If one has never personally experienced war, one cannot understand why a commander should need any brilliance and exceptional ability. Everything looks simple. Everything in war is very simple, but the simplest thing is difficult. The difficulties accumulate and end by producing a kind of friction that is inconceivable. Countless minor incidents—the kind you can never really foresee—combine to lower the general level of performance, so that one always falls far short of the intended goal.
—Clausewitz, On Strategy
"Field Prime, Attack Force one here. Bunker secured," Niles said.
And I'm glad, he thought fervently. Running forward across a minefield that might be activated any moment had not been one of the more pleasant experiences of his life, with only a piece of intrusive software between him and being shredded into a dozen pieces.
The bunker listed as six on his map was more of a tangled depression of earth and crumbled ferroconcrete now, the sappers had made sure with a cratering charge centered right on the twisted wreckage of the radar pickups. There were more thumping crashes behind him, as they laid strip charges to clear real as well as virtual paths through the mines.
"This Field Prime. Proceed with Phase Two."
Niles stood, waved his hand in a circle around his head and chopped it south; the jamming that bolixed the enemy's small-unit push was unfortunately affecting their own, as well. The off-world helmetcom systems could filter it, but there were only enough of those for senior commanders. Squads rose and dashed by him, heading into the open parkland that separated the perimeter bunkers from the interior villages of the Stora Mine. The men were bowed under their burdens, bundles of Friedlander target-seeker missiles, satchel charges, flamethrowers. Others were swinging right and left, lugging machine guns and portable gatlings, setting up blocking positions to prevent the intact bunkers from sortieing and closing the quarter-arc wedge the Helots had driven into the north face of the mine's defenses.
"Am advancing. Phase Two in progress," he said. The headquarters company had formed about him. "Follow me!"
"Broadband jamming, sir," Legion Signal Corps Corporal Hiram Klingstauffer said cooly, hands dancing across his controls. "I can filter it."
"Right," Barton said. Breath in. Breath out. Surprise is an event that takes place in the mind of a commander. No antiradiation missiles available to him up here, though. The replacement shipments for the ones lost in the Dales were still on their way. The enemy's logistics seemed to operate much faster . . .
He strode over to the window and used a chair to smash out the thick double panes; cold air flooded in, and the sound of explosions and small-arms fire. Most loudly from the north, but there were flashes and crumping sounds from all around the perimeter, and that was the most accurate information he was likely to get for a while. Lights flashed and died over the mine-works south of the town as the 24-hour arclamps went off. Barton wheeled and looked at the computer displays.
Power Central. A peaceful, unmarked control booth, distance shots of humming machinery and workers attending it.
Perimeter. A light blinked on, and a militia major's voice shouted: "Long live the Revolution!"
Karen Olafson recoiled as if it had bitten her.
"Turn it off," Barton said. She looked at him blankly. "It's in enemy hands, nothing but disinformation. Forget the damned thing." He went to the Legion console and threw the big switch at the top. Lights winked. "I'm taking manual control of the defenses." Of what Jenny's crew managed to rig, anyway. God damn it, we needed another week. He pushed that thought aside. What he needed didn't matter any more. It was what he had that counted.
First things first. Puzzle out just what did which. There was a crude map above the manual console. Right. Infiltrators attacking the power house. Activate the minefields, detonate on contact. North side first, that's where the noise is. He threw the switch.
The response was instant. A dozen blasts, lights flared near the power house, along the whole north periphery. More explosions. Blasts all along the inner perimeter swath. Then more, in the park areas.
"What's happening?" Karen Olafson demanded.
"Somebody was where he shouldn't have been," Ace said absently. "Some of those were secondary explosions. Think you can get that thing working again?"
"I can try. I'll dump it and reboot from WORM."
WORM. Write Once, Read Many, Barton remembered. Computers weren't his specialty, but this was supposed to be a way to make sure nobody tampered with data because once it was burned into a glass disk it didn't get written over.
"Security systems only. Now!" Her hands moved, with gathering speed. Blood trickled down her chin from a bitten lip. The screens went blank, flickered, came back up with nothing but a red = sign in a black circle, the Helot banner. Then they flickered again and stayed blank.
"Sir," Klingstauffer said calmly. "I'm getting radio from all the militia units. They're questioning withdrawal orders they've received, demanding confirmations. The Captain in charge of Perimeter 10 through 14 registers that he is withdrawing as ordered but under protest."
"Give me a broadband override. In clear."
"Sir."
"Karen, turn that damn computer off. Never mind trying to restart it. Shut it down so it doesn't send out anymore orders."
"Right," Karen said.
"Here's your general channel, General. No problem with the direct wires, but they're jamming hell out of radio."
"Right. No harm trying." Ace keyed the mike. "ALL UNITS, ALL UNITS, THIS IS GENERAL BARTON." Calm, Ace, they won't hear any better if you shout. Or will they—"Klingstauffer, send for some bull horns." He keyed the mike again. "All units, you are on your own, I say again, all commanders, ignore any other instructions, take command of your units. Act as you think best under the circumstances. The central computer system is compromised, I say again the central computer is compromised. Look around you, react to what you see, and kill the sons of bitches. Relay these orders to any other units you can find."
"Klingstauffer, get that message going on a continuous loop, general broadcast."
"Sir."
"And get runners going with bull horns to repeat it anywhere and anyhow they can."
"Right."
Barton went to the Legion direct line console. It was difficult to tell what he had there. Direct lines, but to where—He keyed one. Nothing. A second. "This is Barton, Command Central. What do I have?"
"Captain Trent, vehicle reserve. God damn, General, I'm glad to hear from you!"
"What's your status?"
"We're on foot, sir. Vehicles sabotaged, your man found out just in time, lost a truck and some troopers, it was real bad, real bad, but—"
"TRENT!"
"Yes, sir."
"Get hold of yourself. What's your status?"
