Until Relieved (18 page)

Two minutes after the first Havoc rounds exploded, and ninety seconds after the Wasps started to hit their targets, Echo and George companies moved forward to attack the barracks. George Company had the direct assault. Three platoons raced across the last two-hundred meters of open ground toward the five buildings surrounded by razor wire. The heavy weapons squads of both companies were in position to pour covering fire into the buildings—Vrerch rockets and wire from their splat guns. Those marksmen armed with Dupuy rocket rifles, commonly known as cough guns, were posted where they would do the most good. The Dupuy fired a 12.5mm rocket-assisted round that could travel level for ranges of up to five kilometers—though it was rare indeed for a target to remain visible and stationary at that distance long enough for the sniper rifle to be truly effective. Like most infantry weapons, the Dupuy was normally used at much less than its maximum accurate range.

The rest of George Company, and the first two platoons of Echo, moved around to the sides of the compound, ready to come in from those directions, or to intercept anyone trying to retreat from (or move to) the kaserne.

The men of Echo and George were sparing of wire during the first minutes of their advance. The leading elements managed to get most of the way across the two-hundred-meter open field before they were spotted, and even after that, most of the Accord firing came from Vrerchs and splat guns behind them. The wire carbines were ready for use, but over and over the men had been cautioned that they weren't to shoot until they had clear targets, or until they started taking Heggie fire.

It seemed to take forever before the Heggies did start returning fire in any organized fashion. The delay may have been no more than two minutes, but that allowed much of the attacking force to get nearly to the buildings. Sappers blew holes in the perimeter fence. Three Vrerch rockets had taken out the gate house, the gate, and nearly ten meters of the barrier on either side. That was the hole that the lead elements of George Company poured through.

Finally, though, the men in the barracks did start to defend themselves, with wire, grenades, and rockets. The fire started out light, ragged, but it built steadily.

What'd they have to do, find the key to the armory?
Joe asked himself, shocked more than relieved by the slow response.

Around on the south side of the compound, 2nd platoon had not come directly under fire yet. The early Heggie response was all directed toward the main part of George Company, advancing through the gap where the main gate had been. Second platoon was no longer running. The men moved forward by squads now, one covering the other. Mostly, the men walked in a crouch, ready to dive for cover when the enemy finally noticed them.

Joe no longer thought of the danger. He focused completely on each move, and on keeping track of his men and their situations. There was simply no room left for personal fear. He did remain mindful of all the urgings to be sparing of ammunition, but Joe Baerclau was always somewhat stingy of wire. His bursts were generally little more than a quarter second in duration, a light touch. Years of practice had given him an excellent feel for that, and he tried to restrain himself to shooting at visible targets. Wire carbines showed no muzzle flashes for an enemy to aim at. Joe had to look for people, or for their heat signatures in infrared. With rockets and grenades exploding on both sides, that became more difficult as the firefight progressed.

Part of the facade of the building that 2nd platoon was moving toward exploded outward. Bricks flew dozens of meters. Smaller bits of debris showered down on the approach soldiers. Then the rest of the wall seemed to bend outward, warping slowly. It finally twisted with a loud wrenching noise before it came down in apparent slow motion. Flames were rising inside the building, soaring from ground level through the roof. The Schlinal soldiers who had been inside were starkly illuminated, silhouettes against the dull orange and red flames. More than a few of the men were on fire. Those who could, jumped. The building was only two stories high. A soldier would know that he stood a better chance of surviving jumping from a height of seven or eight meters than staying inside to be roasted.

Weapons were dropped. Few of the men tried to jump clutching their rifles. The ones who were on fire obviously had other things on their minds, but even those who jumped before the flames reached them tended to jettison their rifles first, to give them both hands free for their landing.

"Come on, let's go!" Max Maycroft shouted in his helmet, which gave an almost deafening volume to the men of 2nd platoon.

Joe gestured the rest of his squad on.

The shouting intensified, almost at that moment. There was a fusillade from the largest building in the barracks compound, returned by 2nd platoon and the other Accord men with line of sight to that building. Men fell, on both sides.

