Starfist: Firestorm (25 page)

Corporal Drummel heard a scream to his right and paused in his own firing to listen to his squad. After the scream, he heard nothing to his right. Neither did he hear anything to his left. “Sawshank, report!” he shouted. Private Sawshank didn’t respond. He started calling out his other men’s names, one at a time with a pause after each. Nobody answered. Drummel swore under his breath, then scrambled to his left to check on his men. He found two of them, dead. The other man who should have been there was gone. He didn’t see anybody beyond his squad’s section of sandbagged wall. Still staying below the tops of the sandbags, he crawled to his right, beyond his previous position. The first man he came across was alive but in shock from a plasma bolt that had taken his arm off at the shoulder. Drummel wasn’t sure it was a blessing that the plasma had cauterized the wound instead of leaving the soldier to bleed out and die. Sawshank was next in line. He was dead; a blackened hole bored through his head, another gouged his shoulder. There should have been two more men beyond Sawshank. There was only one, and he was dead, sprawled on top of the sandbags he should have stayed behind. Again to the right, Drummel saw nobody beyond his last man.

He lay prone, his shoulders propped up on his elbows, and let his head hang to touch the ground, thinking what to do. His entire squad was gone, dead, or missing, except for the one man in shock. Nobody was on either of his flanks. What should he do, continue fighting until he was killed as well? He didn’t see any point in that. He twisted around and returned to the soldier in shock, did what little he could for him, then pulled him over his shoulders and began low-crawling away from the sandbag wall. He left his weapons behind.

“Cease fire!”

“Cease fire!”

“Cease fire!”

The command went down the chain of command, from Commander van Winkle all the way to the fire team leaders. In seconds all the Marines had stopped firing. They lay waiting for what came next as silence settled over the battlefield.

What came next was an order for a squad from the right flank to sweep through the enemy position and make sure the fight was over.Company L’s third platoon was on the battalion’s right flank, and second squad’s second fire team on the platoon’s extreme right. As far as Lance Corporal Schultz was concerned, it was only right and proper that he and his squad were the ones to sweep through the enemy positions and deal with anybody who was left. Except for a few stunned soldiers who were curled into pathetic balls, second squad found only dead men. They bound those soldiers hand and foot for later pickup.

The infantrymen of 34th FIST remounted Dragons and hoppers to join in the assault on the main Coalition forces outside Ashburtonville.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Brigadier Ted Sturgeon was out of breath. He had just come into General Cazombi’s command post from the ridge above Phelps where 34th had succeeded in breaking the defensive line of the enemy’s 4th Division and sent them scampering up the Ashburtonville road, one of the most successful attacks in a career filled with them. “We busted their line!” he shouted, wiping the perspiration from his forehead and grinning at the officers and NCOs. He turned to General Alistair Cazombi, came to attention and saluted. “They’re running back up the Ashburtonville road in complete disorder, Alistair!” forgetting momentarily that military protocol required he address the commanding general by his first name only in private. “The back door to Bataan is swung wide open!”

“Good God almighty, Ted, you’ve done it! Good work, good work!” Cazombi pounded Sturgeon on the back. “Lieutenant!” he shouted at his communications officer, “Get General Billie on comm!” He turned back to Sturgeon. “We’re going to push those guys right up the road”—he smacked a fist into his palm—“and end this war
today
. I
knew
you could do it!” He draped his arm around Sturgeon’s shoulder. “Come on, Ted, I want old Jason to see you standing with me when I announce that you’ve won his war for him.”

But it was Major General Balca Sorca, Billie’s chief of staff, whose face popped up on the comm’s screen. There was a faint haze of cigar smoke about his head, but Cazombi noted he wasn’t smoking himself. “Get Billie!” Cazombi said. “We’ve busted through the 4th Division’s lines and we’re pushing them back up the Ashburtonville road. Now’s the time for you to break out of Bataan! Dammit, Sorca, where’s Billie?” Nobody had ever seen Alistair Cazombi so excited.

Sorca hesitated a moment before he said, “Well, sir, he’s, er, indisposed at the moment.”

“He takin’ a shit or what, Balca? Goddammit, go
get
him! We can’t afford to waste another second! Lyons is no goddamned fool like”—he almost said Jason Billie—“some people think he is! He’ll see what’s coming and shift his troops around to meet us! Goddammit, Balca, go get the son of a bitch and do it right fucking
now
!”

A look of embarrassment crossed Sorca’s face as he glanced furtively sideways. In that instant Cazombi
knew
Billie was standing right there, just out of the vid’s view range. Suddenly Sorca was thrust aside and General Billie’s face, livid with rage, came on the screen, a Clinton clenched between his teeth. “Who the hell you calling a son of a bitch, General?” he growled.

