall? What kind of shit are you spouting?"

              "They're killing us, Stu," he told him, a little more conviction in his voice now. "We just lost an entire platoon worth of soldiers in less than ten minutes. This was just the first battle. They're in prepared positions on top of the hills. They can shoot at us almost with impunity and they can drop fucking napalm on us from higher than we can shoot. We can't win!"

              Stu stepped forward and pushed him roughly, sending him against a tree. "Are you pulling that from the deep depths of your military experience?" he asked with vicious sarcasm.

              "I know I'm not very experienced," Colby said, holding his ground. "But I've been on this particular campaign as long as you have. I've seen just as well as you what these Garden Hill people are capable of doing. They've got an organized defense here, Stu and the only way we're going to get through it is to sacrifice almost all of our men."

              "They don't have that many people," Stu insisted, continuing to glare. "All we have to do is keep flanking them and we'll get around. We'll clear those fucking hills with the next attack."

              "There's not going to be a next attack," Colby said. "We're pulling back to the highway and we're going home. I'll take full responsibility for the decision, don't worry about that."

              "You'll take full responsibility?" Stu asked, his voice becoming strangely calm all of a sudden.

              "That's right. I'm in command and those are my orders. If Barnes has a problem with it, then it's me alone who will take the heat."

              Stu raised his rifle up and pointed it at Colby's head. "Here's some fucking heat for you, Colby," he said.

              "Stu," Colby said nervously, looking at the bore of an M-16 pointing at him, "what are you..."

              "I'm doing what I have to do," he said and pulled the trigger. A single shot cracked and suddenly there was a hole in Colby's forehead and a splatter of blood and brains on the tree behind him. Colby remained standing for the briefest of instances, an expression of terrified surprise upon his face, and then he fell forward to the ground.

              Stu looked around, seeing that everyone within view had stopped what they were doing and was staring at him. Even those who had been firing back at the enemy, even they were looking at him in stunned disbelief. Slowly, carefully, he lowered his rifle back down. "Platoon leaders," he yelled. "Form up on me, right now!"

              It took a moment but finally, one by one, they filtered over, the sergeants and even the odd corporal that had been put in charge. They looked at him fearfully and with anger. What he did in the next minute was going to decide his fate.

              "What did you kill Colby for?" Stinson asked, his hand gripping his weapon, his eyes demanding answers.

              "I had to," Stu said. "He was going to get all of us killed."

              "Oh?" Stinson asked, his finger edging a little closer to his trigger.

              "He was going to order a repeat of the last attack," Stu told them. "I was trying to tell him that it would only get more men killed, that we had already figured out that it wouldn't work that way, but he wouldn't listen to me. He wasn't fit for command so I relieved him the only way I know how."

              "He was going to order us to rush those hills again?" Sergeant Vickers asked in disbelief. "Jesus fucking Christ!"

              "He was going to order it with the same amount of troops," Stu said. "I don't know what he was thinking or why he wouldn't listen to me, but I'm in command now and we'll do it the way it's supposed to be done."

              "The way it's supposed to be done?" Stinson asked, his finger not moving much. "And what might that be?"

              "We're going to send two platoons to each side," Stu answered. "That's eighty men on each side. The rest of us will stay back here and provide covering fire."

              Everyone looked at each other, their expressions varying between confusion and outright fear.

              Feeling a little more confident now, Stu shouldered his rifle. "Let's get ready," he said. "Everyone gather around and we'll go over the plan. I want to be on the move in the next twenty minutes."

              Slowly everyone did as he said. They gathered around and sat down next to him for a briefing. After a moment Stinson let his finger off the trigger and joined them.

              Part 19

              "Sir," Corporal Wilhelm, the leader of third platoon, spoke up hesitantly.

              "What?" Stu asked, annoyed at being interrupted while making attack plans. "Do you have something to add?"

              "Well, sir," Wilhelm told him, "we don't... uh... have quite enough men to do what you're planning."

              "What?" Stu asked, glaring at him. What the hell did he mean, not enough men? He had five fucking platoons didn't he? One less than he had started the battle with, but still five.

              "My platoon is down to about sixty percent strength," Wilhelm reminded him. "I only have twenty-five guys left after the air raids last night and sniping runs the day before. And I was already understrength to begin with. I also lost one to desertion last night."

              "I'm in the same boat, sir," Sergeant Lima, of first platoon reminded. "Remember, my men took the brunt of that first attack and those two napalm runs. I have only twenty-eight left."

              "All of the other platoons are understrength as well," Stinson added, wondering if maybe he should have just shot the crazy son-of-a-bitch a few minutes ago when he might have been able to get away with it. He had been close, very close to doing it. Only fear of Barnes and what would happen to him upon his return to Garden Hill had kept him from it. After all, he had no proof of what had occurred between Stu and Colby. "My reorganized platoon only has thirty-six men, including myself."

