"Last Light"
1st Marine, 1st Battalion Mobile Command Post
65° West, 72° South, Near the foot of Mt. Ward
Palmer Land, Antarctica
November 28, 2085 2015 Local Time
"Last light, Captain. Attack as planned."
"Sir!"
Not that day or night makes much difference with modern sensors, Major Cinches thought as 1st Marine Brigade's 1st Battalion prepared to charge the enemy garrison barely visible in the haze miles away. But I'm ready now, so now would be a good time to attack.
Getting those forces together had been hard enough. Unlike Graham Land which was a narrow strip, Palmer was more open and spread out. Major Del Rio might have been able to start at one end of Graham and sweep his way down the coast, but Cinches' had had to divide his forces over and over to hit all of his many targets. The process of coordinating those scattered attacks, of having columns merging together or breaking apart as the needs of their next target dictated -- all while making sure the fuel and ammo trucks showed up where they were supposed to -- had taxed him and his staff to their utmost today.
But he'd done it. This attack would be by those bits and pieces of his scattered command that had ended the day's mad scramble nearest him and could be spared from holding down what they'd taken. Loses during the day's hard fighting had left gaps in his formations and made this an even less cohesive force than it might have been. On top of it all, he'd had to put some of his support personnel into the lines to shore up their numbers. But his people were well trained professionals, and this more than anything else that gave him confidence in the outcome. The men and women of 1st Battalion had done more today than he could have asked of them and though he was loath to push their luck with another attack, he knew that ultimately their best guarantee lay in keeping the initiative they'd taken from the enemy.
The two scratch companies approached the edge of the howitzers' killzone. 1st Battalion's GEV forces had taken serious losses in the day, only two GEVs and a Gaucho LGEVs accompanied the attack and this had prompted Major Cinches to change his usual tactics. As the two companies approached the howitzers, instead of charging aboard their transports with the GEVs paving the way, the infantry lept from their personnel carriers and dispersed to present several smaller targets. The now empty GEV-PCs joined the attack hovers who moved to the flank and prepared to rush the howitzer once the way was cleared by the grunts. Infantry Captain Bandera gave the final order and the men in their suits took to the air as one.
"Hmmm." Colonel Crenshaw said as the little blips appeared on his radar repeater. "Only five and a half hours since the last attack." Alarms were already sounding throughout the base.
"Well, isn't this what we wanted? One more attack, and then we run for it while they reorganize?" O'Grady next to him said.
"Remind me to be careful what I wish for, Captain."
"Yeah, I think we got more than we planed for." O'Grady said to his superior. "Mostly infantry. And transports. Just three attack GEVs to cover them, if our sensors haven't been spoofed." Without being asked, he checked the feed from an old-style remote video probe miles away. "Optics confirms mostly infantry carriers." he said after a while, "Range: 30 klicks."
"Looks like they're finally running out of heavy metal to throw at us." Crenshaw said.
Around them the base came to full alert. Their remaining howitzer tracked left and right testing on its massive ferrocrete base. The two Echidna missile tanks loaded up with a mix favouring anti-personnel munitions. Infantry filled the trenches and the armor rolled into their hull-down embankments.
Now at twenty kilometers, the Argentine attack was undaunted.
"I've got a bad feeling about this." Colonel Crenshaw muttered. They both watched as the Argentines reached the howitzers' maximum range and suddenly disgorged their broods of men in battlesuits.
"Oh, shit."
Suddenly they had dozens of targets: and one howitzer. It was a good tactic for the Argies, daring but risky. It made it harder to hit them at the cost of being unable to concentrate their own firepower. It was a tactic clearly aimed at increasing their troops survival, getting them in close, and then have them joined from behind by the hovercrafts, using their combined weight of numbers to overwhelm the defence. The trick was going to be keeping them from concentrating their firepower at the time and place of their choosing...
"We should have run while we could." O'Grady said.
"Yes Captain. I made the mistake of underestimating the enemy..."
"We weren't ready to move then Colonel. Besides, our defences are better now and the men won't make the same mistake as last time."
"Let's hope it will be enough. Now get out of here, O'Grady."