Several Schlinal rocket grenades exploded nearly at once in the open. Joe happened to be looking past Max Maycroft when the platoon sergeant was hit by one of the rockets, right about on his left collarbone. The grenade exploded.

And so, in effect, did the platoon sergeant.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The five remaining Havocs of Basset Battery had all refueled before dawn. Their support vehicles—normally, one unarmored truck carried supplies, principally ammunition and fuel, for two guns, as well as mechanics and their tools—had moved with them. Now, the support vehicles, and the security detachment who rode with them, were all concealed at some distance from the Havocs, farther from Porter City, ready to either move forward to replenish the guns again, or to cut and run if that became necessary. The trucks, unburdened by armor or the weight of the large guns, were capable of speeds nearly double those of the Havocs.

Naturally, the maintenance vehicles were on the same radio net as the Havocs. Most of the crews listened primarily to "their" two guns. Familiarity made that an almost unconscious process of selection. The technical support crews came to recognize the voices of the men in their Havocs, even under the most extreme conditions. Once the shelling of Porter City started, engines were left running in the vans. The crews were in place, and the troops whose job it was to defend them were close enough to hop aboard in case a hasty move became necessary—in either direction.

They had a lot to listen to.

—|—

"Get us out of here. Quick!" Gunnery Sergeant Ponks shouted. "Course two-six-five."

Simon Kilgore didn't wait for an explanation. Basset two veered sharply left, accelerating before the turn was complete. Two saplings were crushed by the right tread. Inside the gun carriage, the trees went unnoticed. Basset two was too far from Porter City to be in range of any enemy Nova tanks, but there
was
incoming fire.

"Must be a fighter," Ponks said, still shouting into his microphone. "Two rockets."

No one questioned how they had managed to escape being hit by one, let alone two missiles. If they had truly been spotted by an enemy plane, only the wildest luck could have saved them. No one counted on that luck holding through the next launch of rockets.

"Why ain't it on the scope?" Simon demanded. "Not a hint." Up close, within easy missile range, the stealth capabilities of a fighter—Accord or Hegemony—wouldn't be enough to hide the plane completely.

"What was the angle?" Karl Mennem asked, shouting as loudly as the others. "Maybe it was a mudder."

"Looked high, but I'm not positive," Ponks admitted. "Mudder, that'd explain the misses, maybe." Even a wire-controlled rocket could be aimed badly. Ponks hit the scan control on the outside cameras, wishing that there were more eyes. Something in the air, or someone on the ground? On the ground, a man with a rocket tube would need to be a lot closer to have a good shot. In the air...

"Incoming!" Kilgore shouted as he reversed direction on one tread to slew the tank around to the right.

There could have been no more than one and a half seconds warning, but it was long enough for each man in the Havoc to note several distinct events—the jerk of the vehicle as it continued to twist around, the sharp
tink
,
tink
,
tink
of a small piece of metal bouncing around in the forward compartment, and then the realization of what was about to happen—before the crushing sounds of metal and explosives erupted as the wire-guided rocket slammed into the thin fender over the sprocketed drive wheel on the rear right of the Havoc. The Havoc tilted up, away from the blast. The noise inside the crew compartments was beyond deafening. For an instant stretching toward infinity by echoes, the din was paralytic.

Eustace screeched, "Bail out!" but none of the others could hear him. He couldn't hear himself even. It would be a long while before any of them would hear normally again, if they survived.

No one really needed the order in any case. As soon as the crewmen found some return of coordination, their hands reached for the latches that would give them an escape route. Though rational thought was nearly impossible, their training had been thorough enough for each man to know what to do. If they could get out of the Havoc quickly, they
might
have a chance. The rocket had exploded low, but near the ammunition stores. The wall between ammunition and crew was armored better than any other part of the Havoc, and the compartment was designed so that the bulk of any explosion there would vent up and back, away from the crew. But if the gun's ammunition rack did explode, there still might be a fireball within the compartments, and if that happened, none of them would escape, or leave remains that could be identified.

