The Forlorn Hope (10 page)

“Hey, I'm coming too,” Hodicky said brightly. “Sure, I'll—I'll come too.” He turned to the door.

“Wait a minute,” said Quade. He was frowning again. “Sure you want to do that?”

“Gee, it's like you said,” Hodicky insisted. “With the Lieutenant gone, our ass was grass for sure.”

“Well, get a rifle then,” Quade said bluntly. “We'll need it.”

“Q, I—” Hodicky began. He stepped into the arms locker, taking a rifle and canister as the others had done. “Let's roll,” he said in the cheerful, brittle voice of a moment before. He had not loaded the rifle.

Janko and Doubek watched the two follow their lieutenant. Neither of Ondru's men spoke or moved from the open locker for over a minute after the others had gone.

*   *   *

“The hell that wasn't shooting,” Churchie Dwyer insisted. He stepped to the front opening from which Del Hoybrin still surveyed the interior of the compound. “You heard it, Del, didn't you?”

“If you say so, Churchie,” the big man agreed.

“It was somebody trying to start an engine,” said Bertinelli as he loaded a chip viewer. “Too hollow for a gun.”

A visored head thrust through the back curtain. In the voice of Hussein ben Mehdi, it said, “Doc, I want you to be ready in case something blows yet tonight,” Then, “Dwyer? Is that you?” Churchie was recognizable with his visor down only because he stood next to the huge bulk of Trooper Hoybrin. It was pointless to direct a request for information to Del, of course. “Why aren't you two at your posts?”

“Sir,” said Churchie with the deference which came easily when he was not looking for trouble, “Sergeant Hummel relieved us because of our wounds. They have to be dressed every four hours, you—
what the hell is that?
”

“It's Sergeant Jensen and the gun,” said Del as his friend spun to see what was making the noise. The corpsman frowned and stepped forward, trying to get a look past the shoulders of the other men.

Lieutenant ben Mehdi backed out of the medical station to look for himself. The OC shelter was only fifty meters away. He had preferred to walk over with his directions to Bertinelli rather than to put his nervousness on the air. Now ben Mehdi called plaintively, “What are you doing here, Guns? Did the Colonel—?” He stopped.

Jensen braked the gun carriage from the fast walk at which he had brought it from the head of the valley. The whine of its linkless tracks ceased. The Gunner stood and rotated his seat back into the firing position. “This will do for now,” he said to his crew. “Dismount but stay close.”

Only then did the blond sergeant walk over to Lieutenant ben Mehdi. He lifted his helmet visor so that he could speak without its muffling. In a very low voice, Jensen said, “Sir, I came in without orders. My boys were out in West Bumfuck and I didn't want them left if folks started climbing trucks in a hurry.”

Ben Mehdi grimaced beneath his own face shield, then lifted it. “I would to Allah that Guido—” he began. He broke off when Dwyer called, “Visitors, people.”

Someone in Cecach fatigues was panting toward the Operations Center from the direction of the Complex itself. Sergeant Jensen eyed ben Mehdi a moment. The Lieutenant paused uncertainly. Jensen gave a shrill, carrying whistle and unslung his shoulder weapon. “Over here,” he called to the newcomer. “And you can leave what you're carrying, just for now.”

It was unlikely that, however badly the Colonel's negotiations were going, the indigs were going to send a sapper to bomb the OC. It was also cheaper not to take the chance.

The newcomer dropped his burden. As the man approached at a staggering jog, both ben Mehdi and the non-com recognized him as Waldstejn, the local Supply Officer. He was blown from the half-kilometer run, but the exertion had also damped his nervousness. “Where's the Colonel?” Waldstejn demanded. “Need to see him fast.”

Sergeant Jensen eased and ben Mehdi found his tongue. “I thought you might know,” the mercenary officer said. “He was with your people.” Ben Mehdi gestured toward the Headquarters building. “Or did you come from the warehouse?”

“Mary, Mother of God,” Lieutenant Waldstejn wheezed. He bent over with his hands on his knees to draw deep breaths. The assault rifle which he gripped clattered on his right shin. “All right,” he said, straightening abruptly. The eyes of the gun crew and the troopers who had been in the medical station were on him. “They're going to kill you, trade your lives for an easy deal themselves. Lichtenstein and the rest.”

