With the first enemy column just fifteen kilometres
away, and the second column, composed mainly of small scout vehicles, fuel tankers
and cargo-laden trucks, the Unfriendlies were about to receive a nasty shock.
Perhaps they had made an assumption, which was always
risky. But now, the presence of more stay-behind parties would be revealed. It
was a psychological moment, and irrevocable in terms of information for the
enemy. They would understand the significance, no doubt about that.
Sergeant Kelly and his little team watched, as the
first two scout-cars swept past, with the heavy machine guns in the back
manned, the gunners alert enough, fingers on the trigger, and no doubt with
full sensors deployed.
Next in line were three big six-by trucks, the backs
covered under camouflaged canvas. This would be the infantry. It would be close
and uncomfortable in there, with nothing to see except out the back end. Then
three big fuel bowsers, all strung out in a row. After that, the engineering
vehicles, with what were clearly prefabricated bridge sections chained down on
their big flatbeds.
This must have its manpower component as well. More
big trucks. Clearly the Unfriendlies were anticipating the Confederation plan
as best they could. Although there wasn’t enough equipment on the whole planet
to bridge some of the really big spans, this lot would do for anything less,
and the Confederation troops, mindful of the civil population, were reluctant
to blow those particular spans. Blowing bridges slowed the enemy, it also limited
your own options.
If nothing else, they could hold this little bunch up
for a while.
“Fire the mine.”
The results were spectacular. Again, they were
rewarded with the sight of a vehicle, up in the air, spinning end over end.
There was fire and burning fuel everywhere, the mine having exploded right
under the rear wheels. The vehicle behind was at a dead stop, the front end of
it torn open and peeled back, and then all that
diesel and maybe even good, old-fashioned gasoline went up.
“Two bowsers. Nice shot.”
“Estimated: three dead, minimum.” Probably more than
that, if the big trucks each had a couple of people aboard.
The column was so small, there were barely a couple of
platoons of proper infantry, and they were on the ground, popping off at the
verdant green hillside confronting them. Since Kelly and his people were
actually on the hill behind them, it was all the same to them. His people
didn’t even need to be told to hold fire. All personal weapons were presently
on safety, a fact confirmed in the bottom left corner of his goggs.
They had one light machine gun ahead of the
Unfriendlies, sweeping the ground and the leading scout cars, hatches down and
visibility much-reduced, were engaging with what was essentially a mindless
robot.
“All right, people. Over the hills and through the
woods.” This time they had only a hundred and fifty metres to run.
“To grandmother’s house we go—”
“Shut up, Giovanni.”
They were carrying enough, it really cracked a sweat,
and the older ones, the smokers in particular, were distinctly out of breath.
He grinned, standing tall as they tossed their bags in the back. To his eternal
gratitude, the hatch was closed quietly rather than slammed. Now that guy had
brains.
“Where’s the drone?”
“Searching the wrong hill, Sarge. Still out in front
of the main column.”
“Good.” With all the noise back there, there was no
way anyone would be able to hear their departure.
That was the great thing about electric vehicles.
With drones in short supply, and no word of any enemy
satellite observation, they hopped into their Puma, got her down onto the road,
and headed south at a high rate of speed. With plenty of rock between
themselves and the enemy column, all threat sensors were on. There was nothing
there to detect, which was always good—all of their own mines and boobies were
carefully marked on the local zone map. The next enemy column was a good forty
kilometres off.
That didn’t mean the enemy couldn’t lay a few boobies
of their own.
So far, there was no sign of that, but it was almost sure
to happen.
“Relax, trooper. Slow it down just a bit—” The thing
to do was to get her off the road again, as quickly as possible, and get the
Puma under wraps again.
A little more altitude on that drone, and they’d be
popped for sure…with their present tactical area zoomed-in on the display
screen, it looked like it was still a long ways off. It could also hit a top
speed of about two hundred and fifty kilometres per hour. That didn’t leave the
Confederation troops much of a margin for error.
Surely the enemy would send a drone, or even one of
their helos, which hadn’t been used for very much so far. They were definitely
being held in reserve for something. The pair sweeping the hills above Deneb
were still airborne. A quick glance at the main battle-map confirmed it, and
they were kilometres off of their target. At that rate, they’d never find the Mongoose.
“Roger that, Sergeant.” The kid backed off, eyes
searching for the scrap of orange crepe paper hung on a tree branch marking
their turnoff into the woods.
Never
use the same colour twice in a row—
There were so many bits of crap, bottles and cans in
the ditch, with plenty of garbage blowing in the wind, the Unfriendlies had
driven right past it without realizing the significance. It was the next
column, much larger and clearly meant for action, which was of much more
concern.
