Stark's Command (6 page)

"Ethan! You don't have to lead the damn charge!" Vic shouted at him, her faraway presence sounding next to his ear.

"Yes, I do. They're following me, Vic. How's Delta Company coming?"

"If you weren't in the middle of combat you could check for yourself! Geary's pushing her company out, but she's scared of mines and enemy forces that might have occupied our bunkers."

"She's got a right to be scared."

"Ethan, I can't give her company detailed orders for their Tacs when we know so little about the threat there."

"Then don't. Let Geary handle it bunker by bunker."

A pause. "Right. I'll tell her to run her company from where she is."

"Fine, but make sure she knows we're depending on her to retake those positions so these people we're chasing don't get away."

"Roger. I'll keep a fire going under her."

Down the slope, his feet pushed off outcrops with the skill born of experience, driving him downward in rapid surges that altered direction at each push to confuse anyone trying to target him. Other soldiers raced alongside, literally running over a few of the enemy caught in the motions of throwing aside their weapons. Ahead, the bulk of the enemy forces had reversed direction, falling back as fast as they'd advanced, trying to escape the trap they could now see closing in from all sides.

A section of broken terrain ahead suddenly began spitting bullets at the advancing Americans, and Stark's HUD screamed threat warnings as it highlighted the threat symbology heading his way. The soldier closest to Stark came to an abrupt halt, his forward motion stopped by the impact of bullets, then was punched backward by several more hits. Stark fell behind a small mound of lunar dust, piled up by who-knew-what forces over uncounted years, and wished those forces had managed to build a higher pile in all that time. Shouts rang out over the circuit, orders and warnings intermingling. An attempted rush of Americans to the right was met by a flurry of fire, driving the attackers to ground. The charge faltered, hesitating as the retreating enemy pulled away behind the cover of their rear guard.

Stark scanned the surrounding terrain, cursing.
Perfect defensive position. I either lose a lot of people charging straight in or lose a lot of time working around the flanks. I wish—

A boulder detached itself from the moonscape, sliding forward as the tank's main gun swiveled to bear on the enemy strongpoint. The cannon twitched, lobbing a shell into the center of the enemy firing. Dust and rock flew in a swelling geyser as the tank's round created a new crater, then a second shell dug another hole not far from the first. A few figures rose, scrambling for cover or trying to target the tank, only to be cut down by bullets from Stark's soldiers.

The tank slid to a halt, its secondary cannon spraying the enemy position with fire as the main gun continued to leisurely hurl heavy rounds onto any point that might hide a concentration of enemy soldiers. A moment later the terrain seemed to erupt armored figures as the enemy broke, leaping up to flee. Rifle fire claimed several before they could travel a meter, then most of the others halted, raising their arms in the universal gesture of surrender.

"Milheim," Stark called out, "detail somebody to guard those prisoners."

Before Milheim could reply, Vic Reynolds came on line, speaking in cool, clear tones. "All prisoners are to be instructed to drop safeguards on their suit systems so we can take them over.

"What if they don't do it?" someone demanded.

"Tell them that anyone who doesn't has not surrendered. Give them five seconds to comply and then open fire again." She altered subjects smoothly. "All APCs forward. Even sections proceed just behind the infantry line to provide fire support. Odd sections break off to assist guarding prisoners."

A flurry of questions sparked by the order flew over the comm circuits. "How many prisoners should each APC guard?"

"What if an odd section is closer to the front line right now?"

"Should we break the sections down if we have to?"

"Dammit!" Stark bellowed. "Think for yourselves!" Silence followed his order. "Vic, did that go out?"

Her chuckle answered him, incongruous against the battle flaring on all sides. "Yeah, Ethan, it went out."

"Why didn't anybody acknowledge it?"

"They're probably in shock. God only knows the last time that particular order was given by anyone in the U.S. military."

Forward again, Stark no longer literally leading the charge as younger, less cautious soldiers moved faster, running down groups of the enemy before they could establish new defensive positions. Other groups, in familiar armor, appeared as well—Americans captured in the rout now shocked to find themselves free and pressed into guarding their own former captors.