“Billie, I’ve called you worse than that, you son of a bitch!” Cazombi yelled back. The veins in his neck bulged and his eyes flashed with anger. He was no longer Cazombi the Zombie, but a warrior in full tilt after a defeated enemy, and Jason Billie was standing in his way.

“You forget yourself, General,” Billie responded calmly, removing the cigar from his mouth.

At first Cazombi did not know what to say. He could not believe Billie was just standing there chewing on his cigar. He had just announced a stunning victory that if followed up immediately would break Lyons’s army and end the war, and here his commander was telling him he’d forgotten himself? Cazombi controlled himself with effort. “General, we have broken through the 4th Division’s defensive line and they are in full retreat. The road to Ashburtonville is now open. This is your opportunity to break out of Bataan and split Lyons’s army in two. We’ll defeat them in detail—”

“I’ll be the judge of that, General,” Billie responded calmly. “The time is not yet ripe for the breakout. Hold your positions until further notice.” The comm screen went dead.

Cazombi stared at the screen openmouthed. The eyes of every man in the command post were focused on him now. Some of the men shook their heads in disbelief, but no one dared to utter a single word. For a long, long moment the only sound was the static of the communications systems connecting the CP with the infantry units.

“I’ll be goddamned,” Sturgeon whispered at last.

“Not you, Ted, not you,” Cazombi said through gritted teeth, “but somebody else is going to think
he
is.” Cazombi sighed and his shoulders slumped. “We both know he sent Godalgonz out to Gilbert’s Corners to get rid of him, and he sent us down here for the same reason. But instead of tripping over our swords, we’ve won the damned war for him and the goddamned bastard will sacrifice us so he can get the credit all to himself. He is going to sit up there until the opportunity is lost and then he’ll break out in his own good time at the cost of many lives, Ted. And we can’t have that.” Everyone in the CP heard what he’d just said. Normally, an officer like Cazombi would
never
have made such a statement about his commander in front of his troops. But Lieutenant General Alistair Cazombi had finally arrived at a point in his life when he’d had enough.

“What do we do now, sir?” Sturgeon asked quietly. He noticed that every man in the CP was grinning and nodding his head in agreement with what Cazombi had just said, which was only what they all knew and were all thinking.

Cazombi straightened his shoulders. The anger and dismay disappeared from his face and he was suddenly back to being Cazombi the Zombie once again—calm, unruffled, thinking fast. He spoke now with the authority these men were used to from him. “You turn 34th FIST over to Colonel Ramadan, Ted. You’re coming with me.” He turned to the colonel commanding his aviation battalion. “George, get me a hopper.” He swung around to face the army major general who was his second in command, standing nearby. “Phil, you’re the next senior officer of this task force. You take command. Ted and I are going to Bataan. I want you to press the enemy with everything you’ve got, drive him straight back up the Ashburtonville road, do not ease up on him. You
will
have support from the army on Bataan. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir!” Koval snapped to attention, grinning fiercely. He knew Billie’s orders had been to stand fast, but Cazombi was his commander and he’d carry out Cazombi’s order with vigor.

“Okay, Ted, you and I, we’re gonna pay General Jason Billie a little surprise visit.”

Sturgeon grinned. “About time. But how are you going to get him to change his mind?” Sturgeon had a feeling he knew what was coming.

Cazombi passed a hand over his closely cropped head. “Well, I’m going to grab that bastard by his stacking swivel and jack his ass up once and for all, and if that don’t work, well”—he hesitated and then grinned—“I’m going to
really
get pissed off at him!”

Formally, as if taking a change of command ceremony on the grinder back at Camp Ellis, Sturgeon drew himself to attention. If Cazombi was going to do what Sturgeon suspected, there’d likely be a new commander of 34th FIST by the end of the day. He saluted smartly. “Brigadier Sturgeon requesting orders, sir!” he said in his best parade-ground voice.

The men in the command post broke into cheers.

“Corp’ Queege, you take up your position here, you see? This here’s a very important road junction. You direct all military traffic up to the ridge there, all civilian traffic thataway,”—the military police captain pointed to the road leading off to the southwest of Phelps—“to the park, where all the civvies are bein’ camped. You don’t let no one but military personnel up the Ashburtonville road, unnerstan’?”

Queege nodded. “But all by myself, Cap’n? What if someone tries to brush by me?”

“Sheeyit, Corp’, you jist shot three men dead this mornin’! Shoot ’em, girl! Yew kin handle this! Tha’s why I’m puttin’ you here.”

“How long I gotta stay here?” Queege asked, glancing apprehensively back at Phelps, which she could see clearly in the distance, about five kilometers toward the sea.