Now those guys, those guys would definitely be looking for them—loaded
for bear and wanting to see some Confederation blood.
“All right, people. Let’s get out there and see if we
can make those tracks go away.” With the ground pretty hard in spite of the
recent rain, all it would take was a rake and some dead leaves, which were
falling, more and more steadily, with every passing day. “Get that orange thing
off of there, okay?”
A trooper turned and ran back down the track, weapon
slung and pack on. Giovanni—that guy just loved running. He didn’t mind being
on his own, either, and would probably take the roadside position as his own.
The only real drawback to Giovanni was that real strong need to express
himself.
He checked the monitor. The helos were still well off,
arguably low on fuel, and the drones were still circling ahead of their two
main columns. So far, the enemy had only revealed three or four drones. One had
been damaged, and one destroyed. If they had more, they really should have been
using them.
If necessary, they could sacrifice the Puma,
booby-trap it three ways from Sunday, escape and evade a few kilometres through
the brush and then simply wait for pickup. Designed with such eventualities in
mind, the battle-gear, fully closed up, would keep out most of the water, and
there would be plenty of rivers and streams to cross. They would be out of the
game for a few hours, a couple of days, maybe, but they would still be alive,
and that was always something.
It
sure beat being dead.
By all accounts, being dead is no fun at all.
***
Further up the road, the main enemy column had
advanced by fits and starts. Using their artillery, they were attempting to
clear the way forward. For the most part, they were bombarding empty hilltops
and non-existent targets. It might have still been helpful, in that their
troops were no longer being surprised, or at least not in quite the same way.
It was difficult to be surprised when the hill a kilometre and a half in front
of you was exploding in shellfire and the sergeant was screaming in your ear.
It might be more of a surprise to discover that your efforts had been in vain,
if so, the enemy was prepared to accept it.
It was revealing of McMurdo’s mindset. With such
insights, he was definitely a dangerous opponent, and Dona must assume that he
understood his own troops very well. He probably understood her tactics. He
claimed to have read her book. The real question was how well?
He might have taken it to heart—he might also have
dismissed it.
The timing was fortuitous, as it would take some time
for them to digest the information.
The enemy force advancing up the Walzbruch road was
about to make the same mistake, after having been hit from the front several
times.
These two timelines were nicely converging. Her troops
could drive faster—the enemy had no choice but to go fairly slowly. They had
broken bridges and blown-out culverts to contend with.
There was the occasional big tree, laying across the
road. A few small charges went a long way in such terrain. Axes and chainsaws
were plentiful, and it didn’t take a whole lot of brains. It was just grunt
work and yet terribly effective. Killing time was just as important as killing
enemy soldiers.
Winning wars wasn’t just about getting there firstest
with the mostest. It was also about being the last man standing on the
battlefield.
The
lastest with the mostest.
This time, the enemy artillery bombarded the hillside
in question on Highway 17. This hill had been dubbed Hill 98. Getting nothing
in the way of results, the enemy had concluded that there was nothing there and
advanced again. It was only having gone down the other side of Hill 98, when
the Confederation weapons opened up, from positions deep in ravines and
grottoes. A reverse-slope ambush, in reverse. One or two small machine guns were
in actual caves, more like horizontal crevices in a layer of softer rock. With
the infantry vehicles at the rear of the column totally exposed, it was a bit
of a massacre.
Her troops were all under deep cover, as deep as they
could get it…
Mortar-bombs fell among troops hastily dismounting,
the pitiful rag dolls flew through the air, the machine guns stuttered and
stammered out their one-note death song…there was smoke, fire and carnage
below. People were obliterated by direct hits…cut in half in some cases, and
much of it was caught by the cameras. With a bit of experience, her people were
getting better at anticipating what was going to happen, where the people and
vehicles were likely to take cover, and they were placing the cams accordingly.
The same might be said for their shooting—it was getting better, no doubt about
it.
The lead vehicles, stoutly armoured, could do nothing.
Fearing further ambush up ahead, and with the road too narrow to turn around
quickly, due to the steep slopes on both sides of a winding, dog-leg switchback
roadway up the hill, it was all over before they could get back to the rear of
the column. One or two of the smaller fighting vehicles did so, and quickly
paid the price as the mortars fired their reserve rounds at such delicious
offerings...they were getting kills all over the place.
Finally, the distant Unfriendly artillery began
dropping their big rounds onto a firing position that was mostly automated as
well as sheltered by trees, hills and downright cliffs. As for directed fire
from below, there was so much smoke, fire, noise, brush and rock that finding a
target that was no longer shooting was going to be problematical.