"Vic! Has Geary reoccupied the entire front?"

"Negative. Too much resistance. I'm angling a couple companies from Fifth Batt up toward the front to reinforce her and close the gap from the other side."

"Can we push some tanks in from the right, too?"

"I'll ask Lamont."

Down and through a small crater, a group of soldiers appeared with shocking suddenness off to the left. Stark's rifle was already steadying as his IFF chirped a reassuring "friendly," then the new arrivals opened fire on the nearest retreating enemy forces.
Fifth Battalion,
he realized, scanning his HUD.
We've linked up.
"Keep moving, everybody. Don't stop. Keep pushing them hard so they don't have time to dig in."

Pull out the scan, viewing the entire area, symbology swimming in dizzy patterns as friendly positions shifted around the entire penetration and enemy positions popped up, vanished, then reappeared in fleeting sensor detections. A gaudy sensor display to Stark's left, throwing out wild bursts of infrared, resolved into an enemy APC as he reached visual range, its fuel and ammunition burning in an erratic bonfire. Figures lay scattered among the rocks, some in suits still broadcasting feeble signals, some silent and unmoving. He tried not to look, beyond ensuring none were enemy soldiers playing possum, and tried not to personally tally the losses suffered so far this day.

Victory or defeat. Each had a momentum, becoming self-sustaining as confidence or despair skyrocketed. Stark wasn't leading the charge anymore; he was caught up in it, swept along as the counterattack surged forward.

Not far now. The front beckoned, crowds of enemy soldiers milling about in confusion, raising their arms toward the dark heavens or making desperate attempts to break out through the reoccupied bunkers. American armor, rushing forward in a highly risky dash, had reached the bunker line and formed a moving cordon, tracking back and forth to overawe or fire into small pockets of resistance. Stark's troops swept forward, filling the circuits with cries of triumph as they turned defeat into unlooked-for victory.

Some of the troops kept moving, reaching the bunker line and going beyond to chase the retreating foe. Stark felt it, then, a force born of exhilaration and heedlessness, pulling at him and the others, urging them forward.
The enemy line must be thin. They must have weakened it to push troops into the attack. Their own panicked troops are running into and through it. We can take them. We can break their line.

And then what?
Stark checked himself with a muffled curse.
What the hell would we do if we did break that line? We can't exploit it, and we couldn't hold an isolated section way out in front of our own line. And what if it isn't weakened? What can I win here that would be worth what's it's likely to cost?
"Everyone, do not pursue past our own front. I repeat, do not pursue."

"But we got 'em! They're running!"

"So were we not so long ago, and what'd we just do to them? Nobody's touched the enemy line yet, and you apes are running right at their bunkers! Anybody forgotten what happened to Third Division?" The question, invoking the deaths of thousands of soldiers who'd tried to break that same enemy line, seemed to have more force than Stark's earlier command. His units suddenly braked, but those forward of the American bunkers held their ground instead of falling back.

"Stark," someone beseeched, "we can do this. End this damn war."

Tempting, but only if your thoughts remained focused on the here-and-now. Stark mentally braced himself, then triggered a change in the unit scans. New symbology sprang to life on everyone's HUDs, phantom units arrayed for battle, the better part of a brigade of soldiers frozen in midcharge against that same portion of the enemy front. "Everybody see that?" Stark demanded. "Those are dead soldiers from Third Division, still out here because we haven't been able to recover them yet. Look at them. They thought they could take those defenses, too. Remember?"
How could they ever forget? Alarms screaming threat warnings, that brigade dying out in front of us and nothing we could do but watch. Dear God, never again.
"Now get back inside our lines!"

His troops moved at last, pulling back slowly and cautiously, keeping to cover as best they could. The so-far silent enemy line began spitting angry shells in their wake, hastening the withdrawal to the safety of the American defensive umbrella.

Enemy artillery reacted, throwing shells into the area, the barrages losing much of their force to American defenses, but some rounds making it through.
God, I hate artillery. Enemy artillery, anyway. I'm sure I've lost too many people today already, and I've got too many soldiers out in the open rounding up enemy prisoners . . . .
"Vic, is there any way to talk to the enemy from headquarters?"

