Side Show (4 page)

"Fifteen minutes," Joe Baerclau told his men as second platoon emerged from their three Heyers. "Do what needs to be done fast." Joe knew that the fifteen minutes would almost certainly stretch to at least thirty, but he preferred to have his men ready as soon as possible.

Most of the men started out by going through a series of stretches and bends, trying to work out the kinks that four hours of riding had given them. Ezra Frain came over to Joe and lifted his helmet visor.

"Any idea how long this goes on?" Ezra asked.

Joe shook his head. "I don't even know what we're doing. Head off a thousand klicks or more. Get there as fast as possible. Nobody's saying why, what we're to do when we get where we're going."

"Just something to loosen up the Heggies around the rest of our guys?"

Joe hesitated before he said, "I don't think so. If that was what we were supposed to do, we'd come out maybe this far then turn to move behind them, give them something close to think about."

"Then what?" Ezra demanded. He took his helmet off and ran a hand through his hair. Even in the dark, the red seemed to stand out, almost as if it were luminescent. "I've been trying to puzzle it out since we left, and it just doesn't make any sense. Blow a week's worth of munitions to send us out into the middle of nowhere, a thousand klicks from the action." Wasting ammunition was something that had to bother any veteran of the Porter campaign, where the entire 13th had virtually run out of everything from wire to Wasp rockets and Havoc shells.

"They don't pay us to understand the big shots," Joe said. "We just obey orders." The exhaustion in his voice was only partially physical. He had also been trying to guess what their mission might be, with as little success.

"Hey, Sarge!" Both Joe and Ezra turned.

"I think we've got us a concussion," Al Bergon said.

"Who?" Ezra got it out first.

"Eames. He whacked his head good, early on, while all the fireworks was goin' on around us. I just had a chance to give him the once-over."

"You get to Doc Eddies yet?" Joe asked. Eddies was the company's senior medtech, more than a medic, not quite a full doctor. He could handle anything short of invasive surgery, but the need for that was rare, thanks to trauma tubes and medical nanobots.

"He said he'll try to get to us before we take off, but he's got a couple of others in the same shape or worse."

"Damn buckets," Ezra muttered under his breath. Louder, he asked, "Where's Eames now?"

Bergon pointed. "There against the side of the mixer."

Frain put his helmet back on and lowered the visor so he could use the night-vision gear. "He get cut?"

"Naw, but he's got a lump the size of his nose. I put a soaker over it." A soaker was a bandage impregnated with analgesics and simple repair nanobots, molecular medics.

"Anything more Doc could do?" Joe asked.

"Probably not, but he might be able to tell if there's a skull fracture," Al said.

"You think he might?" Ezra asked.

"I doubt it, but I can't be sure without pictures."

"Neither could the doc," Joe said.

"I'll keep an eye on him," Al said. "But if he doesn't get better, any chance of medevac?"

"Skipper said no way," Joe said. "Whatever this lark is, we're completely on our own."

Whatever this is.
Joe turned away from the others. He could make a vague guess. They were being sent to something specific. There had to be some reason for sending two thousand men crosscountry on a world still dominated by the enemy. What that reason might be eluded Joe. Something or someone, and neither made a lot of sense. What, or who, could be worth risking the lives of two thousand men?

Twenty minutes later, when the order came to mount up again, Joe had come no closer to finding a guess he was happy with.

—|—

The break had scarcely been long enough for Van Stossen to conduct a hurried conference with his staff. Major Dezo Parks, his executive officer; Major Bal Kenneck, intelligence; and Major Teu Ingels, operations—each was riding in a separate vehicle to minimize the effect of a lucky enemy hit. They had their own radio channels so that they could talk privately, but it was never the same as a face-to-face. Those three officers were the only men in the 13th, other than the colonel, who knew virtually all of the details of their mission.

"We've got three really dangerous transits," Kenneck said when Stossen asked for his assessment. "These two rivers." He pointed to a mapboard open on the ground in the center of the group. "And, of course, the last fifteen klicks, in the valley leading to Telchuk, that's too narrow, with too little cover. If we get hit in there by substantial enemy assets, we're finished. It's as simple as that."