              Stu took a few deep breaths, looking at the men around him, seeing their doubting expressions. Now that they had said it aloud, he realized that they were right - they did not have the numbers that he had thought they had. And he should have known that! Hadn't he been the one to conduct roll call that very morning? It had to be the fatigue getting to him. He had only had about six hours of sleep in the last three days.

              "Forgive me," he said, his mind clicking along. "You're right of course, I don't know what I was thinking. But in the end, it doesn't really Micker."

              "It doesn't Micker?" Stinson asked.

              "We'll reorganize again," Stu said. "We'll move our men around so that each platoon has twenty-eight people. The rest will be in the reserve squad that will provide covering fire. That's fifty-six men on each flank to get around the outside of those hills and into the enemy rear. That will be enough."

              "Sir..." Stinson started, not the least bit confident in this plan.

              "It will be enough," Stu said. "Remember, they're sitting up on those three hills over there. We're not going to rush right into them; we're going around to the back where they're not protected. But we need to do it fast before they think to shift their forces around. So let's get it done. Here's the plan..." He began to talk.

              Though none of the leaders liked his plan very much, they listened.

              "Okay," Skip said as he looked at the mass of Auburn soldiers down below. "It looks like they're gathering into two larger attack groups. They're gonna try to outflank us again."

              Jack was half watching the instruments on the panel to make sure they didn't drift up or down from the hover and half watching the view outside. Inside, Skip's hands were instinctively keeping them rock solid in place, the altimeter and the forward airspeed indicator not moving a micrometer. Outside, the plans of the militia were obvious even to him. The tiny figures below could be seen to be gathering into two distinct groups. They were marching either to the east or the west of their central position, moving through the trees and behind the hills outside of the sight of the friendly forces in the trenches. They left a small group of ten men or so in the center but the rest were taking up positions well to the outside.

              "Mick, Christine, Paula," Skip said into the VHF frequency. "Get ready to shift positions. They're planning a flanking attack on both sides of you, looks like fifty or so men on each flank."

              All three platoon leaders acknowledged his transmission and told him they were standing by for movement orders. Skip took his eyes off the view outside and consulted the map, pulling it over to him from Jack's lap and trusting him to keep an eye on their flight status. "All right," he said into the radio, his eyes tracking over grids and trench numbers. "Paula, move your platoon over to grid Delta 7 and spread out equally through trenches 20, 22, 23, and 25. If they move forward from their push-off point, the troops gathering on that right flank are going to come directly at that position."

              "Copy, Skip," she said. "We're on the way."

              "Be sure to have at least one automatic in each trench if you can," he advised.

              "Will do."

              "Did your replacement for Helen show up?" he asked next.

              "Affirm, Janice Milligan took over her gun. We're ready to rock."

              "Good," Skip said. "Get going."

              He looked at the map again for a moment and then back outside, comparing the features on paper with the terrain where the troops on the left flank were gathering. He traced the most likely avenue of advance around the hill where Mick and his platoon were currently in place. "Mick," he said after a few moments of thought. "I want you to deploy to grid Delta 2 and occupy trenches 3, 5, 7, and 9. That'll give you a good spread to hold them against the left flank attack."

              "On the way," Mick said.

              Skip continued to stare downward for a few moments, continuing to allow Jack to monitor the instruments. What he was doing was yet another gamble and this time it wasn't such a sure thing. He had just spread out the two flank guards to a point far away from Christine's position. If this gathering below was a ruse designed to trick him into doing just what he was now doing, the entire force of the militia would be able to quickly switch back to where they had been and drive right at Christine and her people. 120 or so men attacking a single, unprotected position at once would surely overwhelm them, even with air support. He did not like leaving so much to chance. He did not like having to guess whether or not the fatigue that the militia commander or commanders had to be experiencing was preventing them from coming up with a complex plan like that. Was there anything to be done about this?

              "You okay, Skip," Jack asked, taking his eyes off the panel to look at him. "You seem a little... well..."

              "Hesitant?" Skip asked, giving a weak smile.

              "Yeah."

              "I'm all right," Skip said reassuringly, troubled both by the gamble and by the fact that the troops he was commanding were obeying his orders so blindly. "I'm just trying to think through something. We never have a General Patton around when we need one."

              "What do you mean?" Jack asked.

              "Never mind," Skip told him. It was never a good idea to let the troops know that their commander was having doubts. "I'm just a little tired like everyone else. Am I still on VHF?"

              "Yeah," Jack confirmed. "And you're starting to drift forward a bit. Might want to pull back a little."

              Skip glanced at his forward airspeed indicator and saw that it was indeed starting to creep up a hair. "Thanks," he told him, making the correction and stabilizing them once more. He keyed up the headset again. " Christine, you there?" he asked.

              "Right here," she said, her own voice sounding more than a little tired. "And I have two fresh replacements for my casualties as well."