"I don't—yes. Tanaka says there's a red line direct from here to their headquarters. Why?"

"I want someone to get on that red line and tell them we've taken a lot of prisoners and right now their own artillery is dropping shells on those prisoners. They better lay off hitting that area unless they want to kill a bunch of their own people."

"Roger."

It took a few minutes, but the enemy fire lifted, avoiding attempts to hit deep targets and contenting itself with pounding the American front. Stark stepped carefully downward, working down the slope, making his way to a position screened from direct enemy observation.
I'm forgetting something. Something important. Ah, hell.
"Anita."

"Yes, Sarge." Her voice shook slightly, reflecting overwhelming fatigue of mind and body.

"The enemy's gonna start hitting your hill with artillery, just as soon's they think of it. The bunkers to your left have been reoccupied, and we've got this situation stabilized enough so you can come down. Get everyone off Mango Hill and into those other two bunkers to your right. We'll be able to cover the gap."

"No."

"No? What the hell do you mean, 'no'?"

"I ain't leaving here." Her voice shook more, beginning to quiver as Stark knew her body must be at that moment. "We paid for this hill."

"Corporal Gomez, we are not giving up the hill. We will retain possession. But leaving infantry up there exposed to enemy bombardment would mean throwing their lives away."

"I can send most of the other troops to the bunkers—"

"Corporal Gomez, you and every other soldier on that hill will reenter the bunkers to your right, and you will do it now, or I will personally come up there and kick your stubborn damn butt into the nearest bunker! Is that understood?"

A long moment later, she answered, voice ragged with apology.
"Sí.
Sorry,
Sargento.
Will comply. Been a long day. I—"

"Got nothing to apologize for. You did great. Now, get your people under cover." Stark watched the symbology on Mango Hill begin to move, sliding back and sideways in sections as the defenders finally relinquished their hold.
Have I forgotten anything else really important? God, I don't know. So close. They almost had us. Just figured they'd keep charging deep, and we'd keep throwing in small groups of reinforcements to try to stop them as soon as possible. But we thought of something else. Thanks, Kate. That's another one I owe you.

The debt never seemed to lessen, Stark reflected grimly. So many years ago, his fellow soldiers dying all around, trapped by superior forces on the hellhole forever to be known as Patterson's Knoll. Corporal Kate Stein, also surviving until night fell, but critically wounded, ordered Stark to leave and try to escape in the dark. He'd promised her then, promised to save other soldiers someday even though he couldn't save her that night. And he'd kept that promise, despite the risks, despite the anger of officers who cared more about sticking to a plan than fighting smart and keeping their people alive. Kept it until it had led him here, with no idea of where it might lead next.

That man-created line on the lunar surface, which had been the front, then fallen, and now become the front again, seemed curiously peaceful. Stark stood below the top of a low rise, protected from the enemy artillery that sought belated vengeance by targeting anything moving among the American positions. A tank, its multiton bulk gliding with incongruous delicacy among the rocky terrain, took up position about half a kilometer away. With its massive curved carapace, it resembled a giant, mutant beetle hiding in the lee of the ridge, although fortunately for humanity no beetle had ever been armed with such an impressive array of heavy weaponry.

"Yeee-hah," Sergeant Lamont remarked in a conversational tone. "That there was the best fun I've had in all my years up here. We gonna do it again?"

"Dear Jesus, I hope not," Stark responded fervently.

"Ethan?"

"Yeah, Vic." He had to keep reminding himself that she wasn't somewhere nearby, guarding his flank. No, Reynolds sat far away at headquarters, guarding both flanks and his rear as she helped oversee the battle.

"Could you do me a small favor?"

"Sure, Vic, what?"

"Get the hell away from the front line!"

"Okay, okay." He tagged the tank's comm circuit again. "Hey, Lamont, I gotta go. My mom's calling. Can you use your armor to stiffen the front until we get all the bunkers back on-line?"

"Sure. No prob. You ain't gonna get that bunker on Mango Hill working anytime soon, though."