A Fighting Chance (15 page)

“Roger,” came the reply. “Six to all Shoshone personnel. Protect your eyes. Over.”

Foley turned his back and began to count. But 120 seconds later, the flash he’d been expecting to see had yet to appear. “Six? Report. Over.”

There was a pause followed by the sound of Six’s voice. “Sorry, sir. The bugs blew the bird out of the air. And two attempts to detonate the egg failed. Over.”

Foley swore as he turned back again. More lights were visible. “This is Shoshone One. Initiate phase three. Repeat, initiate phase three. Kill as many of the survivors as you can. The bugs will send reinforcements. So we will withdraw at 0330. No exceptions. Over.”

Unlike the Ramanthians themselves, most of their vehicles were kept on the surface, where they could be accessed quickly. And rather than being wiped out as planned, the vast majority of them were combat-ready. Furthermore, unlike the partially armored civilian vehicles that the resistance was sending into the fray, the bugs were equipped with well-maintained Gantha hover tanks and Haba attack sleds. Both of which were well suited for the desert terrain.

The Ramanthians had what should have been another advantage as well. And that was a satellite-based command and control system that enabled their officers to track battles in real time and make adjustments as necessary.

But as hundreds of Ganthas and Habas left the protection of their revetments for the open desert, something strange occurred. Hundreds of duplicate symbols appeared on their screens. And that was when the Ramanthians realized the truth. The animals had installed emulators on their vehicles. Devices that made them electronically indistinguishable from their Ramanthian counterparts. A ruse that explained how they had been able to pre-position their forces without triggering any computerized alarms.

But effective though the emulators were on a temporary basis, they couldn’t counter the fact that the bugs had numerical superiority and more offensive throw weight. So the humans were at a distinct disadvantage as the Ganthas and Habas sallied out to fight the old-fashioned way. Each file of three tanks was supported by six sleds. Their job was to protect the battlefield behemoths from rapacious T-2s. Except there weren’t any cyborgs, so the Habas were free to protect their charges from other threats.

Emulators or no emulators, the Ganthas could fire on any target with a heat signature different from those that Ramanthian assets produced. So as they tracked enemy vehicles and fired on them with their 120mm guns, the hover sleds circled like anxious sheepdogs. Flares lit up the night, tracers arced back and forth, and the tankers scored a series of easy kills. Then the tactical situation began to change.

The Ganthas, which had been conceived as quad killers, were very effective at attacking large, relatively slow targets. So they took a heavy toll on the converted dump trucks, armored earthmovers, and other tank substitutes that the humans had pressed into service. But the Ganthas weren’t nimble enough to dance with light trucks, dune buggies, and the motorcycles that sped at them out of the surrounding darkness.

The truck Foley was riding in ran up the side of a dune, caught some air, and came crashing down twenty feet beyond. A six-point harness held him in place as the driver swerved. An explosion lit the western horizon, and the
thump
,
thump
,
thump
of cannon fire came from somewhere off to the east. “Hang on to your panties,” the driver said over the intercom. “And get ready to kick ass. We have a Gantha up ahead.”

A rattling sound was heard as the woman in the front passenger seat began to fire the light machine gun bolted to the hood in front of her. But the six-barreled 1x20mm Gatling gun that comprised the truck’s main armament wasn’t high enough to fire forward over the cab. That meant Foley could engage targets on either side or to the rear but not straight ahead.

But this wasn’t a problem for long as a swarm of sleds came out to meet the humans. The truck bucked wildly as the big bumper hit one of the Habas, and the right-hand set of tires rolled over it. Then more of the dimly seen machines appeared to either side. Each Haba had a fixed nose gun, minimissile launchers, and a rider armed with a grenade launcher or a Negar IV.

Foley saw a muzzle flash and used it as an aiming point. The minigun roared ominously, the hailstorm of bullets tore the Haba to shreds, and its fuel tank blew as Foley’s driver weaved in and out between the crisscrossing sleds. A minimissile exploded against the reinforced passenger door. That caused the front gunner to say some very unladylike things.