"Teu?" Stossen asked.

"One thing is obvious," Ingels replied. "We can't take Havocs into that valley. Not only isn't there room for them to maneuver, in a couple of places they couldn't even turn around. I think we should disperse them to these two areas, here... and here." He pointed out the locations on the mapboard. "That way, they can give us effective covering fire while we're in the danger zone. And if we post a couple of recon platoons near the ridge lines"—he indicated those as well—"we'd be in better shape. Warning at least, maybe time to get out. It might be smart to leave the APCs out beyond that valley too. They'd be more trouble than they're worth in that narrow track."

"Bal?"

"Since we have to do this regardless, I agree," Kenneck said. "Those measures do minimize our exposure, especially if we do have Wasp support, but it's still going to be hairy."

"Dezo, you have anything to add?"

Parks shook his head slowly. "I agree about leaving the Heyers outside the valley. As
far
outside as practical."

The laugh the others gave was subdued and showed little humor.

—|—

The 13th took one more long break during the night, then, two hours before dawn, they stopped again. The formation was spread out even more than it had been on the march, with units taking advantage of whatever cover the terrain offered—more to hide vehicles than themselves.

It wasn't much. The broad plain between the eastern seaboard and the mountains was mostly flat. Areas of forest were interspersed with prairie. The 13th had reached an area where the long prairie grasses predominated. The stands of trees were mostly small, and widely separated. Heat tarps were spread over all of the vehicles. The combination of camouflage and trees did offer some protection. The men were set to digging holes for themselves.

"I hope they don't hit us too soon, Lieutenant," Joe Baerclau said. "We're all so zapped that it wouldn't take much to roll right over us."

"I know," Keye said. He stifled a yawn. The two men had their foxholes about eight meters apart. Iz Walker, Echo's first sergeant, had his hole thirty meters the other side of the lieutenant, far enough away that a single hit, even from a bomb or 135mm shell, would be unlikely to take out both of them. "Best I can say is that there's no indication of Heggies anywhere close. We're already better than four hundred klicks beyond the lines."

"Coupla Boems could knock the stuffin's out of us," Joe said.

"If they see us. Just make sure that they can't. Get everybody tucked in good, ponchos over the holes. The works." This was the rainy season. Ponchos had been issued. While not as effective as thermal tarps, they would help minimize a man's infrared signature.

"Aye, sir. I'll make the rounds myself." Joe already had his own hole dug. The soil was somewhat sandy and loose.

"Let the squad leaders handle it," Keye said. "That's what they're there for."

"Yes, sir." Joe changed channels and passed the word on.

"Half and half on watch," he added. "One fire team sleeps while the other's on alert. Hour at a time to start. If it looks like we're going to stay put all day, we'll extend that later."

What am I forgetting?
Joe asked himself. That was a common question for him on campaign, more as the days and nights dragged on and he got further behind on sleep. It was too easy to forget, and forgetting was as lethal an enemy as any Heggie.

A yawn forced its way out. For just an instant, Joe raised his visor so he could rub at his eyes. They burned from lack of sleep and too many stimtabs. It would be so easy to let them slide shut and sleep...

Joe shook his head violently. Not for an hour. He had to take the first watch. Then he would turn the platoon over to one of the squad leaders for the next hour. The price of being a leader, he thought, lowering his visor into position again. He forced himself to do a slow, detailed scan of the countryside beyond his foxhole—for the present, "the front." He scanned close, then farther out with each additional pass, out to the abbreviated horizon that his foxhole gave him. There was nothing visible moving out there. Nor were there any obvious heat signatures showing up in infrared.

This is crazy,
Joe thought. Then, fearing that he might be sliding toward sleep again, he busied himself with little chores. He checked to make sure that his carbine had a full spool of wire in the chamber and a fully charged power pack. He took a mouthful of water, swishing it around in his mouth for a moment before he swallowed. He would make that last until after his hour of sleep. Water discipline. He couldn't be certain when they might get a chance to replenish their supplies.

