Steel Gauntlet (28 page)

CHAPTER 21

“Admiral,” General Aguinaldo said late in the afternoon of D plus one. The Marine commander had bulled his way past the phalanx of officers and enlisted men who were supposed to keep people—most particularly, angry Marine generals—out of Admiral Wimbush’s office. “I have committed all of my infantry and aircraft to the fight in Oppalia. All I have remaining to commit is my artillery, which the rules of engagement forbid me to use. So far my Marines have killed close to half of the armored brigade that was holding the city. But the cost has been severe.” He planted his fists on Wimbush’s desk and leaned dominantly over the senior officer.

Wimbush leaned back in his chair and did his best not to look cowed. He wished his chair wasn’t bolted to the deck so he could move it back a few inches.

“One of my platoons has lost six men dead and two others so badly wounded they’re out for the duration,” Aguinaldo went on. “That’s eight men out of the thirty who were in that platoon when it went planetside.” He didn’t mention that no other platoon had suffered as severely as third platoon, Company L, 34th FIST, nor did he mention that this one platoon had killed at least fourteen tanks and captured three others. “My remaining Marines can kill the rest of that brigade, but there are three armored divisions within easy striking distance of the city. The navy doesn’t have enough aircraft left to stop them if they move. I need help down there, and I need it now. If the Diamundean divisions move on the city, they will overrun the landing force. Then we will have no planethead and this operation will fail. “Have I made myself perfectly clear, Admiral?”

“General—” Wimbush began. His voice squeaked and he cleared his throat for another try. “General, Third Corps can begin feeding its divisions to the surface tomorrow. Can you hold out that long?” He did his best to look like the man in command—which he didn’t feel he was—rather than a supplicant.

“If those three Diamundean divisions don’t move, yes. But if they do, there is no way my Marines can hold. And those tanks can move at any time, even before the army lands its first soldier tomorrow.”

“I understand this, General. I’ll have General Han get cracking on it right away.” Wimbush cleared his throat again to cover the swallow he took to ease the dryness.

Aguinaldo stood up. “Tomorrow,” he said flatly. “At the earliest. I’m losing Marines even as we speak, Admiral. We might not have a planethead for those soldiers to land on tomorrow. I request permission to land my artillery.” Wimbush opened his mouth to tell the Marine he couldn’t do that, but Aguinaldo kept talking and wouldn’t let him speak. “Thank you, Admiral. I will have my artillery commence landing immediately. We can save the situation yet. Sir, when you need me, you will find me planetside, directing my forces. I will accompany the artillery down.” Without waiting for a reply, he made an about-face and marched from Admiral Wimbush’s office.

Wimbush sat for several long seconds, the fear and uncertainty he felt quivering his body. This Diamundean situation was totally out of hand. St. Cyr was far better equipped than anybody had any idea. The operation was about to become a disaster, if it wasn’t already. At best, the court of inquiry he was going to face would demand his retirement. At worst, they would recommend a court-martial. He cleared his throat again and spoke a couple of soft words to himself to make sure his voice worked, then called out, “Yeoman, get General Han for me. On the double.”

“Aye aye, sir,” barked the petty officer first class who ran the admiral’s errands.

Ensign Vanden Hoyt wanted to withdraw third platoon so it could lick its wounds and they could hold a memorial service for the six Marines it had lost. Four men dead in a matter of seconds. He shuddered.

And he’d already lost two men killed and two others severely wounded. That casualty rate simply didn’t happen to a Marine platoon. The Confederation armed forces itself was almost the only power in Human Space that had weaponry capable of inflicting that level of casualties on shielded Marines. In the twelve years he’d been in the Corps, he’d never seen a platoon lose eight men on an entire campaign, much less four in one firefight. Vanden Hoyt dropped his helmet, then plopped down under a tree near the secured arena and hugged his knees to his chest. The veteran Marine found himself on the verge of tears. Six men dead in his platoon, and they’d been planetside for less than a day and a half. What kind of leader was he that he could lose that many men? He was the platoon commander, and his men and their lives were his responsibility. He had failed his men, he must have been somehow derelict in his duty. He should see Captain Conorado and get himself relieved of command.

A short distance away, Gunnery Sergeant Bass said, “Take over the platoon, Wang. Deploy them for defense.”

