Starfist: FlashFire (36 page)

Sturgeon nodded. “That, sir, will be his undoing. What can you tell me about our commander? Is he up to a breakout? How much influence do you have on his planning? You’re his deputy after all.”

“You’re going to find out all about General Jason Billie in good time. As for me in this army, I’m going to be kept on a short leash, Ted. It’s Sorca who’ll be running things around here, carrying out Billie’s decisions. They’re both politicians and staff officers, not fighters. But Sorca’s a goddamned coward. I admit, he was essentially without a command when what was left of it retreated into here, but I had to take over command of the troops myself. He’s been no help to me whatsoever. But with him being a big buddy of Billie’s, I expect as soon as there’s a lull I’ll be packed off and Sorca will then take over as both deputy commander and chief of staff and you know how powerful those positions can be in any military command.”

“Ugh, Al, this kafe is terrible!” Sturgeon grinned.

“Don’t ask me what’s in it. Now Billie, his aide, Captain Woo told me, brought in some fine stuff, but it’ll be a cold day on Arsenault before we ever get any of it. That tells you a lot about how he views the role of commander of this army, doesn’t it?”

“So what do we do, sir?”

“We’ll both be in the war council coming up in a while, along with the other unit commanders and the staff. Let’s see what the great military genius in there has come up with in the way of a plan. You and I both know we’ve got to get out of here and maneuver. That’s what you Marines do best. But I am going to tell you something now, Ted, that it pains me to say. In all the years I’ve been a soldier I never thought I’d come to this. I’m through in this army. If I get out of this mess I’m retiring. I’m never going any higher in rank than I now have and I am never again going to serve under an officer like this Billie. If at any time during the campaign that’s coming you feel your men are being used as cannon fodder,” here Cazombi caught his breath, “you would be well advised to make a report to your commandant. Make regular reports to him anyway via backchannels. Document everything that’s about to happen. I know, saying that is disloyalty on my part as an army officer but I’m no longer loyal to that sonofabitch,” he nodded toward the closed door to Billie’s private office, where Captain Woo was pounding on it excitedly, “so expect fireworks from me at this council.”

“Who is that guy at Billie’s door?” Sturgeon asked, nodding at the source of all the noise.

“Captain Chester Woo, Billie’s aide-de-camp. His fat little ass is Billie’s personal fortune cookie.” The pounding became louder and as the two watched, thin tendrils of smoke began creeping out from beneath the door.

Sturgeon glanced questioningly at Cazombi and laughed, “Maybe they’ve managed to immolate themselves in there.”

“This army should be so lucky,” Cazombi grunted.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

More reports from the Force Recon teams operating behind the Coalition lines came in to FIST

headquarters, where they were taken seriously even though General Billie continued to dismiss them as unverified and therefore irrelevant. Unlike the Supreme Commander, Major General Koval took the reports seriously enough that he paid a daily visit to FIST HQ to see the updates.

They were far from irrelevant; it seemed ever more likely to Sturgeon and Koval—and their staffs and subordinate commanders as well—that the reports indicated imminent attack by a reinforced division on the section of the perimeter centered on 34th FIST. The reports indicated that section, the easiest to defend, was selected because General Lyons felt it was held by the least capable units in the Confederation force.

“Not only is he dead wrong, we know he’s coming,” Koval murmured when he saw that report.

“Between us, General,” Sturgeon said, “we’re going to give General Lyons the biggest surprise of his military career.”

They grinned warrior’s grins at each other, all teeth and just enough grin to make ’em visible.

There was only one thing that could foul up their preparations. That was in the next reports Sturgeon got from Force Recon.

When Koval read it, he asked the Marine commander, “What are you going to do if His Royal Supremeness orders you to reinforce the main line of resistance?”

Sturgeon only shook his head, he wondered that himself.

The generals and their subordinate commanders weren’t the only ones preparing to defend against a major assault; the preparations went all the way down to the newest and most junior men in every unit.

PFC McGinty wasn’t sure of his position in the fire team, not after what Ensign Bass had said when he assigned him to first squad’s third fire team. And the way Corporal Dean acted didn’t inspire him to begin feeling like he was someplace where he belonged. Not that Corporal Dean was treating him like an interloper; McGinty thought his fire team leader was treating him just about exactly the way a fire team leader
should
treat a new man—introducing him to everybody in the squad and telling him something about every one of them, making sure he knew where to get chow and water, where his position and field of fire were if they were attacked, how to call for medical assistance or ammunition if needed.

But Corporal Dean was so
impersonal
about it. And he hadn’t sounded like he really meant it when he said, “Welcome aboard, McGinty. Glad to have you.”