Then bullets began to ping the metal around Foley. He stomped on a foot pedal, which caused the gun mount to swivel right. Then it was time to fire at a Haba that was locked onto the truck’s six. The sled’s nose gun sparkled, Foley answered with a burst of his own, and the enemy vehicle exploded.

“To the right!” the driver shouted, as the truck skidded into a turn, and the black-on-black bulk of a Gantha tank appeared. “Hose it down!”

Foley did so. But the tank’s skin was thick enough to protect it from 20mm shells. And the fans that kept the monster aloft were protected by an armored skirt. But that didn’t matter because the truck’s purpose was to serve as a distraction while off-road motorcycles closed in. One took a Haba-fired missile, erupted into flames, and flipped end over end. But the other came within inches of the Gantha’s steel flank. So close that the rider seated in back could slap a magnetic disk onto the tank’s hull.

Then it was time to accelerate hard as the seconds ticked away and the shaped charge exploded. Even the thickest armor wasn’t proof against the jet of molten plasma that bored in through the Gantha’s metal skin and found an ammo bin. There was a deafening roar as a dozen 120mm rounds cooked off, and a gout of flame propelled the turret ten feet into the air before allowing it to crash back down. “Good one!” the driver shouted, and Foley felt a sense of exultation as the truck sped away.

But things weren’t going so well elsewhere. And that became apparent as a series of negative reports flowed in. At least two dozen attack trucks had been destroyed, the number of casualties was mounting, and the bugs were sending
more
vehicles into the fray. And that wasn’t the worst of it. “Shoshone Two to Shoshone One,” Foley’s XO said, as gunfire rattled in the background. “The bugs located the mine. Hundreds of them are streaming inside. Over.”

Foley felt sick to his stomach. Nearly every fighter he had was committed to phase three. So the only people in the mine were support staff, medical personnel, and their patients. All of whom were being slaughtered. And it was
his
fault. Because he’d been so sure of his plan, so certain that each phase would succeed, he had neglected to leave a sufficient security force at the mine.

With the sun about to rise in the east, and the increasing threat from Ramanthian aircraft, there was nothing he could do for the people being massacred in the mine. The most important thing was to save what he could and live to fight another day. Foley’s voice cracked as he made his reply. “Shoshone One to all units. Break contact, retreat to your preassigned rally point, and await further orders. No one, I repeat no one, is to return to the mine. Over.”

Having heard Foley’s order, the truck driver turned and set off toward the west, with dune buggies and motorcycles throwing up rooster tails of dust all around. The group’s rally point was the bombed-out ruin of what had once been the China Lake spaceport.

Meanwhile, in the back of the truck, Foley felt for the remote. He’d been carrying it for more than a month by then but never believed that he’d have to use it. He pushed the protective plate up out of the way. A red button was revealed. Then he closed his eyes. No one heard him say, “Please forgive me,” over the roar of the engine and the rumble of the slipstream. But there was no denying the roll of artificial thunder as a tactical nuke buried deep inside the Lucky Fool mine went off, and the ground above it gave way. The knowledge that hundreds of Ramanthians had been buried offered cold comfort. Operation Cockroach was over.

7

We should try to make war without leaving anything to chance.
In this lies the talent of a general.

—Maurice de Saxe
Reveries on the Art of War
Standard year 1732

PLANET O-CHI 4, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

Two days had passed since the attack on Baynor’s Bay. It was cloudy, a gentle rain was misting the air, and Santana welcomed it. Hopefully the bad weather would keep the Ramanthian fighters on the ground. Santana, Dietrich, and their T-2s watched from the top of a low rise as the O-Chi Raiders trooped through a coffee plantation and entered the verdant jungle beyond. Santana knew that the forest was going to be both a curse and a blessing during the days ahead. A curse because he would have to fight the planet before he could battle the bugs.

But the forest was a blessing as well. Because even though the enemy knew where the battalion was headed, it would be difficult to spot. Or, as Kimbo put it, “Finding us will be like looking for a blood tick in a dog’s fur.” Which was true although the Ramanthians weren’t stupid and would be able to narrow the search.