The message was a pretty simple one. We are behind you
as well as in front of you…
The enemy would make changes. They would be forced to
adapt, to rethink, to waste more time, precious time, due to the new tactics
and the new circumstances.
There was another culvert, a small rivulet going under
the road. With a nod from Chan, the trooper in charge of that aspect of the
battle spoke into his microphone. The people at the other end blew that, and
now the enemy column would be cut in two…someone would have to take charge at
both ends, with units separated to some extent. Their command was now divided.
They would feed in more troops, more weapons, more
vehicles, and more resources. They would use up more time.
Those watching the action via remote could only nod,
wonder, and wait to see what happened next, for the same thing was about to
happen on Highway Two coming up from Walzbruch. If nothing else, the enemy
might finally get the tanks down off the flatbeds and try and use them in some
way—it was difficult to see what other purpose they might serve. In terms of
Roussef and Ryanville, certainly the Confederation had nothing to oppose them.
If they were meant to be purely psychological weapons, the Unfriendlies were
going to be disappointed.
The typical Confederation trooper had more than one
weapon with anti-tank capability at their disposal.
The bounty for taking out a tank was considerable, a
thousand credits or so, and her people were nothing if not resourceful. If six
people took part in digging a hole, sticking in a big bomb, and ultimately
blowing up a valuable resource, then the prize was split six ways with another
share going into the general fund. This would be split by all concerned in any
particular command, which was good for the morale of rear-echelon troops, of
which there were always going to be some. Ultimately, everyone in-theatre got
some kind of combat bonus, as well as the campaign badge. Fifty credits here,
and a hundred credits there. Ten credits somewhere else. It was still worth
doing. There was the aspect of seniority as well, with everyone on up taking a
small but proportionate cut out of every prize taken by the people under their
command.
It was a strange thought, but getting rich was about
the farthest thing from Dona’s mind. Still, at the rate they were going, that
might still yet happen.
The other interesting thing was that the Unfriendlies
had finally taken down the civilian phone system.
***
In Dona’s theory, as it was presently being applied,
defense in depth worked both ways. By sucking them forwards, she was forcing
them to provide themselves with a defense in depth as well. There was no way in
hell she could really attack, but then, she didn’t have to. It all took
resources, at a rate of ten to one, according to intel and even McMurdo himself. During the Second World War,
commandos, partisans, encircled troops fighting on the wrong side of the front
line, the siege of Tobruk even, had revealed some important lessons on the
psychological impact of even small parties operating behind enemy lines.
She’d studied commandos and rangers, the Chindits, the
British Long Range Desert Group, and David Stirling’s Special Air Service,
those particularly of World War Two, and a hundred similar formations active
since then. The 20th Century war in Vietnam was a case in point. A
very small group of people could disrupt an enemy out of all proportion to
their relative numbers, and even a technical disparity in armaments to some
degree. It forced the enemy to commit more and more front-echelon troops to the
rear areas of the battle. This weakened their fighting potential where it
really mattered, up at the front line.
This was true for both sides, the highly trained LURPS
and the Phoenix operations being balanced on the other side by the grab-them-by-the-belt-buckle, don’t-let-go
small-unit tactics of General Giap and the communist guerillas.
The difference was, that Dona Graham had known that
this was what was going to happen—she had accepted it, and then she had made
that the whole basis of her plan. Had McMurdo been smart enough to do that?
In her present situation, even if the enemy was smart
enough to withdraw, her troops would still exact a toll upon them. A successful
retreat would only take them back to Deneb City.
They’d be bottled up and
impotent, and their ships would still be vulnerable coming and going. They’d be
shot at coming and going, with double the chances of surprise and ambush.
The fact that were was only one road, whether it be
the Roussef operation or the Walzbruch operation, (and ultimately, the
Ryanville operation), made it all too easy to sacrifice a few weapons, a
vehicle or two, and get her people out. They could simply melt away into the
bush, with whatever they could carry on their backs, and reappear in a day or
three or five. They could follow the advancing enemy force, or double back the
other way, knowing that there was another enemy column coming up that road. As
time went on, it was inevitable that enemy vehicles would be going back the
other way. Her plan, if it made any sense at all, called for instant
improvisation at that sharp end. There would always be another enemy column, or
patrols, or small installations like their new artillery position. That
artillery position would almost certainly be moved as the enemy made forward
progress. There was, in fact, a stay-behind team in between the artillery
position and the lead column. They’d put out a couple of mines and faded off
again…waiting for the next crummy little target to come along. It was a shitty
way to live and yet they could keep it up for quite a while.