"Sir. Sir, I have two companies of dismounted infantry. Five percent casualties."
"Right. Like it or not, Captain Trent, you have the only effective force I can communicate with. Captain, the mine's under attack. The perimeter's been penetrated at the north sector, possibly elsewhere. We have unreliable communications, and many of the militia have been given false orders by the central computer. Do you understand?"
"No, sir."
"Good man. I'll explain it. The central computer was briefly taken over by the enemy, Captain. God knows what it told your people to do. We have shut it down."
"Oh—"
"Right. So the one thing we do know is, they're inside the perimeter in the north sector, possibly stations 10 through 14 as well."
"Yes, sir?"
"So you've got to do something about it. First thing, get the word to all unit commanders. Two items. Item one, the mine fields are active again. Chase the bastards into the mines. Item two, all unit commanders are on their own. Act as they think best. You got that?"
Captain Trent sounded scared, but he said, "Sir. Instruct all units, disregard previous orders, act on their own judgment. And the mine fields are active again."
"That's it, son. Now take a deep breath, think about what you're going to do, and do it. You'll be fine."
"Yes, sir."
"Are any Legion people there?"
"There's a sergeant—"
"Get moving on your instructions, then put him on. And leave a communications squad to man this line at all times."
"Sir." Trent left the mike activated when he put it down. Ace Barton could hear him shouting orders in the background.
Scared as hell, but he's making sense.
"Major Olafson, weak signal," Klingstauffer said.
"Barton here. Olafson, the mine is under attack, the perimeter's penetrated, north side for certain, possibly other areas. Your vehicles may have been sabotaged. Check for bombs. Then cancel your present mission and defend the mine. I say again, the mine's under attack, your vehicles may have been sabotaged. Your instructions are to abandon your present position and return to defend the mine. Did you get all that?"
Hissing and buzzing. "— penetrated. —under attack—"
Nothing about checking vehicles. Damn. Ace repeated his instructions.
"Nothing," Klingstauffer said.
"Did we get through?"
"God knows."
"Repeat those orders, and pray." Jesus, I could go broke buying candles and altar flowers.
The direct line squawked. "Sergeant Bielskis, sir."
"What happened down there, Andy?"
"Turncoat, sabotaged the trucks. Blackbird smelled a rat. We've got him. Captain Trent's scared but he's steadying down."
"What I needed to hear. Andy, about that traitor. Keep him. I want him alive, Andy. That's really important."
"Yes, sir. He's scared, keeps talking about how they'll kill his family, wife and little boy—"
"Name?"
"Edward L. Bishop. Wife is Mary Margaret Ryan Bishop. Son Patrick James Bishop, age 2 months."
"Can you get his family into protective custody?"
"No, sir, they're with the other noncombatants in the main bunker."
"Best place for them. OK, Andy, you're on your own. I got other problems."
"Record this, sir. Bishop was recruited by one Leontin Sverdropov, a shop steward. I'd guess Sverdropov has biofeedback conditioning."
"Got it. Have your MP's pick him up if he can be found. Anything else, Andy?"
"No, sir. Blackbird and I'll help get The Word out to the other units."
"Do that. Command Central out." Barton took a deep breath. "Olafson, any progress?"
"There's some sort of viral bit floating around in the system RAM, every time I power down it drags in a trickle current and reboots from the infected config when we come back on line, instead of from the ROM backup."
"Right. Turn it off. Just shut it down, then go through and fix it right. For now we'll rely on manual and what the Legion installed."
"Yes, sir."
"Klingstauffer, can you get Mace?"
"Stand by one. Here, sir."
"Jamey, what's your status?"
"I've just got to my command, sir. From what I can see, they didn't expect the mine field to activate." Mace's words were punctuated by distant explosions. "They've got troops still out there in the mines, both rings."
"Serve them bloody right," Barton said. "Okay, Jamey, make me the best estimate of the situation you can and report back."
"Roger."
"Sir," Klingstauffer said from the plotting table. "Incoming, multiples, bombardment rockets, heavy mortars too from the trajectories. Target zones follow."
Lines swam over the plotting table, and red circles marked the impacts. Lot of those are empty space, he thought. Then: Of course. Air-sown mines. They're trying to immobilize us. The sky howled outside, but the bop sounds of the bursting charges were not followed by the surf-roar of bomblets or the crunching detonations of HE warheads. Instead there was a multiple fluttering whirr, as the rockets split and scattered hundreds, thousands of butterfly mines. Over the blimp haven where the men of the Fifth were moving out, over the wrecked vehicles of the reaction force, around the perimeter garrisons, down the main streets.
"Incoming, bombardment rockets and mortars, multiple," the sergeant said tonelessly.
"Rather a lot, isn't it?" Barton said. He whistled softly. "Rather a lot indeed. Where'd they get it all? Like they're going for broke. Klingstauffer, can you get me General Owensford?"
"Ms. Schramm's working on the antenna now, sir. Five minutes."
"Right." Stop. Breathe deep. Now go to the window and look out— Secondary explosions in the mine-fields. Someone was taking some real punishment. So are our people, with all that artillery pouring in, but the Helots have to be losing more, they're in the open.
"Legion Headquarters, Fort Plataia sir."
"Owensford here."
"Barton. Uploading situation report." There was a warble of data. "Feed complete."
"Received." A long pause. "Jesus, Ace, what's going on up there?"
"This one's it, sir. I'd say they've committed damned near everything they have. Not just troops, look at how much ordinance they're expending."
"So why are you talking to me?"
"If you'll look close at the situation report, General Owensford, you will discover that you are God damned near the only person I can talk to."
"Oh. Lahr! Andy, get Jesus and Catherine in here on the double, then start looking into what direct communications we have with any unit in General Barton's Command. Move! OK, Ace, what you got from where you sit?"
"One hell of a mess, Boss. I got a bad feeling on this one. No command, no control, no communications, and no bloody intelligence."