Churchie Dwyer whistled a snatch of tune under his breath, but no one interrupted.

“You've got outposts north and south on the ridges?” the Federal officer asked.

“North only,” said ben Mehdi. “We've loaned your people the gear on the other side.”

“Call them in, back here,” Waldstejn said. “Like the gun, good, but you'll have to leave it because—”

“Who the hell are you to give orders?” demanded Sergeant Jensen.

“Look,” Albrecht Waldstejn pleaded, “I won't have the bastards kill you. For
God's
sake, take my word for it till Guido gets back. I can maybe find you a way out, but we've got to
move!
'

Lieutenant ben Mehdi touched his commo key. “Black One,” he called in a voice even tenser than usual under the circumstances, “this is Red Two. Bring in the Listening Post at once. Disable the gear, just bring them in.”

“Sarge,” called one of the gun crewmen. Two more figures were stumbling across the clear area between the Complex and the bunkers surrounding its perimeter.

Waldstejn stiffened. His goggles were not as efficient as the mercenaries' visors. “There were some guards,” he began, “but I don't think they'd—
oh!
” The two short figures in Federal cammies could be only Quade and Hodicky, the
damned
fools. “They're mine,” Waldstejn said, “it's all right.”

The Privates approached the group around their lieutenant. They were in better shape than the run had left Waldstejn. The Cecach officer ignored them. He said to Jensen and ben Mehdi, “You've got a path through the mines besides the one along the pylons to the west, right?” The mercenaries nodded. “Right,” continued Lieutenant Waldstejn. “You can create a diversion around the trucks—”

All the mercenaries stiffened as their helmets popped on the command channel. There were no words over the radio. The night suddenly flashed and crackled with gunfire in front of the battalion headquarters. Troopers spun up the electronic magnification of their gunsights and strained to see why half a dozen assault rifles had fired.

Del Hoybrin had been watching Headquarters even before the shooting. He flipped his face shield up and out of the way to keep it from interfering with his cheek-weld on his gun stock.

“Del!” Churchie shouted beside him.

The open door of the building five hundred meters away was a perfect aiming point. Hoybrin fired a three-round burst. His big body rocked back. Leaning into the weapon, he fired again. The yellow rectangle of light down-range smeared ragged as poured concrete shattered under the impact of the osmium missiles. One of the Federal riflemen began spraying the night in nervous flickers. His chances of hitting anything at the range were next to nothing.

Del Hoybrin fired a third burst before Dwyer wrestled up the muzzle of the gun. None of the other mercenaries had tried to interfere. They had gone flat on their bellies, watching the big man with a caution born of experience. “Del!” Churchie screamed, “don't shoot now!”

Albrecht Waldstejn and his men had dropped to the ground a moment after the mercenaries had done so. “God help us,” the Cecach officer said to ben Mehdi. “Let's get to your Operations Center and try to sort this out fast.”

“But Churchie,” Del Hoybrin was saying in surprise. “I was watching them. They just killed the Colonel.”

*   *   *

“The lights!” shouted Captain Brionca. “Turn out the lights!”

Strojnowski might have been soldier enough to risk it, but he was more interested in rolling outside to learn what was going on. The squad on guard was from his own Third Company.

Lieutenant Dyk was cowering under the table with the rest of the officers in Lichtenstein's office. The young man leaped up with a cry and slapped at the light switch. Then he stumbled over a chair, scrambled to his feet again, and reached the panel in the outer office just as another volley of projectiles ripped through the building. The overhead lights flickered out as a gush of blue sparks exploded from the shorted wiring. Dyk spun, screaming. An osmium projectile punched a neat hole in the partition wall behind him, having shattered bone on its path the length of the Lieutenant's outstretched arm.

Lime dust from pulverized concrete roiled in the air within the building. Papers were burning on a secretarial desk. Shorted equipment or a spray of metal ignited by friction had started the fire, the only illumination remaining in the Headquarters building. The Federal soldier's return fire had ceased also. Either the damned fool had emptied his rifle or he had realized that he did not have a snowball's chance in Hell of hitting anything at the range.

The good lord knew why the mercs had stopped shooting, though.