Lance Corporal Godenov was warmer in his welcome, but McGinty was a bit put off when Godenov said, “Everybody calls me ‘Izzy,’ but you don’t get to. You haven’t been around long enough to remember when that was a question.”

Now, what was that all about? Was it a play on his name, “Izzy” Godenov? Why would there have been a question? McGinty wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

And they both looked so
hard
.

At least he knew where to get water, what there was of it, and food—and ammo and medical assistance if needed. And if the rebels came, he knew where his position and field of fire were.

PFC Smedley wasn’t having a much better time of it. Sure, Corporal Doyle and PFC Summers welcomed him warmly enough. But Smedley couldn’t help but feel that a big part of Summers’s warmth was because he finally had someone junior to himself in the fire team. And Corporal Doyle seemed so damned
uncertain
about everything. It wasn’t that he didn’t know things. Not only did Corporal Doyle tell Smedley where to find water and chow, ammunition and the corpsman, and where the battalion aid station was, but drilled him so he actually
knew
those things. The fire team leader even put him through drills so he could automatically hit his designated fighting position and field of fire if they were attacked, and how to react if the platoon was called to plug a hole in the lines somewhere else.

Maybe it was just that this was Corporal Doyle’s first day as a fire team leader. But he hadn’t just been promoted like the squad leader—Sergeant Kerr, was that his name? or he would be Sergeant Kerr as soon as the promotion warrant came through—and that gun team leader with the strange name. So how had a corporal been filling a lance corporal’s billet? Had he been a fire team leader before and did something to lose the job? That would explain why he seemed so unsure of himself. But what Ensign Bass said about him didn’t sound like he’d already been a fire team leader. Had he done something heroic and gotten a promotion instead of a medal? If that was the case, why did everybody else in the platoon act like he wasn’t a very good Marine?

Smedley had a lot of questions, more questions, and not the kind of questions he’d expected to have when he finally joined a platoon. But Corporal Doyle didn’t give him time to dwell on them too much.

“Summers, Smedley,” Doyle said as he came in from an NCOs’ meeting, “heads up! The word is the bad guys are coming in force through us.” He didn’t stop to look at his men, but went straight to the aperture to look out over the beach below them. Summers and Smedley joined him.

The beach, two hundred meters distant, was sand and pebbles studded with boulders. A rocky shelf rose a quarter of the way in from the waterline, and the ground rose gently from there, though still scattered with jagged rocks and boulders. A glacis was built in front of the aperture to deflect projectiles up and over.

To Smedley, it looked like a killing ground that nobody would be fool enough to attack across. He looked to his left and was surprised to see Corporal Doyle trembling and Summers looking nervous.

“I-I know what you’re th-thinking, Smedley,” Doyle croaked. “You think this is an easy position to defend. But l-look at it again.” His voice suddenly became stronger. “If their landing craft make it to the waterline, they’ve got all those boulders to use as cover while they advance by fire and maneuver. Then they can group up under the cover of the lip of the shelf down there, then fire and maneuver again with boulders for cover. They won’t have cover when they reach the glacis, but there it’s a straight run up to us.”

“I can see that,” Smedley said, not seeing what Doyle was so concerned about.

Doyle turned hollow eyes on him. “There’s not many more than four hundred Marines on this line. They’re sending a reinforced division through us. More than twenty thousand soldiers. That’s better than fifty to one odds. Do
you
think you can take out fifty of them before they reach you?

“That’s not all,” Doyle continued. “They aren’t going to be bunched up, a whole company right in front of us so we can’t miss. Do you know how far apart our positions are? Fifty meters, that’s how far. Three Marines have to cover a front more than fifty meters wide. That’s why your field of fire extends so far to the right, so that your fire can interlock with the next Marine over.”

Doyle looked back out at the beach. “And that damn army general in command doesn’t believe they’re coming, so we don’t get any help from the army,” he murmured.

Smedley gaped at him. The world seemed to close in on him and he barely heard Summers mutter, “Something tells me we’re screwed, blued, and tattooed.”

Elsewhere on the Marine line it was much the same.

Corporal Pasquin hobbled back from the NCOs’ meeting, taking very careful steps to avoid stressing the wounds on his gluteus maximi. He looked more somber than Lance Corporal Longfellow and PFC Shoup had ever seen him, and neither thought it was soreness from his healing wounds that made him look that way. He went slowly to the aperture and looked out. Softly, he brought them up to date. Longfellow closed his eyes and moved his lips in silent prayer. Shoup just stared at the beach.

Corporal Claypoole began briefing Lance Corporals MacIlargie and Schultz as soon as he reached the entrance to their bunker. MacIlargie’s face showed increasing disbelief as Claypoole briefed them. Schultz lay on his side on a makeshift pallet. He rolled onto his stomach and pulled his arms and legs under him to lift himself up, then stood gingerly and stepped to lean on the aperture.