"They any better off?"
"Some," Ace said. He took another deep breath.
"Actually, things can't be going so good for them, either. They penetrated the computer system here, good move, everything was tied to it. Used the computer to disable the mines and security systems. Had some inside help, too, saboteurs, God knows what else. But we turned the mine fields on with manual. I don't know how many of their troops are out there, but a lot of mines are going off and there's a lot of secondary explosions."
"Ace, are you telling me you have most of the Helot army trapped inside your perimeter?"
"Skipper, we just may, but it's not clear just who has who trapped. I doubt their command elements are in here. They don't much go in for Rommel style. More like Hitler."
"Well. Clarifies your objective, doesn't it?"
Barton laughed. "General, just at the frigging moment the objective is to live through all this! But yeah, I see what you mean. We got them in a killing zone. Only problem is, we don't have a lot handy to kill them with, and they seem to have plenty to do unto us."
"You have two battalions coming."
"Up river and up those roads. This'll be long over by then."
"Royal Cavalry in Olynthos. Prince Lysander went up there yesterday. I could send that. The Air Cav units could be there in a couple of hours."
"Maybe not," Ace said. "They've got bugger all equipment up here. They must have known that Air Cav was down there. This is typical Skilly. Devious. Started with a small attack on an outpost to lure out the reaction force, an ambush for the relief column to make Stora Mine commit their mobile force, an ambush for that, then the main attack—sure as God made a mule ornery, they've got something that can take out the airborne troops, and it's already in place."
"Good thinking, Ace. Still, I will have to report to the Prince."
"Yes, sir, but make sure he understands. Christ. He's there with the Air Cav? I didn't know that, but bugger all, it doesn't mean they didn't."
"It doesn't mean they did, either, Ace. Thanks to Major Cheung we plugged that Palace leak."
"They could have another. Dammit, Peter, they get me thinking they're ten feet tall—"
"The great thing—"
"Is not to lose my nerve. Yes, sir. Wilco."
"Right. You're in charge, Ace. I'll see what I can organize from here."
"Thanks. It's heating up, I better get back to it. Don't let them suck the Prince into anything stupid."
"Godspeed. Out."
Something was happening outside. A line of massive explosions slammed their way across the open space outside the control building. One struck a parked ore-hauler, throwing the hundred-tonne machine onto its side; a moment later it pinwheeled across the gravel again, as a fuel dump went up in a soft whomp of orange flame and black smoke. The crump . . . crump sounds echoed off the mountainside, were joined by others throughout the settlement as more explosive fell out of the sky.
Ace Barton took a deep breath. "Sergeant, feed counterbattery data to the perimeter posts and the armory." The armory at least had light artillery in revetments, and heavy mortars of its own. "Do what you can to get communications so we have a decent situation report. And anybody you can get to, tell them we win if we hold on. They haven't accomplished dick yet, and their surprise is over. Now all we have to do is live through this."
"We got to get out of here!" someone was screaming.
"Keep moving, keep moving," Niles barked into the speaker.
They were supposed to be destroying the town, planting explosives everywhere, making the Citizens' homes uninhabitable. If I take time to do that, we won't get out of here at all, Niles thought. And the mine fields are active again. He shuddered. A few minutes earlier and he'd have been in the middle of that field when it activated. As it was he'd lost a fifth of his command to the mines. Dead or run away and there'll be more of those. Just vanished. Where do they think they can run? There was no safe place. If the Royals didn't find you, Skilly would. But Skilly won't hold this area after tonight, so all they'll have to worry about is the Royals.
Groups of infantry were moving, but it wasn't a very orderly maneuver. They were supposed to fan out and make contact with the other Helot formations that would be pouring in through the breached defenses, but not all the defense system was breached, and it wasn't at all clear just what part was. Somewhere out there he should find reinforcements, but he didn't know where. This is becoming one monumental cock-up.
His force was divided. He had led some across the greensward while the mines were off, but not all had made it before the field was suddenly activated. Not only had he lost men, he'd lost contact with a third of his force, who were back there in the perimeter, trapped between two mine fields. Paths would have to be cleared before they could advance or retreat, but there was no one to clear them.
"Incoming!"
Niles hit the dirt. There was a nightmare of explosions, some close, some distant. He scrabbled with his radio. "Cease that artillery on north sector, I say again, cease, you're dropping into areas we hold."
There was no acknowledgment, but eventually it stopped. Niles got up to look at the situation. Men were cursing. They knew where that barrage had come from and they didn't like it at all. "Who's fucking side are they on?" someone shouted. There were answering curses.
Niles put that out of his mind, and tried for a calm assessment of the situation. He was near a residential community. The houses were shuttered, but they weren't all empty. Fire spat from a house half a kilometer away. Helot fighters dove for cover like reeds rippling in the wind. Some returned the enemy fire, shooting wildly, while others hugged the ground and waited. The black stone blocks of the shuttered house eroded under the return fire as if they were being sandblasted, in a shower of sparks and ricochets, but it didn't stop the Spartan sniper. Finally two Helot rocketeers came up. They snapped open the collapsible fiberglas tubes, came up to kneeling position and took careful aim; these were the light unguided bunkerbusters. Whooot-crash. A house half a block from the target showed a spurt of flame. There were more rifle blasts and the Helot went down. His partner cursed and got the rocket launcher.
Niles tried to shout to the man to move to a different location, but he wasn't listening. He got the launcher loaded, raised up, aimed. Another whoosh, and this time the windows of the house blew out in a spectacular shower of fire and shards. A burning figure staggered out the door to lie and twitch for a second. One more obstacle out of the way, but it had cost them time.
Ask me to give you anything but time. Who said that? Doesn't matter. "Keep moving! Up, up, move, move," Niles urged. "You can't stay here!"
"Sir, jamming's off."
