Louis Shalako
Vicky
Chan was just going off duty and briefing Dona on the day’s events.
“Yup.
Looks like another night attack. It makes sense from their point of view. We
knew they were going to take that hill, and they knew they were going to take
casualties doing it. Our estimate is that they saved themselves fifteen to
twenty percent in terms of casualties just by going in at night.” It was an
interesting psychological insight.
They
had used their best troops instead of their worst. So, lives meant something to
them after all. Even after the
fetuses had been born. The other thing was,
that the regulars would want their fair share of the glory—
Even
more so, their senior officers, who had their reputations and perhaps even some
fortunes to be made.
“Right.”
“It’s
our impression that they will continue with the night attacks. They might well
have time to do four or five hills tonight. On the road, it is unclear whether
they will attack by day as well. Even with superior numbers, they still need to
rest. It’s hard to sleep beside an artillery barrage, even when it’s your own.
When they get close enough to Ryanville, the attacks will be more or less
continuous. By day or by night. There is yet another big column forming up in
Deneb City. This one’s heavy on the infantry, and they will obviously have the
manpower.”
“Roger
that, and thank you. Off you go and get yourself a good night’s sleep—eight
hours, all right? I’ll find someone to cover, don’t worry about that.”
Major
Chan slumped.
“Thank
you, Colonel Graham.”
“Don’t
worry. Vicky. When this is all over, we’ll get together and have ourselves one
smashing big piss-up.”
The
tired grin was quick, but it was there and eminently worth it to see.
***
Dona
was talking to Paul. Another private conference. They were trying to decide.
Paul
had his doubts, but the decision was hers to make.
“Look.
It’s a question of upping the ante, not so much as when, but by how much.” Dona
went on. “As long as Mongoose One is sitting there, there is some possibility
of discovery. We have exactly two reloads left. There are six Unfriendly ships
on the pad…”
The
enemy had the Red-Tails, on the concrete apron at the spaceport. Their
air-defense could be jammed. There was no lack of targets.
The
initial landing of roughly a thousand troops and a few scout and armoured cars
had taken three small ships. The larger contingent, with all of their troops
and equipment, perhaps even the nucleus of some new system of civilian
governance, of which they had been hearing rumours, had been landed by the
three big Boer-class ships. Once the
field was declared secure.
“It
seems to me, that if we take out a couple of the smaller ships. Our missiles
are not wasted. In fact, they have been extremely effective. We’ve spent our
money there, I agree. But we’ve taken out one or two ships, a heavy
psychological blow. And the enemy still has enough tonnage to get their people
out when the time comes. We have raised the stakes but then raked in a mighty
big pot—it’s still not enough for them to get really ugly with the civilian population.”
The
thing was to give them a kick in the ass. The kind of kick in the ass that
would, psychologically, force them to accelerate their timetable. This wasn’t
so much bait, as it was an added
incentive. The carrot up front, waving around in front of their eyes, the stick
going up their backsides. Hopefully, they’d get a few slivers along the way.
Paul
was nodding.
With
all of the satellite, visual, on-scene data from the fire teams, plus the
ships’ own radio traffic, the probability of at least one hit was high. This
was firing them on coordinates, in an almost ballistic fashion, although the
feedback from onboard target-recognition, the fire-teams’ designators, and the
cameras in the noses, would steer them the last part of the way down.
Sitting
out there in the open, with their distinctive shapes, specifications,
three-views and silhouettes downloaded from the databanks into the Mongoose’s
own system, it would be a pretty hard target to miss.
Paul
sighed.
There
was more to discuss and this one wasn’t worth an argument. What the hell, it
was only two missiles.
It
was in the plan. He’d signed off on it originally, and Paul couldn’t
immediately think of any real good reason to go back on it.
Now
was as good a time as any.
“Who
knows. Maybe the enemy will finally find the thing and then the Sky-Cats can
get a shot.” One never knew, in war.
“Yes,
Colonel. I agree.”
***
“Okay.
Next on the agenda.”
Paul
looked up from his com unit to the eyes clustered around the table.