Should I eat?
Joe asked himself after another long look at the horizon. He turned on the microphone pickups in the earpieces of his helmet. That way, he would be certain of hearing anything more than the sound of an insect walking, out to at least forty meters.

Should I eat?
He had to admit that he really wasn't hungry. He needed time to recall that it had been twelve hours since his last meal, back behind friendly lines. He needed to eat.

He pulled out a meal pack and stripped the wire that would start heating the food. By the time he got the lid off, the food was as warm as it was likely to get. He ate sluggishly, too tired for either appetite or any reaction to the taste. A single meal pack was designed to provide half a day's nutritional needs, and enough moisture to allow a soldier to get it down without drinking water. Taste had not been high on the list of priorities.

After every couple of bites, Joe would look out over the lip of his foxhole, scanning the horizon while he chewed. Once, he leaned back to look up into the sky. In the trees there was a single gap that he could see through. A few clouds, a few stars. Joe wondered whether there were any Wasps overhead, keeping watch for them, ready to respond if they were attacked. He knew better than to expect to see or hear a fighter, but it was still a way to occupy a few minutes—get through that much more of his hour's watch.

—|—

With the dawn, heavier cloud cover moved in from the west. Two hours later, it started to rain. Colonel Stossen and his staff gathered under a tarp that had been erected next to one of the APCs.

"It looks like the rain will be with us most of the day," Bal Kenneck reported. "A steady soaker. The satellite data is pretty solid on this."

"Gives us some cover," Dezo Parks said. "The men need sleep, but still..."

"I know," Stossen said. "The general said to hurry. If we moved all day we could get... where we're going by midnight, be in position before dawn."

The staff officers waited for Stossen to make his decision. They were all as short of sleep as their men, or more so. After nearly two minutes, the colonel shook his head.

"We've got to have a few more hours. If we start up at noon, we might still reach our destination by dawn, at least get to the head of the valley and get the Havocs and recon platoons in position." He took a deep breath. "And find someplace for the Wasp support vans to take care of our birds."
If we actually get them,
he qualified silently. He was not putting a great deal of hope on that. By the time they got close to Telchuk Mountain, they would be at the extreme edge of a Wasp's range from the LZs back behind Accord lines. And there might be too much action there for the general to actually release them.

"If we set up the Wasp people back about 150 klicks, that would ease things all around," Dezo said. "Of course, we'd have to leave a few mudders to mind their security."

"Setting up that far off might help us deceive the Heggies as to our destination just a bit longer as well," Kenneck said. "Say, here." He pointed at the mapboard. "They might think we're heading for this town, Justice. Even if it only slows the Heggies down for ten minutes, it might make a difference."

"Colonel Stossen!" The call came over the radio. Stossen lowered his helmet to answer.

"Colonel, this is Sergeant Nimz, 3rd recon. We have bogies, a Heggie convoy. Looks like twelve floater trucks loaded with troops and five Novas."

"What's your position?" Stossen asked.

Nimz read off his map coordinates, and Stossen noted the spot on the mapboard. Third recon was on the left flank, a thousand meters off the point of the diamond.

"Hang on a minute." Stossen raised his visor and told the others what the reccers had found. "Can we take a chance on letting them go?"

Kenneck got down on one knee to get closer to the mapboard. He traced the probable line of the Heggie advance.

"Too close, sir. They stay on that heading, they'll come between 1st recon and George Company, too close to both for us to hope that they won't spot us. At that range, the Novas should be able to detect all of the metal we've got with us, heat tarps or not."

The others nodded, and Stossen echoed the gesture before lowering his visor. "Keep contact, Nimz, but try to remain unobserved until we decide how to take them out."

CHAPTER FOUR

"On your feet!" Joe didn't quite shout into his radio, but it was near enough. He was slow getting to his own feet. He had managed less than thirty minutes of sleep before Lieutenant Keye woke him. It had started to rain. The inside of Joe's foxhole was already starting to get sloppy with mud.