Niles cursed silently; that meant the Royalists had communications again. Continued Helot jamming would hinder their own side now more than the enemy. And I'm in a pocket, and I don't know what I have in here. The timetable was shot all to shit. Niles had never believed much in that timetable. Too damned complicated, too many units to get to different places, too many things had to happen at the same time. Skilly kept insisting it was a simple plan, just a simple wedge attack, breach the defenses, seek out and destroy, but it hadn't looked simple to Niles. It was hard enough just to get one unit to move on a schedule, under fire or not, and this had dozens. Niles had tried to get von Reuter to discuss it, but the German wasn't about to criticize Skilly's plan. No one would. Afraid to sound like defeatists. So we went with this, and now—
"Over to standard radio com," he said. "Codes. Who have we got contact with?" He punched the first channel button.
"Group Leader ben Bella here."
"Situation?"
"Codes CORNUCOPIA an' HEPHAESTUS." The warehouse and smelter areas. Forces advancing but objectives not secured. "We can't find the underground Movement liaison."
"Keep looking, have to evacuate our people."
"Sure, sure, I'll keep looking. Bloody god damn hell!"
"Problems?"
"Half my troops are dead in the fucking mines! The mines were supposed to be off!"
"Yes, I know, we took losses too," Niles said. "What else?"
"They were supposed to be off, damn it!"
"Get hold of yourself. Report."
"We've got sniper fire and infiltrators from the residential districts, and somebody's spotting for that goddam artillery of theirs, it's too damned effective, they must have their computers up again!"
Likely, actually. "Follow standing orders." Those called for blasting down any building from which hostile fire was received. He winced; a little severe . . . but what else could they do?
"Standing orders —" His subordinate broke off with laughter.
"Ben Bella? What the hell?"
"Standing orders, sir? HALF MY FUCKING MORTARS AND ROCKET LAUNCHERS ARE OUT IN THE FUCKING MINEFIELDS! I don't know where the rest are. I don't know where the ammunition is. Sir."
"Sir, sir," his communications sergeant said. "Group Leader Martins."
"A moment. All right, ben Bella, link up with the Movement people and do what you can to get back on schedule—"
He heard more laughter from ben Bella. "Schedule! That's great! Schedule." More laughter, then silence. Can't say I like that much. "Go ahead, Martins, Niles here."
"Sir, Code WHITE GUARD." Heavy resistance, cannot advance. Martins was supposed to be securing the main smelter complex. Niles looked down at his map; about half a kilometer west of the blimp haven, in a tangle of workers' bunkhouses and maintenance sheds. "I've identified Legion troops, and Brotherhood first-liners, I think they're from the reserve force."
Damn, Niles thought. The truck-sabotage was supposed to have knocked them out of the fight entirely. Well, everything couldn't work. But had anything worked since the mine fields came back on? How many survived, and how much are they worth? His head pounded, and it was hard to think. No way to know the situation. And back up there in central control, they had the computers back on, they knew where everything was. Barton—Barton, what the hell was Barton doing out here anyway, Barton wasn't supposed to be here, this was supposed to be provincials, amateurs, and now we're fighting Barton and the Legion and those damned SAS units will be out there waiting for us. He shook off the feeling of hysteria. "Martins, can you get through? Answer in clear."
"No, sir. Every time we punch a hole, they fire the buildings and fall back, or pinch us off behind the neck of the penetration. I don't have enough edge in numbers, and these are good troops. Too many civilians running around getting in the way, too."
Another amateur, has to explain everything. But I'm not much more than an amateur myself, and these Legion types, this is their business, they do this all their lives. "Code STALINGRAD." Dig in and hold.
"Bullshit."
"What?"
"I'll do what I can, but everything's fucked up," Martins said. "You better figure something fast, or it's going to be bugout boogie and there won't be fuck all I can do about it. Sir."
"Field Prime," the communications sergeant said.
This ought to be secure. Ought to be. "Marlborough here." Stupid code name.
"Report."
He worked to keep his voice calm, and not to give irrelevant complaints. Like ammunition in one place, and guns in another, troops separated from their commanders— "Heavy losses averaging thirty percent due to unexpected activation of the mine field. Ben Bella's still advancing but hasn't secured objectives. Martins is pinned down, unable to advance at all. Part of my troops are with me at Sugar Mike Two, but the rest are still out at the bunkers with the minefield between us, and I don't have a good estimate of what's with me and what's behind. Troops are complaining that the mines weren't supposed to detonate, and some of them are unhappy about taking friendly fire."
"Field Prime know that. Our friends don't have any explanations, they still looking. You ought to be finishing Phase Three, mon!"
"Field Prime, that timetable cannot be kept. It doesn't even make sense any more. The surprise is over, they're organizing, their computers are up, their artillery counterfire programs are starting up, and our whole force is exposed!"
There was a pause. "You sayin' you want to run now?"
"Field Prime, I am suggesting that it is impossible to complete the mission."
"Field Prime will consider that, but not time to give up. Perimeter Ten to Fourteen pulled out when we jimmied the comm, and we overran they bunkers, now we using them." The outer defense positions had all-round fields of fire. "Swing a couple of companies up they ass, see if we can nutcracker them. We rendevous at Objective A-7, eh?"
"I will comply, but my advice is to get out before we take more losses. We've hurt them, and so far we still have an effective force, but—"
"Field Prime will consider recommendation. Now do nutcracker."
"Roger wilco."
Niles looked up. "Sutchukil, you will take A and C companies and swing east against those garrison johnnies," he said. What's left of them. Between them there's not a full strength company, and I have no idea of what they're facing. "Da Silva, you're in charge here. Remainder of the reserve, follow me."