Simon did think to kill the engines. That too was reflex, honed by hundreds of hours of drill.

The four men scrambled out of the hatches. Luckily, and because of exemplary engineering and construction, none of the hatches had been jammed by the blast. The men scarcely breathed as they scurried to escape. Each mind held an image of the fireball it expected. A second, two seconds: there might be no more time than that. The men jumped from the deck of the Havoc and ran straight away from it, not taking any thought to where the others might be headed, ready to dive forward at the first hint of light from the next explosion.

That second explosion did not come.

Forty meters from Basset two, Eustace finally collapsed, too out of breath to go another step. He fell forward, gasping for air. There was a delay before his mind was able to start thinking rationally. There had been no secondary explosion. The ammunition rack had not gone up. But somewhere, perhaps very close, there was at least one Schlinal soldier, perhaps many of them.

Ponks forced his mouth shut and worked to keep his labored breath muted. The danger was far from over. It might only be beginning. He rolled to the side, anxious to move from where he had been. He started looking for cover, or for any hint of an enemy approaching to finish him off.

He could see very little. Havoc crewmen didn't wear the same battle helmets that their infantry comrades did, helmets with built-in night-vision systems. The Havocs' optics took care of that. Nestled inside their metal and composite compartments, the crew used periscopes and video cameras to do their seeing for them, with greater acuity in any light than mere eyes could ever know. The helmet that the crewmen wore was more for sound insulation than for protection or for data readouts. It had radios, but no fancy optics at all.

Eustace lifted his head slowly, a few millimeters at a time, scanning as far as he could to either side, looking for any hint of movement. There was little residual fire to aid vision. The Havoc itself scarcely looked damaged in the starlight. The crumpled rear fender was all that Ponks could see from his position.

"Simon? Karl? Jimmy?" Ponks whispered the names, hoping that his helmet radio still worked.

One by one, and quite slowly, each of the others replied. At first, each spoke on a single word, his own name, just to let the chief know he was alive. Besides, no one had spare breath left for anything beyond a single word. At least, the responses
sounded
like whispers to Eustace, almost lost amid the ringing he felt in his ears.

Ponks crawled farther away from where he had first dropped, moving very cautiously, concerned more to keep his silence than to make any great distance. He went only a couple of body lengths before he stopped and whispered into his microphone again.

"Stay quiet, and stay down. There's got to be Heggies around." He paused, trying to hear something in the night besides the ringing in his ears. That was less severe than it had been before, but he knew that it would be impossible for him to hear very small sounds around him—for an indefinite time. Too long. "Anyone hurt bad?"

There was no answer, no claim of injuries.

"Anyone see any Heggies, any sign at all?" Ponks asked next. "That must have been a shoulder-fired rocket that got us."

"I don't see anything," Kilgore said. His whisper sounded particularly raspy. "Don't hear anything that sounds like people either."

The others added their own negatives, more tersely.

"Don't look like the old girl's hurt too bad," Simon said a moment later.

"No time to worry about that now," Ponks replied. "We might still have company. Everybody stay put until we get help in."

With hardly a pause, Ponks said, "Rosey? You copying any of this?" Rosey—Technical Sergeant Rositto Bianco—was the chief of their support crew.

"We've got a lock on your position, Gunny," Rosey replied. "We're already highballin' it your way."

"Be careful, bogeys around," Ponks said.

"So I gathered. Just don't get your butts shot off till we get there. We've got six zippers and a splat gun. We'll take care of anything we find. And if we can't, there's a pair of Wasps almost on top of you now. You see anything 'fore we get there, give the sky-guys a shout."

"Looks like the gun might be salvageable," Ponks said, a little doubtful. He couldn't see enough of Basset two to say that with any confidence. Still, it hadn't been destroyed outright, and under garrison conditions it might easily be repairable... but in the field, far from most of the 13th? He doubted that they would have time to do much work. The damage under the bent skirt might be too extensive for anything less than a full shop.