“Ondru, report,” the company commander growled.

“We got him,” Sergeant Breisach's voice responded from the darkness. With his goggles on, Strojnowski could just make out the forms of the guards hugging the ground as he was doing himself. Radios within the building were sizzling with unanswered questions from the perimeter bunkers. “Then, blooie!” Breisach went on. “Look, we can't handle them at the range. You gotta bring in arty or something, Captain.”

As if summoned, the artillery lieutenant scurried through the door in a low crouch. “What happened?” he blurted. “Did you get—” The young officer tripped over Strojnowski's outstretched feet. He pitched forward and screamed. The hand he had thrown forward to break his fall had splashed in what was left of Colonel Fasolini's thorax. The mercenary had worn body armor that might have saved him at a hundred meters. When the muzzle flashes were close enough to burn his uniform, the high velocity sprays had turned fragments of the backplate into missiles themselves. The air stank with the effluvium of ripped intestines.

From inside, Captain Brionca rasped orders slightly out of synch with her words over Strojnowski's belt radio. “All Boxer units!” she was saying. “All Boxer units! Fire at will at any off-planet troops you see. Do not leave your positions. Repeat, do not—”

An assault rifle stuttered briefly, pointlessly, near the eastern interface between Federal and mercenary positions. The bunkers were too widely spaced for the Federal weapons to be really effective. White flashes from the bunker, two guns and then a third, continued for several seconds. The shooting ended in a momentary orange ball in the midst of the muzzle flashes. The thump of the tube-launched mercenary grenade provided a coda to the chattering gunfire.

The artilleryman was trying to wipe his hand in the dirt. “Mortars,” he was saying, “high explosives. We'll blast them out from a distance!”

Strojnowski punched his company push. “Ranger Six,” he said, identifying himself to his troops, “to max Ranger units. Cease fire! Repeat, cease fire. Unless you've got a target in range and coming at you.” The infantry captain paused to let that sink in. Then he added, “If you're fired at by mercs, reply with anti-tank rockets. Don't use your rifles, use rockets and wait till you've got something to aim at.”

Screw Brionca and her stupid orders. The 522nd did not have to worry about a job they were not equipped for. All they had to do was to keep the mercs pinned down for the day or less until the Rube tanks arrived. Strojnowski did not like the deal, but he liked it better than he liked having his ass shot away.

“Come on, Breisach,” the officer ordered. “We'll crawl to my bunker and I'll use your squad as a reserve.” The rest of the battalion officers could stay inside a targeted building if they wanted. Strojnowski only wished that he could intercept the mercenary communications as they almost certainly were intercepting those of the 522nd.

To the surprise of the infantry captain, the young lieutenant was crawling along beside him. It was probably a lack of any other direction. “But why aren't we shelling?” the artilleryman demanded. “Why?”

“Because we aren't soldiers, we're goddam prison guards!” the older man snapped back. “We're here to keep the contract laborers from breaking out, not to fight a war. The 522nd doesn't have a Heavy Weapons Company. No mortars, no heavy machine guns … Hell, the
mercs
were supposed to be our heavy weapons!”

The whole area was studded with bits of smelter slag. It passed unnoticed in the coarse grass, but it gouged at the knees and bare palms of a man trying to crawl across three hundred meters of it. Grunting, balancing discomfort against the risk of a bullet if he stood, Strojnowski said, “I felt sorry for them, getting the shaft that way. But if the Rubes need help executing them now, I'll shoot every off-planet SOB myself!”

CHAPTER FIVE

Two more mercenaries in battle dress scurried to the Operations Center from the east. They were hunched over with caution and the weight of their equipment. Lieutenant ben Mehdi leaned from the shelter to observe them in helmeted neutrality. “Team?” he called in a low voice.

“Black Twelve,” one of them panted back. Both troopers knelt, keeping the hump of the OC between them and the distant Complex.

Ben Mehdi nodded agreement. “Right. We're forming up fifty meters north—” he pointed— “in a defile. Mboko's in charge there.” He touched his helmet and ordered, “Black One, leapfrog your odd teams. Twelve is in.” From the west, the Lieutenant could see two troopers from White Section already scuttling toward the OC.