He led the way, at a steady wolf-trot rather than a sprint; they had better than a klick and a half to go. The troops followed by platoon columns, spaced out along the verges of the road on alternate sides. The composition soles of their boots rutched steadily on the light snow-covering of the roads and sidewalks. Noise was increasing from either side, small arms fire and explosions. Mortar shells went overhead, making everyone hunch their shoulders involuntarily. They landed to the east, fire support against Royalist militia probing at the Helots. Return fire went shoomp-whirrrr overhead in the opposite direction. The garrison was getting its heavy weapons into use.
They ran through a section of park, where pine-trees were blazing like torches, with an overwhelming stink of tar.
"Mines!" someone screamed. A butterfly mine popped up, and half a squad flopped. A leg lay improbably in the center of the path they'd been running on.
"Keep moving," Niles ordered. "Come on, we're going home!"
The men moved ahead, but cautiously now. Niles tried to hurry them.
"Fuck off," someone shouted. "You want to run through mines, you come up here in front and do it." There were shouts of agreement. "Damn right." "This de revolution! Officers to the front!"
"Incoming!"
A box pattern of high explosive fell around them, and several mines detonated. One man screamed, but no one else seemed to be hit. "They clearing the mine field for us!" someone shouted. Others laughed and the units began to move forward again. Another round of artillery, this time behind them.
There's luck, Niles thought. "Move out, move out." He wondered how many were following him. Not as many as started. There were gaps in the ranks. Damn fools, don't they understand, they can't stay here. He ran on.
Finally they were through the park and into a business district. Artillery flashed in the distance, but nothing was falling on them at the moment. Buildings were burning on either side; larger ones now as they came closer to the center of the dispersed settlement, flames licking up from the windows to soot-stain the white stucco. Heat drove out the day's chill, turned the uniforms under the armor sodden-wet; the smoke was thick and choking, billowing just over head-high. Bodies lay crumpled; he saw one half-out of the driver's door of a scorched van, pistol still in its hand. A woman dangled from a shattered shop-window, lying on her back with spears of glass through her chest, long blond hair falling a full meter to the sidewalk to rest in a pool of blood.
A bullet went overhead with a nasty krak. More, and a man dropped.
"Take cover!" the platoon commanders were shouting. Two men sprinted out to retrieve the wounded man. "Crew weapons, set up weapons," Niles shouted.
A machine gun crew got into action, then another crew opened up with suppressing fire against the sniper. A noncom ran from one clump of troopers to the next, assigning target sectors. Good man. I need to get his name.
Niles put himself behind a bullet-riddled electrocar; the Company Leader in charge of the area came sprinting across the open street with his radiotech and a squad at his heels. They dashed into the cover of the car body and crouched beside the Englishman, panting.
Nobody spared a glance for the two dead militia fighters sprawled beneath the body of the car; a man in his fifties, and a boy who probably had never shaved, both in bits and pieces of uniform and armor. The bullets that killed them had probably been a mercy after the burning fuel drained out and down.
"Situation?" Niles said.
"Hell of a fight for this district, sir," the Helot officer replied; Steve Derex, Niles remembered. He was a tall lanky man, heavy-featured, with the fashionable guerrilla braid down his back and a nasal Welfare accent; one arm had a stained bandage around it. "We rushed them out, but they kept comin' back through the sewers and snipin', thicker'n crabs inna hoor's cunt. Got the cure for thet, right enough."
As if on cue, there was a massive thump under their feet, a sound that shuddered up through the soles of their boots into the breastbone rather than to the ears. Manhole covers all along the broad concrete roadway sprang into the air with a belch of sooty fire.
"Took a fuelin' station and jist ran the hoses down, sir," the guerrilla said with vindictive satisfaction. "Wit' youz troops, maybe we kin clear an' hold this sector."
Niles looked across the street. Two and four story buildings, offices mostly. Perhaps a laboratory or assay office. Nothing of any great importance, certainly nothing worth losing a whole battalion for. From beyond that came a steady booming sound, rolling and echoing off the cliff-line of the open pit mine just to their south. The armory, and the gun-batteries around it.
Clear and hold for what? But that's the Plan— "Let's do it, then," he said, looking at his watch. 1130 hours, he thought. The timetable was shot all to hell, and there wasn't anything to accomplish. What did Skilly expect to do?
"We rendezvous at Objective A-7, eh?" Skilly said, listening to the ripping canvas sound across the sky.
"Roger wilco." Niles' voice sounded hard and flat, tightly confident.
"Incoming!"
Skida went flat along with everyone else in the headquarters unit. The shot fell a thousand meters behind them, crackling echoes through the jagged hills. Then there was a flash visible even in bright noonlight, and another explosion that shuddered the ground beneath her. Secondary explosion, as piled ammunition went up.
"Goddam, that counterbattery too good!" she said. That was the fifth heavy mortar they had lost in the last fifteen minutes. There weren't many left.
"The Legionnaires are feeding the plotting data to the Royalist gunnery computers," consultant Tetsuko said, not glancing up from his consol. "Falkenberg's troops use Xanadu milspec multiband radars, difficult to jam, and their passive sensors are also very good. And the artillery is dug-in and has armored overhead protection. Not very vulnerable even to precision-guided munitions."
"Field Prime don't need explanations, Field Prime need results," Skilly said.
Crump. Crump. That heavy-mortar battery was down to two tubes, but they were maintaining fire. Skilly felt a stab of warmth; they might have been gutter-scum once, but she had shaped something different, as proud and deadly as a King Cobra.
"Report from Olynthos?"
"The Royalist airborne is not scrambling."
Sheee-it. The little Fang missiles were in perfect position, and the Royals couldn't know about them. The air cavalry was a serious problem in her Upper and Middle Valley operations already, and the Spartans were training more. Half the purpose of this raid had been to lure the helicopters out where they could be killed. "Maybe we outsmart us, cut communications too good so they don't know we here yet," she said. "We hurt them enough here, they come." And maybe the Prince, too, there was a report that he'd been seen in Olynthos. If he there, he will come running, not like him to send his troops out and not go. We get him and this war is half over. If we stay here, punish the Cits, maybe they send that air cav, maybe they send the Prince, we win it all. Getting rid of the airborne would be worth taking heavy losses, getting the Prince worth even more. We could still win, win big.