When Claypoole finished, Schultz said, “Martac.” “Yeah, what about Martac?” Claypoole answered. “Bass, Shabeli. Remember?” “Yeah, I remember. Gu—Ensign Bass, he was a staff sergeant then,” Claypoole said in an aside to

MacIlargie, “took on Shabeli in a knife fight. And killed him. What’s that got to do with us here and now?”

“Remember what I said?” Claypoole thought back to that horrible day when the eight Marines on the Bass patrol had thought they were all dead, and remembered. “You said he was showing us how to die.”

“We’re going to show the army how Marines die.” If
Hammer Schultz
thought they were going to die . . .

Brigadier Sturgeon was examining the real-time downloads from the string-of-pearls when the order he didn’t want came down from the Supreme Commander’s HQ.

According to the visuals shown from the ring of satellites, the assault against the MLR was fierce but shallow, as predicted by Force Recon, and the army brigades in position wouldn’t have to hold for long before the assault ran out of steam and the attacking forces withdrew. Of far more immediate concern to Sturgeon was the mass of amphibious vessels gathered on Pohick Bay, and the flights of tactical air carriers swinging inland from over the bay.

Sturgeon grimaced when he read the orders, and told Captain Shadeh to get General Billie on comm for him. It took a minute or so, and Billie was obviously very annoyed about the call.

“What’s the problem, General?” Billie snapped.

“Sir, has the General seen the string-of-pearls downloads?” Sturgeon asked, ignoring the wrong rank by which Billie addressed him.

“Yes, I’ve seen them. They show what I already know—a massive attack against the MLR! I need your

Marines there
now
to reinforce that line.”

“Sir, I respectfully request the General take another look. The string-of-pearls shows a shallow assault against the MLR and a massive amphibious and air assault about to launch over the beach on the northern defenses—just as Force Recon said was happening.”

Billie snorted. “There you go with Force Recon again! That ‘massive’ air-sea force off the north shore is an obvious feint—and your prima donnas fell for it. I need your FIST at the MLR, and I need it there
now
!”

There wasn’t anything Sturgeon could say in reply, because Billie broke the connection. He slowly lowered the comm and stood musing for a moment, while Colonel Ramadan and Commander Usner, his operations officer, looked on, waiting for him to confirm what they suspected Billie had said—and what he was going to do about it. Sturgeon finished thinking and looked up at them.

“Gentlemen,” he said in a voice loud enough for everyone in the operations center to hear, “the Supreme Commander has declared that the invasion force,” he glanced at the string-of-pearls display, “that is now headed for our positions is a feint, and the assault against the MLR is the main thrust. He has ordered me to move the FIST to reinforce the MLR and help beat back the main assault,” he looked again at the display, “which already shows signs of stalling.

“General Billie has four stars to my one nova, I have no choice but to obey. Therefore,” he looked levelly at Usner, “I want you to draft an order to Commander van Winkle, instructing him to move his battalion with all due speed to the MLR. When the order is drafted, you will submit it to Colonel Ramadan for approval. Should Colonel Ramadan find any deficiencies in the order, he will inform you so and you will revise the orders as needed, then resubmit them to Colonel Ramadan. You will repeat until such time as Colonel Ramadan deems the orders ready for my perusal. Once I find them acceptable, you will send the orders by runner—use an ambulatory wounded from the FIST aid station as runner—to Commander van Winkle.

“Is that understood?”

Ramadan and Usner grinned at Sturgeon. “Yessir,” they said.

“I will begin immediately, sir,” Usner said, and looked around. “The very minute I find a stylus to write with, sir.”

“Thank you, Three. And while you’re looking for that stylus, pass the word to infantry to stand by to repel boarders. Also, request air to thin out those tactical troop carriers, and to artillery to take out some of the amphibious craft.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Usner said, and got on the comm to infantry, air, and artillery with the orders.

Ramadan leaned close and murmured, “Well, Ted, it certainly seems as though you are following the Supreme Commander’s orders to the letter.”

Sturgeon merely nodded, and returned his attention to the string-of-pearls display. He looked up again. “Inform General Koval.”

“Aye aye.” Ramadan turned away to contact the 27th Division commander.

Sergeant Kerr absently rubbed his left deltoid as he stood at an aperture, looking out at the sky and bay —Sergeant Kelly had been a little too enthusiastic at “pinning on” Kerr’s sergeant’s stripes, and his shoulder was lightly bruised from the trio of punches the gun squad leader had given him. He knew what was coming from the NCOs’ meeting, and had his helmet on, looking through the magnifier screen.