“With
the Mongoose’s last two shots accounted for, we still have another fairly large
column forming up in Deneb City.” Team Four might get a shot with the Barkers
or anti-tank rockets. “They still have a good three or four thousand troops in
reserve.”
Teams
One and Two were on the other side of the city.
The
thinking was that this one, assembling in the late afternoon and early evening
hours, was preparing to make a mad, night-time dash up Highway 17. There was
little sense in forming up a column and then just letting it sit there all night.
“All
right. Make Team Four wait. They are completely unsuspected. Wait until they
come within range, and then hit them with the mortars stashed just south of
Gossua.” The enemy had taken a Mongoose missile at the village earlier in the
battle, but the fact that there were mortars in the vicinity would come as a
distinct and unpleasant surprise. “After that, anyone that wants to, can have a
crack at them.” Time to earn some bonus money—
“Roger
that, Colonel. They will be notified.”
Her
troops had strung the mortars out in a line, up in the hills, roughly a
kilometre apart. With a range of up to five kilometres, launching the heavy,
armour-piercing smart-rounds, they’d be damned hard to find by even the most
determined infantry.
Each
one had six loads in the rack, enough to make a mess of almost any combination
of vehicles or troop-carriers.
There
was a Confederation team right in the area. The best thing for them to do was to wait and to keep
themselves under cover. They’d get their chance next time.
“Very
well. Next.”
***
“Ah,
yes, the satellite.”
“So,
Colonel. What do we do.”
“Hmn.
We wait.”
And
waiting was hard.
But,
as long as they were getting anything from their own satellite at all, and as
long as the battle was unfolding more or less as predicted, it was best to keep
their bird up there.
The
only real way to destroy the enemy satellite was to work their way in as close
as possible and then to self-destruct. That charge was very small, and the
shrapnel effect would be uneven due to the nature of the Mark Seventeen’s
components and architecture.
The
very definition of a crap-shoot.
If
they were going to do it, it had bloody well better work.
As
usual, she knew one or two things that they didn’t.
***
“How
many churches are there in Ryanville?”
It
was a question that should have been asked earlier.
Turns
out, someone had.
“Four
churches, one mosque, a Temple and one or two others. There are certain
denominations…” Presumably, the temple was Jewish, or maybe Zoroastrian.
Who
cared if they were Rosicrucians, Christadelphians, Amish or Hindus. They were
all her responsibility.
“Yes?”
“Well.
I don’t quite know what to say. But Catholic churches aren’t independent.”
Some
guy didn’t just rent a storefront somewhere and start preaching the Gospel. Not
Catholics.
Some
of those little operations were quite small. It was easy enough to miss the
smaller, Protestant denominations.
“All
right. See if we can get General McMurdo on the line. Tell him we will
undertake not to use those particular buildings for any military purpose. Ask
him if he would accept our assurances, and if he would be so good as not to
fire on those locations. Also schools, hospitals, and the ambulance centre.”
The ambulance centre, with three modern ambulances and a small number of
civilian employees, was about two blocks from Ryanville General Hospital.
Negotiation
theory at work. Get him to give up a few little things—reasonable things. That big old negotiating table was always
lurking in the background.
“Me,
Colonel?”
“Yes,
Harvey. You. A junior, talking to a senior, ah, officer. Make sure you have all
the addresses or the map coordinates lined up for him. And if he asks to speak
to me, tell him that I am presently unavailable.”
“Er…yes,
Colonel.”
“Okay.
Trooper Harvey. The other thing is to be polite—diplomatic. Do you think you
can do that?”
Reddening
slightly, he nodded.
“…yes,
ma’am.”
“Thank
you.”
And
now, back to work.
With
the enemy preparing for their second night attack, this one on Hill 212-B, it
was time to vary up the punches again.
***
It
was time.
With
over four hundred troops in the Ryanville area and the Unfriendlies a bare
twenty-plus kilometres down the road, Dona was committing some of her human
resources.
The
moons had sunk below the western horizon. With virtually no lights along the
roads outside of the cities, and a heavy, damp overcast that yet refused to
rain, naked-eye visibility was just about nil.