But suppose he didn't come? If the air cav didn't come? Then she grinned. They will come next time. Next time they send everything they have, even the old king.
"OK, the Mjollnir ready?"
"As instructed, Field Prime. We have it set up on the bunker line in the center of your penetration through the enemy defenses."
She touched her helmet. "Von Reuter?"
"Fallback complete and standing by," he said stolidly.
Von Reuter was a comfort; the man didn't give a damn for the Movement, but cared a great deal about doing his professional best. When it came to making a pursuit as costly as possible, he had a certain sadistic imaginativeness as well; anyone who came after them—assuming we gets away at all—would get a very bloody nose, while the Helot forces broke up into dozens of small parties and made their way to prepositioned hiding-places and supply caches. And when it was over, the Kupros Mountains would be a second place the Royal forces would be extremely cautious about entering, would have to guard continuously. It was still a good plan.
"Right," she said. "Let's go."
This time they would ride in style; the first people back out had dropped off transport. Someone had even taken time and a spray-paint can to sketch a red = on the sides of each. Skilly led the slide down the hill to the vans and trucks. As they boarded and drove bumping and crashing down the rock-strewn streambed they passed other captured vehicles heading north into the wadi-and-gully country. They were loaded with sedated wounded, or with boxes and crates of refined silver and platinum and thorium, from the looted warehouses, or medical supplies, food, clothing. . . . Money to slip off-planet through Bronson's outlets to pay for weapons, to pay troops and bribe and buy and intimidate here on Sparta. Supplies to help sustain the expanding Helot forces. They would drive the vehicles to destruction, then transfer the loot to muleback and scatter it.
"'Make War support War,'" Skilly quoted to herself, as they drove onto the ringroad of the base. That chink Sun Tzu knew he business. The background chatter hummed in her helmetphones, and the sound of combat was a continuous diffuse stutter all around, louder than the roar of engines. Behind a fragment of wall the Meijians had erected the Mjollnir, a squat two-stage rocket shaped like a huge artillery shell twice the height of a man.
"Faster," she said.
There must be at least a thousand, maybe as many as two or four thousand armed Citizens within the perimeter, besides the formed units in the bunkers and the Legion soliders. Speed and the air-sown mines and disrupted communications had kept them from concentrating, but that would not last long. The trucks and vans careered down the streets, veering between wrecked and burning vehicles. The lead car went over a body with a sodden thump; a howling dog dashed by, its coat ablaze. Not only houses and cars were on fire, the wooded tongues of ridgeland between the built-up areas had caught as well, and smoke was drifting in billowing clouds.
Helot soldiers with MP brassards and light-wands were directing traffic, most of it people on foot moving at a run. More vans and trucks with wounded and loot passed them; parties of Movement undergrounders clung to their sides or ran back toward the perimeter, those too compromised to stay even with this degree of confusion, and the scores of transportee recruits they had picked up.
Most of those not on pickup or guard duty were laying boobytraps, everything from grenades taped to doors to huge time-detonated mines in the sewers; a lot of them were wired into the settlement power systems, and there was going to be a very unpleasant surprise when they got the turbines running again.
Skilly grinned like a wolf at the thought, opening the door of the van and dropping out at a run as it slowed down beside the block of buildings she wanted. The guides waved them in through doors that had been blasted off their hinges with a recoilless-rifle shell, up steel-framed stairs that sagged and creaked, into a corridor slashed and pocked with the remains of close-quarter fighting with grenade and bayonet.
"Down," the man at the head of the stairs warned. "Under observation." The building was flbrocrete, but the tall rectangle of window at the south end looked out onto enemy-held open ground and the armory-fortress. "Peltast snipers."
They squatted and duckwalked down the transverse corridor; the floor was wet and sticky, and the blanket-wrapped form of a Helot trooper lay in one doorway, the hole blasted through his helmet showing why. The corridor turned, and they were in a long room looking out over the open space. More Helots sprawled on the floor, forming heads-in starfish circles amid maps and plotting tables and a tangle of communications lines.
"Yo, Niles," Skilly said; it was safe to come to a crouch here, and she scuttled quickly over to his side. "Crack this nut yet?"
"No, Field Prime," he said. "Here, take a look." They moved to one side beyond the last of the tall narrow windows, and he offered her the thread-thin jack of a pickup camera one of his troopers was holding over a window on an extension grip. "Careful with that, Yip."
The guerrilla commander flipped down her face shield and plugged the jack into her helmet. A view of the field outside sprang into being on the inner surface of the shield's complex materials. The Brotherhood fortress had taken advantage of the proximity of the big open-pit mine a kilometer further south; nothing showed of the main bunker but a low mound of turf set in a dozen hectares of landscaped park. The plans Intelligence had stolen—Movement Intelligence and the Meijians both—showed an underground wedding cake, fibrocrete and steel running down six stories; generators, air-filtration systems, the works. The Spartans had always known it was a dangerous universe. The bunkers radiating out from it were newer, but also knitted into the park's contours, from the little gatling-pillboxes to the round covered gunpits. As she watched a hatch slid open and the barrel of a light gun appeared, a 155mm with a double-baffle muzzle brake. It fired, a pale orange flash against the noon sun, and the hatch was closed again in smooth coordination with the recoil of the cannon.
"Slick," she said.
About a second all-told, the hatch must be keyed to the lanyard of the cannon, not a practical interval to hit it with a PGM. Somebody had gotten lucky; one of the gunpits was a crater blasted open to the sky, but they could peck at them all day and not do that again, and now the Helot army was taking losses.
A van exploded, taking with it two trucks and some motorcycles, tossing men and loot in all directions. Something else exploded.
"Stop that bunching up!" Skilly screamed.