“Until you are relieved,” the captain replied quickly, climbing back into his landcar. The rest of the company was already far ahead of the officer. He glanced nervously back toward Phelps and then ahead at the dust of the disappearing vehicles.

“When will that be, sir?”

“Dammit, Queege, when the last elements of the brigade clear the intersection! You jump on the last vehicle and rejoin us on the other side of the ridge.

“Well, Captain, I ain’t—” she almost admitted that she’d never pulled MP duty before. Traffic control was one of an MP’s main functions, she knew. She wished now she’d stayed a mere clerk. Ahead of her the division was digging in, preparing for a pitched battle; behind her, in the town, the enemy was advancing. Pretty soon she could get caught in the cross fire. But finally she only said “What if I get thirsty?” Before the captain could answer his driver, a wild look in his eyes, slammed the vehicle into forward and left Queege standing in a cloud of dust.

She hefted the canteen on her belt. Damn, it was half empty and the sun wasn’t even up to its zenith yet. And she was still hungover from earlier that morning.

Corporal Puella Queege hefted the traffic wand her first sergeant had given her. She ran a hand nervously over the M26 in its holster. She jiggled her canteen. Those items were all that stood between her and…what? She didn’t want to think about it.

During the next hour, as the sun rose higher in the sky and the intersection grew hotter and dustier, military vehicles roared by. She soon realized they didn’t need her to direct them to their positions on the ridge beyond town. They already knew where they were going. She was there to keep the civilians out of the way. Several private cars, some lorries, and buses rumbled down the road to the southwest without hardly even slowing down. They, too, knew precisely where they were going. Puella groaned. Typical military screwup! They needed her here like a mouthful of turds, she reflected sourly. She wondered if she should just start walking up the Ashburtonville road or wait for the next military convoy and hitch a ride.

She licked her lips. Boy, did she need a drink, and not water either!

From the direction of Phelps suddenly came the ripping roar of small-arms fire interspersed with the heavy
thud-thud-thud
of artillery followed almost immediately by blossoming explosions in the town. That was followed almost instantaneously by answering, indirect, and preregistered fire from behind the ridge. In seconds the town was partially obscured in clouds of dust, smoke, and fire.

Puella experienced a horrible sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach, and she felt an urgent need to rush into the bushes and defecate. There were no bushes along the road from Phelps, but there was a vehicle coming, roaring along at top speed, a huge rooster tail of dust billowing out behind it. As it got nearer she could see that it was a civilian landcar. Puella stepped into the intersection, her wand raised trembling above her head and extended to the southwest.

The car screeched to a halt. Puella stepped in front of it.

“Git outen the way!” the driver, a middle-aged man, shouted. His eyes bulged out of his head and his face was bathed in perspiration that ran through the dust on his cheeks in dirty rivulets. “I gotta git to Ashburtonville right now!” he yelled.

“Nope, no civilians allowed up that road, sir.”

“I got important dispatches fer Gen’ral Lyons from Mayor O’Quinn, the mayor of Phelps! Now stand aside or you’ll be in
big
trouble, missy!”

“Nope. Mayor O’Quinn, didja say, mister?”

“Yes! Important dispatches! Now, let me through or I’ll run you down where you’re standin’, military police or no military police!”

Puella drew her M26, checked the loading indicator with her thumb, and leveled it at the man’s head. “The mayor’s dead, mister. I shot him myself only this mornin’. Now, you get yer ass on down that road to the park or I’ll shoot you down like I did him ’n’ his buddies.”

The man squawked, threw the car into reverse, and spun off down the road to the southwest. “Hey!” Puella shouted after him, “You got any beer?”

Puella continued standing in the intersection. The intensity of the battle for Phelps increased dramatically. Suddenly vehicles and running men began to emerge from the closer outskirts of the town, fleeing pell-mell toward the division positions on the ridge. She could clearly see some of them throwing their hands up into the air. An armored vehicle came tearing up the road from town. Ah, my ride! Puella thought. Less than a kilometer from where she was standing, the vehicle burst into a greasy orange ball of flame and crashed into a ditch. No one got out. Puella swallowed hard. “Time to leave!” she muttered.

“Not so fast!” someone shouted. Puella froze in her tracks and looked around. No one there. She shook her head. The sun and the beer had finally gotten to her. She turned to go up the Ashburtonville road when the voice came again, louder and more insistent. “I said,
Halt!
Confederation Marine Corps! One more step and I open fire!” Someone shoved Puella hard to the ground where she lay stunned in the dust. Invisible hands disarmed her, bound her arms behind her back, and hauled her to her feet.

“You are now my prisoner,” a harsh male voice said, then the man laughed.