Such small parties had been planned, due in no small
part to the difficulty of resupply, over a road that the enemy ostensibly
controlled for some distance. Naturally, there were depots, caches of fresh
weapons, fuel and ammunition, and of course food and liquid refreshments for
the troops—and there were a few tracks and side-roads. There were spare
vehicles stashed here and there. That was the beauty of being there
first—getting there firstest, with the mostest. That was the beauty of having a
minute to think—and the cooperation of the civilian population, who had been
asked not to look too closely at odd caches of stuff popping up here and there.
So far, the locals, the real hillbillies huddled
around their phones and radios and wondering what the hell was going on, had
been more concerned with their own business.
“Sergeant Kawaii.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“How are things?”
“I’ve got the bulk of my force under cover. We made
fifty kilometres last night, with no real sign of the enemy being any the
wiser.”
He sat there on his water-proof poncho, cross-legged
in the forest, to all appearances enjoying a leisurely picnic lunch, if it
hadn’t been for the infantry rig and the assault weapon.
“I’ve been thinking, and I suddenly realized why they’re
not attacking at night.”
“And why is that, Sergeant?”
“It’s because of the tracers, Colonel Graham. It’s the
lasers, and the terrain, where it’s kind of hard to run in the dark. Especially
if you’re half-blinded. And what else I’m thinking, is this. These must be very
green troops indeed, if you have to forego the advantages of night-fighting,
ah…because of the sheer fright value of facing a stream of tracer. Like from a
mini-gun for example.”
Six thousand rounds per minute, every third or fourth
one a tracer…knowing there were solid projectiles in there was almost worse
than laser fire, for whatever psychological reason. But flash-goggles and the
thin, protective clothing or the emergency mylar laser-blankets couldn’t
protect a soldier against a metal slug that could penetrate thick trees or
several walls of concrete-block.
She nodded thoughtfully. That would explain one or two
things. Any satellite the enemy had up there, actually had an advantage at
night—in terms of the infrared, the temperature differential between a human
body and the background landscape was greater than in the daytime, when the sun
heated the land and the human body was actually cooler than certain surfaces.
That would include the sun-baked surface of a road. The top of a house, or any
open area of sufficient light-absorbing tendency. It also included similar
sensors aboard the drones.
Vehicles were a lot hotter due to engines and exhaust,
or electric motors and batteries, but that was only amplified at night. Then
there was all that metal, inevitably some of it ferrous and therefore
detectable by magnetics or glint from
their hard-surfaced radar returns in the case of alloys.
“Okay. Let’s keep that in mind. It’s only a matter of
time before they change tactics again.”
She breathed for a moment.
“They have no choice but to attack. The overall
strategy will remain the same.”
They were also a part of the bigger picture—
The enemy was only going to take so many needless
casualties before a major rethink. While they were advancing, they were also
wasting a lot of time…the weather forecast was not good from Dona’s
perspective. More mild weather on the way for the next few days at least.
Winter wasn’t exactly late, it was just a season of transition and day-to-day
conditions could never be counted upon. The only comfort was that a warm spell
must be followed by a cold snap. She was looking at the weather long-term. The
trouble was, they were only getting closer…there were storms and a
high-pressure front to the northwest. It was, unfortunately, still a few days
out assuming the prevailing winds held good. With the planet’s eccentric,
egg-shaped orbit, with Deneb-Seven currently on the small end of that orbit,
the days were getting shorter very quickly, hopefully another psychological edge.
It would get colder, darker and wetter. Interestingly, winter occurred when
Deneb was closest to the star, for it was this hemisphere that was tipped away
during closest transit. It was the angle
of the sunlight, and the shortness of the day, that were the deciding factors.
The leaves were falling…not too many left now,
especially in the highlands. It was only a matter of time before some real bad
weather came up to unbalance those forces even further.
We
own the night.
We
own the forest.
We
are everywhere.
The enemy would do their best to take full advantage
of their window of opportunity. As well they should—that imperative of time that she was counting on, was exactly what was
what was driving them.
“Report on the force coming up from Walzbruch.” It was
another trooper, waving from the far end of the command centre.
“Very well. Shoot.”
(End of part twenty-five.)
Previous
Episodes.
Images.
Image One. Confederation
Public Communications Office.
Image Two. CPCO.
Image Three. Denebola-Seven Defense Force.
Image Four. Collection of Louis Shalako.
Image Five. Ministry of Defense, United Kingdom.
Image Six. Fred.
Image Seven. Collection of Louis Shalako.
Image Eight. CPCO.
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