Niles looked at her, then away.
Getting hot, here, not quite like what Skilly expected. She had hoped for better results, hoped the Brotherhood gunners weren't quite that good. If they could have knocked out the bunkers and gun emplacements, a Helot force squatting on the armory roof would have eleven hundred civilians under its boots. The Royalists talked a good line about not bargaining for hostages, and held to it fairly strongly when it came to their own men . . . but it was another thing to say "go ahead" when someone had a gun in your child's ear.
She was aware that Niles was saying something.
" . . . and a lot of our people are still in there inside the perimeter."
"Pull them out."
"As I just told you, the Royals have managed to activate a number of their mine fields, and their artillery is highly accurate. We can't pull out. Much of our force is pinned down." Niles waved behind them, at the trucks going by. "I hope that loot is good, because we paid a heavy price for it."
She was still studying the gun emplacements. She seemed distracted. Then she touched a button on the side of her helmet. "Anything from Olynthos?"
"Two choppers rode out, down river."
Down river. Away from the action, and away from her missile emplacements. Where could they be going? "Nothing else? Nothing? All right. We'll make them come here. Now we use the Mjollnir."
Niles frowned. "Well, that will take out one of the gun emplacements—"
"Do the big central bunker pretty good, though."
"No military targets in the central bunker. Just noncombatants."
"You thinking like a rabbiblanco again, Jeffi." He frowned, a little insulted. I've gotten beyond the naive stage, I think, he told himself. "What do you mean?" he said stiffly.
"Noncombatants. Am no such, just enemies with gun and enemies without gun. Get that Mjollnir ready."
"Sk—Field Prime, they've got close to four hundred women and—well, nearly a thousand children in there, and—"
"Get me the fort, Jeffi. They get just one chance, like everybody."
"You can't—"
She was standing between him and the others in the room, whose eyes were on the windows or the corridor in any case. Geoffrey Niles froze as the muzzle of her Walther jabbed like a blunt steel finger into his left side, exactly where the armor latched under his armpit. Her face leaned closer to his, and she flipped up the shield; there was tension in the green-flecked brown eyes, and her voice was pitched soft.
So that nobody else will see or hear, he knew with a distant corner of his mind. For my sake, if it comes out right. If he passed what he suddenly realized was a carefully contrived test.
"Jeffi, Skilly want you with her when we win. But Skilly going to win, Jeffi my sweet." A slight smile, tender. "Welcome to Skilly's world, my mon, where she live all her life. This the real world, and it like this everyday." The high-cheeked brown face went utterly cold. "I doan give me order twice, mon."
He was already one over the limit.
"Jesus Christ, what's going on back there!" Karl Olafson barked. "We've been out of com link for better than half an hour!"
"Major," Barton began, "please listen closely." He waited for a second, until the man in the screen nodded.
"The enemy partially penetrated our security systems, used them to disorganize the defenses, and launched a major attack on Stora Mine in conjunction with internal sabotage. They've overrun substantial areas of the settlement. They have taken heavy losses, and we've stopped them, but they're still out there."
Emotion rippled across the square blond-bearded face, fear, rage, astonishment. Then nothing but business; Barton nodded in chill approval. There was no time for anything else.
"We've relieved the Torreys, but they've abandoned the attacks. And thanks to your warnings we found the bombs in our trucks."
"Glad you got that message," Barton said. "Wasn't sure you had."
"Just heard part of it, something about sabotage, decided to look into the trucks. Thank God. All right. We're 120 klicks from you. I can be back there in two hours, three at most."
"No you can't," Barton said. "The road's mined, and I'm sure there are ambushes set up all along it."
There was a long pause. "Our families are back there, in the armory bunker."
"I know. It won't do them a bit of good for you to get killed, though."
"All right, what do you want?"
"They're beginning to realize they can't hold here," Barton said. "They'll start to retreat—and they don't have all that much choice about the route they'll take if they want to get away with the loot they've been scooping up. They have truckloads of stuff they've stolen."
"Christ. From where? Our homes?"
"Probably," Barton said. "Keep hold of yourself. The best thing that can happen right now is for them to load up with loot they won't want to give up. Loot will slow them down as much as all the mines they've been scattering. I don't know this area all that well, but from the map it sure looks like you can cut across the ridge line and show them that two can play this ambush game."
"Christ Almighty! Harry, give me that map. Who knows this area? Yeah, get him—General, I think you have something. Davis? What's this ridge like? How long would it take to get over to here—"
Another voice. "No road, but there's good trails. Let's see, maybe fifteen klicks. Four hours? Three for those in real good shape."
"They may be past by then, but maybe not," Barton said. "I don't think they quite appreciate how hard a retreat under fire can be. Get over there and see what you can do," Barton said. "Be careful, you're not trying to stop them, just punish them as they go out, and that's all you do. Don't try pursuit. Don't try anything fancy. Just get where you can see them, dig in and hurt them, no need to close with them."
"Roger. OK, we're on the way."
"It's the Royalist commander," Geoffrey Niles said hoarsely.
Skilly touched her helmet. "This Field Prime, Spartan People's Liberation Army."
"Major Bitterman here." A woman's voice. The central armory would be held by administrative troops. "What do you want?"
"You getting one chance to surrender, or we crack you like the egg," Skilly said flatly.
"You haven't been doing much cracking as yet, rebel." There was confidence in her voice; the armory bunker would withstand most things, short of a nuclear weapon.
"So far, Field Prime be nice. Major, de kids and all in there you responsibility. You put them in military zone. Better you left them out, nobody out here get hurt who not fighting. Last chance."
"I've seen what you did to our homes," Bitterman said. "And this is not a military zone. There is no military force here. This is a hospital and bomb shelter."
"Well, too bad," Skilly said. "'Cause it military to me."
"What do you want?"
"You surrender."
"You know what you ask is impossible. I don't have the authority. I tell you this is a hospital and shelter. There are no military units here."