She
had about two dozen troops involved in her own night attack, timed to disrupt
the enemy as they assembled and took up their start-lines. Most of them were in
covering positions, waiting to lay down fire when the forward elements
withdrew.
Satellite
data was almost non-existent. The ground and the enemy’s emplacements, their
troop dispersals, had been pretty well mapped. For that, the big dogs had been
very helpful. The battleground was an undulating ridgeline, with a lower notch
where the road went through. There were only so many of the enemy. It was
heavily-forested, and their lines of attack could be predicted with some degree
of accuracy.
Her
people had crept in to within a few metres of the forward pickets. Several of
the dog units had penetrated the
perimeter and were observing the bivouac and assembly areas from the edges of
clearings, screened by the underbrush and sheer darkness.
The
thing to do was just to watch for a while…
Every
forty-five minutes to an hour, a sergeant or corporal would follow a narrow
track, checking on the pickets and making sure they weren’t asleep. This was
the best time to hit the pickets in silent-killing mode. There was a long line
of posts and their immediate superiors had a real bad habit of strolling, all
alone, along that path as if nothing in the world could ever touch them. These
were definitely not the Guards units.
Unbelievable.
***
The
enemy, confident of success, well-fed and well-rested, had no clue.
The
first of the big dogs rose from its hunker-down position, and darted forwards
into the middle of an Unfriendly infantry platoon, this one led by a senior
sergeant. People squawked in dismay, people shouted. People stared
open-mouthed. One man, with
desperately fumbling hands, was trying to unsling his weapon…
The
resulting explosion, a ten-kilo charge, all ball bearings and shards of light
casing, bits of mechanical dog, would have taken out the bulk of them. This
unit had just been written off the order of battle for all intents and
purposes. The survivors would be in a hospital or sent to the reinforcement
pool.
She
waited ten minutes, as surviving Unfriendlies tried to figure out what had just
happened, talk flying back and forth and the officers and NCOs trying to
reorganize. There was now a big hole in the line and that would have to be
filled. They were behind schedule already. It took time to deal with the dead
and wounded. Only a fool would not send out some quick patrols and have a look
around before proceeding.
The
eastern sky was a dull shade of lighter blue in the curious false dawn at these
latitudes. That would be moon number one, laying just below the horizon. That
was one fast moon, but all planets were different.
“Okay.
Send in the next one.”
“Roger
that, Colonel.” This would initiate Phase Two of their plan.
Whoever
was supervising the enemy picket line would know something was definitely up, and more than one enemy NCO was
about to get their throat cut or a real big knife in the kidneys.
Another
big flash lit up the night, this time their animal having gotten to within
fifteen metres of the battalion command post.
Little
dots on screen sped up, as a couple of sergeants or corporals on perimeter
duty, caught between guard-positions, broke into a run. Although one dot in
particular appeared to be stationary, and only thirty metres from a guard post.
Another
combat kill, another bonus earned.
Her
people were already on the rush, personal arms set for full auto, and with the
enemy in a state of confusion. All of those pickets, hearing the bombs go off.
It would be against human nature not to be looking the wrong way.
Backlit
by smoke and flame. Rifle grenades, dropping in at your feet—
All
they wanted was enemy casualties, and mostly likely, they’d drag off one or two
prisoners as well.
The
vehicles were two or three hundred metres away, on a side-road that was
passable all the way to Ryanville. And again, if the enemy wanted to follow
that road, it would require another division of forces. More mines, more
booby-traps, more automatic weapons and trained snipers.
More
casualties.
The
enemy barrage had opened up, still fixated on the hills out in front of them,
although Ryanville town centre was well within range.
Her
own gun batteries were on standby.
(End of part thirty-nine.)
Previous
Episodes.
Images.
Image Two. Denebola-Seven Chamber of Commerce.
Image Three. Confederation Public Communications Office.
Image Four. The cover of this book.
Louis Shalako’s completed novel, Tactics of
Delay, of which this is the serialization, is now available in several
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