Sergeant Hyakowa followed Bass’s gaze, saw the platoon commander’s half-hidden head, and nodded. “Sure thing, boss.” Then into his comm unit: “Squad leaders up.” He swore at himself. Second squad didn’t have a squad leader anymore. “Bladon up,” he added, calling the senior fire team leader from second squad.

Bass took off his helmet and sat next to Vanden Hoyt. For a long moment neither man spoke. Bass waited for the younger man to become aware of his presence, and to give him time to compose himself.

“They were good Marines,” Bass finally said. “Good men too.” Vanden Hoyt’s nod was almost hidden from view.

“Every man in this platoon lost friends today. Most of us have lost friends before.” He paused, wondering whether he should say the next thing on his mind, decided he should. “We’ll all lose friends again. We’re Marines. Marines fight. When men fight, men die. That’s the way it goes.”

“It’s my fault,” Vanden Hoyt said, so softly that Bass almost had to ask him to repeat himself.

“It’s not your fault. Eagle’s Cry got overconfident. So did Saleski. That’s why they died. For a moment, just a moment, they thought their chameleons gave them invulnerability instead of lending them invisibility. They exposed themselves to weapons that could overwhelm their shields.”

“Right. And if I’d done a better job, they wouldn’t have made that slip. It’s my fault.” Bass nearly snapped. He felt the loss of the six as deeply as Vanden Hoyt did, probably more deeply—he’d known those Marines longer, been on more operations with them, pulled liberty and leave with them. They weren’t just men he led, they were friends as well, Marines he knew and respected.

“Mr. Vanden Hoyt,” he said sharply, “neither of us was in a position to see what second squad was doing. Even if one of us had, it happened so fast we couldn’t have done anything to keep those Marines from dying. It’s not your fault, it’s not my fault, it’s nobody’s fault. Men get killed in combat, Marines get killed. That’s all there is to it.”

“It’s the leader’s responsibility. That makes it my fault.”

“The leader on the scene, the only leader with the immediate capability of controlling the situation, was Eagle’s Cry. Following your logic, that means it was his fault.” Bass hated saying that. “But that’s false logic.”

Vanden Hoyt turned red-rimmed eyes toward Bass. “In less than a day and a half this platoon has lost six men dead. I’ve never seen such heavy casualties. It doesn’t happen.” This time Bass did snap. He twisted to face the ensign, grabbed the front of his shirt and shook him.

“Mr. Vanden Hoyt, straighten yourself out. It does happen. A couple of years ago I was with a reinforced platoon that was nearly wiped out in one firefight that didn’t last much longer than the fight we just had. Nobody got blamed for that one. Shit happens, Ensign. And when it does, we wipe it off and keep going.”

Vanden Hoyt looked at him, shocked. He didn’t know whether he was more shocked by being grabbed and shaken or by what Bass said about a reinforced platoon being nearly wiped out. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. He didn’t know what to say. He shook himself, then sat erect, took hold of Bass’s hand and removed it from his shirt.

“Gunnery Sergeant, is the platoon properly deployed?” he finally asked.

“Properly deployed for defense, sir.” Relief was audible in Bass’s voice.

“Then carry on. We have a job to finish.” He picked up his helmet and stood.

“Aye aye, sir.” Bass also stood. He put his helmet on as he stood up, nodded at Vanden Hoyt, then looked around for Hyakowa.

Vanden Hoyt watched Bass walk away. The platoon sergeant was right, he realized, they had a job to finish, and this was no time to quit. But the lives of his Marines were his responsibility. He still felt he had been derelict in fulfilling his duties. When the war was over, he thought that he might tender his resignation. He’d have to give that very serious consideration.

His thoughts were interrupted by a call from company headquarters for the platoon commanders and platoon sergeants to assemble.