"They all around you out there."
"Well, yes—"
"General Barton here. Who is this?"
"Calls herself Field Prime, General," Major Bitterman said.
"Field Prime, this is General Barton."
"Good. Surrender, and I don't smash in that Armory."
"The Armory is a hospital and shelter for noncombatants," Barton said.
"I don't believe you, but I don' care much either. You surrender or we crack it open."
"General, she's bluffing," Bitterman said. "This place would withstand anything up to nukes."
"Field Prime don't bluff, as you going to find out. I give you your chance. You don't get another."
"Suppose the hospital did surrender?" Barton demanded. "What does that do for you?"
"Oh, fuck off," Skilly said. She cut the connection. "Hey, Jeffi, that bunker be one big military target. Skilly not to blame if the Cits put people over the ammo and power supply, hey?"
He nodded. "Yes . . . I suppose that's true," he said. His shoulders straightened. It is. A damned sight more of a military target than Dresden was, after all. Not that it mattered, the Royalists already had evidence enough to hang them all six times over for violations of the Laws of War. Unless we win. Winners write the laws.
She touched her helmet again. "Tetsuko. Do it."
Barton looked down at the plotting table. The Helot attack reached through the perimeter of Stora Mine like a knobbly treetrunk, with branches reaching out to touch objectives, twisting around obstacles or strongpoints. He was starting to get an accurate picture; also starting to put serious pressure on the attackers. Daring. Bold. But they depended on their electronic edge too much. If we'd been here another week—
If we'd been here another week they would have found out and called off the attack. Attack? Or raid? Did they have an objective other than loot and generally smashing things up?
Information was flowing in now. Disorganized as they'd been, the Brotherhood had put up a good defense, which was what Barton had intended. Defense in place was a lot simpler and easier than a coordinated attack, and these Brotherhood troops all knew each other, had worked with each other, knew what to expect. The enemy had pummeled them in a few places, but by and large the Brotherhood forces had held, and that was all they needed to do.
There was one coherent enemy force around what had been defensive post 12, and many pockets of disorganized Helots, some in minefields, others in old bunkers, but all cut off from the enemy's main body. Put screening units out to keep those groups disorganized and make sure they didn't rally, because some were in a position to do some real damage if they broke free, but otherwise leave them alone for the moment. They'd surrender soon enough when they saw they were abandoned.
That left the rest of the Helots, an organized force of fewer troops than he had in total, but larger by far than any integrated force he could put together. The Helot main body was dug in and holding, but rear elements were already withdrawing, and they were sending back a stream of heavily laden vehicles. Concentrate artillery fire on that group, especially on their escape routes. Every possible shelter, and every crossroads, had long ago been added to the target data base, so it was a matter of picking targets for indirect fire and feeding in their coordinates. Drop rounds onto the roads, knock out vehicles that would have to be cleared away before anything else could get past. Make the enemy think he was being cut off. It took steady veterans to go on advancing when they were afraid their line of retreat was cut.
Right. The artillery fire plan could be left to the local militia officers. They could read maps as well as he could, and they'd seen the terrain.
And that would be wearing the enemy down something fierce. Which is about all I can do just now.
Aggressive patrols to make the enemy bunch up, and aggressive artillery to pound them when they did bunch up, and meanwhile gather enough troops to mount a real counter attack. Time's on our side now. . . .
"Sir," the technician said. "Launch, from one of the perimeter bunker locations under enemy control." The sergeant was frowning as he tracked. "Very odd trajectory, sir. Straight up, almost. Several—better than five clicks."
Some sort of suborbital? he thought. Then: Oh, Christ. The whole purpose of the attack was suddenly plain. Not just to shatter the mine, to demoralize the Citizens of Stora Mine and the northlands around it. Some wounds anger, but there are others that break the spirit. That's what the enemy intended. Had intended all along. His hand stabbed out toward the communicator, then froze. There was nothing he could do, nothing at all.
"Sir, it's a two-stage. Computer says antifortress penetrator, heavy job. Apogee. Coming down under thrust. Coming down fast. Jesus, Mach 18! 20! Jesus, it's—"
The ground shook beneath their feet.
"Prepare to pull out," Skilly said, raising herself to her knees and wiping blood from the corner of her mouth. The explosion had been more like an earthquake, this close.
The bunkers around the underground fortress were intact, but there was a gaping hole near the entrance to the main bunker. Smoke rose from it. It looked bad, looked terrible.
Baffles and multiple armored doors had protected the weapons posts. The steady fire continued, then the Spartan defenders realized what had happened behind them, and then every remaining weapon opened up, firing continuously with no thought of maintaining concealment. Wire-guided missiles lashed out in return from the Helot positions, beamriders. The savage exchange of fire continued for a minute, then died away. The Helot troops couldn't take the losses and dove for cover. Someone screamed near by.
"Fuck this shit, fuck it, fuck this motherfucking shit!"
"Steady," Skilly shouted. "General comm, Phase—"
RAK. Yip had raised himself to reel in the surveillance camera; the sniper bullet punched through his shoulder, upper lungs and out the other side without slowing much. Everyone dove as it whined around the room, pinging off concrete with that ugly sound that told experienced ears the thumb-sized lump of flattened metal might hit anyone from any direction. The guerrilla NCO's heels drummed briefly on the floor, as blood flooded out from nose and mouth and the massive exit wound under his left armpit.
"—Phase Five, say again, Phase Five," Skilly repeated.
Almost on the heels of her words the first of the huge demolition charges the guerrillas had cobbled together from captured blasting explosive went off, with a jarring thump that was loud even a kilometer away. The remaining militia could be expected to press their pursuit with reckless courage, and the Helots intended to make them pay for it. With explosive and steel rather than close-quarter fighting, where possible; with ambushes where it was not.
"Now, Jeffi. Now we run, and they come after us, and we kill them."