Rona-Sa, Zarrella, and Alpha company had already passed the knoll by then. But as Bravo Company drew even with Santana, he had an opportunity to inspect Kimbo’s command. A civilian earthmover led the way, blade up and ready to cut a path through the forest. It was loaded with a hodgepodge of gear, and two soldiers were perched behind the driver, ready to defend her from the local wildlife should any attack from above. Santana didn’t think the tractors would make it all the way to the objective. But even a primitive trail would be welcome and make the initial part of the journey easier on his troops.

Sergeant Marlo Lopez came next. Servos whined with each step, her pods made a thumping sound as they made contact with the ground, and the acrid odor of ozone followed wherever she went. Like the other quads, Lopez was burdened with a full load of weapons, food, and ammo, most of which had been provided by the militia. A real blessing since most of the Legion’s supplies was lost when the TACBASE had exploded.

There were two reasons to place the quads at the front of each company. The first was their ability to trample everything except the largest trees. And that would become very important if the battalion had to abandon the tractors. The second was that when it came to firepower, there was nothing on O-Chi 4 that was a match for the giant quadrupeds. In the case of an ambush, the lead cyborg would be able to fend the enemy off until infantry came forward to provide support. The idea was to rotate the companies every couple of hours so that each got its fair share of jungle busting.

Kimbo passed the rise next. He was mounted on a T-2 who was supposed to protect the company commander and provide him with mobility. The first, second, and third platoons followed. Santana was pleased to see the proper intervals between them. And judging from the marching ditty they were chanting, morale was good.

But as the third tractor appeared, followed by a quad named Jiro Yakumo, things took a turn for the worse. Captain Ryley was mounted on a T-2. But unlike his peers, who had distributed their T-2s at regular intervals along the length of the column, Ryley had surrounded himself with
seven
cyborgs. All carrying bio bods of various ranks.

Ryley nodded as he rode past and Santana nodded in return. When Santana spoke with Dietrich, it was over a private link. “Tell me something, Sergeant Major . . . Am I mistaken? Or are all of the people on those T-2s ex-members of the O-Chi Scouts?”

“You’re correct, sir,” Dietrich replied gravely. “It looks as though Captain Ryley thinks that his friends should ride rather than walk.”

Santana felt a sense of disappointment. It was the sort of favoritism that was not only glaringly obvious but would soon stir resentment among the ranks. Something would have to be done. And that wasn’t the worst of it. As the rest of Charlie Company trooped past, Santana saw that Ryley’s first platoon was so bunched up it would take heavy casualties in a grenade attack. Meanwhile, the third platoon was so strung out that there were a hundred feet between some of them. And that was a significant problem since they were supposed to guard the fuel truck that brought up the rear and protect the column’s six. Not Ryley’s fault personally, but a sign of laxness since it was his responsibility to keep a watchful eye on his officers. “Go have a word with the PL,” Santana said, knowing Dietrich had the same concerns he did. “Explain the importance of walking drag and tell her to close it up.”

Dietrich nodded. “Yes, sir.” His T-2 left tracks in the mud as the rain fell harder. Santana looked up. The sun was little more than a yellow smear in the gray sky. The long march had begun.

The first day passed without major incident. Knowing that it would take extra time to set up the first encampment and having been advised that night fell quickly in the forest, Santana ordered a halt in midafternoon. With both the Ramanthians and wild animals to worry about, Santana knew it was important to construct a marching fortress each night. Given the variations in terrain, no two camps would be alike. But, wherever possible, the sites were to be located on high ground, both to provide good drainage in the case of a torrential downpour and to provide the battalion with a tactical advantage if it was attacked.

Once the boundaries of the encampment had been staked out and approved by Rona-Sa, the next step was to bulldoze a free-fire zone that would prevent attackers from getting too close without being seen. After a sufficient swath of jungle had been cleared, it was time to excavate a deep ditch around the encampment itself. The loose dirt was placed inside the newly created moat to create a berm. Quads were assigned to anchor three corners of the fort, and a force of three T-2s was sent to protect the fourth.