“Artillery’s joining us,” Captain Conorado said as soon as his senior men were assembled. “The first batteries have already landed and are taking positions behind their respective FIST lines. Company L has been assigned security for the general support battery.” The general support battery had bigger guns than the direct support batteries that were part of the FISTs. By changing barrels and breech inserts, they could fire 75mm, 145mm, or 200mm high explosive or penetrating rounds. They could also mount assemblies to fire plasma bolts that were the largest science and engineering could make work under battlefield conditions. The general support batteries were the most destructive weapons in the Marine arsenal. The platoon commanders and platoon sergeants looked at each other with wonder. General support batteries were rarely committed to combat. “You will meet the Golf Sierra battery when it lands and escort it to its position. Here’s a map of where Golf Sierra is going to set up and your assigned positions around it.” Conorado transmitted the HUD map. “Save it and pass it along to your squad leaders. We will be resupplied with Straight Arrows at the spaceport. Any questions?”

“How soon will the Dragons get here?” the first platoon commander asked.

Conorado cocked his head, listening to a growing drone. “Sounds like they’re arriving now. You better get back to your platoons.”

They went.

Captain Hormujh was exultant following the destruction his makeshift battalion wreaked on the two expeditionary airfields. He wanted to continue wreaking havoc on the invaders. Despite his impatience to keep bringing the battle to the Confederation Marines, he took his battalion to ground at Lieutenant Colonel Namur’s order. The brigade commander promised him that his battalions would shortly launch a counterattack. Hormujh’s battalion, Namur said, would best serve by attacking the enemy’s rear once it was engaged from the front. Hormujh had to agree with Namur on that. But it was the brigade commander’s plan of action, rather than his superior rank, that compelled Hormujh to quell his impatience and take his battalion into hiding.

Finally, the order for the counterattack was given. Hormujh fought to slow his breathing, suddenly rapid from the adrenaline surge that met the order. He looked at his watch and tried to make the time move faster by force of his will. The minutes ticked by slowly until the fifteen minutes he was to wait passed and he could finally give the order to move out. His first objective was the spaceport, where there had been much activity for the past three-quarters of an hour. If the Confederation forces were feeding in reinforcements, their landing had to be disrupted as quickly as possible, and the reinforcements already on the ground had to be mangled before they got organized. If supplies were being landed, he would destroy them before they could be distributed.

One hundred ten tanks, mostly Teufelpanzer Ones, rolled toward the spaceport where the Marine artillery was landing.

“Captain Pelham? I’m Conorado. My company is to escort your battery to your position and provide security for you.” The spaceport stank with exhaust fumes from the Essays. The ground trembled with their launches and landings. Wind gusts thrown by the Essays buffeted them. Even with helmet communications, Captain Conorado had to shout to make himself heard over the roar of the Essays that were bringing the big guns planetside.

The artillery commander stuck out a hand. “Glad to meet you, Coronado.”

“Conorado,” the infantryman corrected as he shook hands.

“What? Sorry.” Pelham waved a hand, indicating the Essays. “So much noise, I can’t make out what you’re saying. Where are we going?”

“Are your guns ready to move?”

Pelham looked to the side of the spaceport where his six twenty-ton, towed artillery pieces were hitched to heavy equipment movers, and a train of twenty Dragons carrying his gun crews and loaded with ammunition and spare barrels and batteries were waiting. “Ready whenever you are, Captain.” Conorado pointed toward the Dragons holding his company. “Mount up and follow us.” His company already had its resupply of tank killers, enough so nearly every man in the company had one.

“Roger.” Pelham turned and trotted to his command Dragon.

A moment later, back in his own Dragon, Conorado gave the order to move out. A moment after that he gave the order for the Dragons to spread out and take cover and for his infantrymen to dismount and deploy—more than a hundred tanks suddenly were roaring into the spaceport field with their guns blazing.

An Essay, just launching after off loading its artillery cargo, was hit by an armor-piercing, high-explosive round. The round exploded in the Essay’s cargo bay and tore gaping rents through its body. It dropped back to the field and skittered into another shuttle. Fire engulfed the two shuttlecraft.

Another AP-HE round slammed through the open cargo hatch of an Essay that was off-loading artillery ammunition and set off an explosion that shattered three nearby Essays and rocked every vehicle in the spaceport. When the smoke cleared, there was a crater twenty meters deep and eighty meters across where the Essay had been.

In less than half a minute’s time every Essay that wasn’t able to get off the ground was hit, fifteen orbital shuttlecraft killed or severely damaged.

By then the Marines of Company L were dismounted and deployed. Their first Straight Arrows were already aimed.