Modern warfare was a spread out affair, with major units like GEVs seldom less than half a mile apart. To do otherwise was to invite spillover fire from modern smart munitions. Major Cinches was forced to watch the battle through computer screens as his men leapfrogged by squads in scattered ranks towards the Pan Pac base. Where the howitzer struck nothing was left alive, but the men were so spread out the big gun couldn't hope to stop them all. The infantry took their punishment but were far from helpless. Weapon squads unlimbered their missile packs and let fly at the howitzer. Cinches hadn't thought they'd have much chance of taking out the big gun that way, what with its batteries of point defense guns. But with just one gun in play, one lucky hit would alter the whole face of battle and he'd told his men to take the shot if the opportunity presented itself.
Missile icons sped from his surviving weapons squads -- most of them didn't get far, decoyed or destroyed in mid-flight by swarms of anti-missile slugs thrown at them. But four of them survived long enough to make their terminal runs at the howitzers' point defense clusters and one of them got through to explode against the heavy BPC armor of its housing.
A video zoom of the howitzer showed the crippling blow. The strike had been high, away from the munition chute and the magazine but near the guns' vertical traverse. Probably just a temporary disable, only time would tell. Major Cinches saw this all in a flash and turned to issue orders but he needn't have bothered. His lieutenants and their sergeants were well on top of the situation. With renewed effort they surged forward to make the most of the lull in the enemy's firepower...
"Move the missile tanks up, Shiro! Kill those missile teams!"
The Echidnas salvoed their missiles, aiming for where radar pinpointed the enemy's points of origin, but it was a shell game where they couldn't hope to get them all. Bomblets rained down on the open ice amid the men scrambling to find any bit of cover. Airbursts and shrapnel claimed many of their lives or merely blew off limbs and tossed the remains around like broken dolls.
O'Grady crouched behind one of his light tanks -- a very stupid place to be -- but one where he'd ended up somehow. He watched as the quieting of their howitzer brought on a sudden charge by the Argentinean armor. They came in fast, riding their aircushions and cycling their guns. Railgun tracers flew in flat trajectories to impact around his men and vehicles. The 100 mm cannon overhead roared and the whole sixty-plus-ton vehicle rocked from the recoil. In turn the shell's hypersonic footprint left a visible crack the whole length of the ice to its target.
O'Grady turned to look around for this headquarters squad. They were in the trenches surrounding the tank's emplacement where they'd doved for cover landing on top of each other in their haste. Getting themselves untangled, O'Grady could see their periscopes and sensor booms sticking up over the parapet like insect antenna. A missile streaked in over their line and airburst nearby, forcing him to duck. The tank was unharmed but the naked woman painted on its side got raped by the fragments. From where he crouched, O'Grady patched into a feed from the tank's sensors and tried to figure out how bad things really were.
"Shiro," he said, "Don't stick your neck out too far. Enemy hovers are inbound. They'll try for the missile tanks!" he called out.
"Right-O."
As he watched one of their Echidnas took the lead enemy hover under fire, a full salvo of 'Hypersmart MkIIb's. The enemy GEV fired off chaff, flares, smoke, and laser aerosols, a fireworks festival of ECM pyrotechnics. Most of the missiles were decoyed or destroyed but many still broke up into their semi-smart munitions over the target. The GEVs tri-barrel gattling was still trying to shoot them down as they struck. Three hit. Incredibly, the GEV wasn't destroyed outright, it just pancaked around until it came to rest in a snow bank with one of its engines throwing out black smoke. The other two lead GEVs swept around him while the slower personel carriers advanced in a solid line behind.
"Colonel!" Something big and fast BA-WANG!'ed off the front of his tank and O'Grady had a sudden urge to dig his way under its treads. "Colonel--" a little window in his suit's display openned to show the face of Colonel Crenshaw in miniature.
"--the enemy is close. We're about to come under massed fire from the taxis. They may try for infantry overruns. We're going to need the howitzer online if we're going to have any hope of holding. With it and the Echidnas we may stand a chance."
As if overhearing this remark, the lone Gaucho LGEV dodged around a mound of ice and snow, shot through and scattered a squad of Pan Pac infantry and stitched his missile tank through and through with its main gun. Some of the rounds punched through the armored covers of the box launchers. The ready missiles' detonation quickly reached the magazine and the whole vehicle turned inside out. The light GEV looked kind of familiar...
Jesus H. Christ, Five minutes and we've lost the howitzer and half our missile platforms. We're getting slammed out here and we're the ones dug in with fields of fire all around. Shit, what's it like out there, out in the open?
The tanks' sensors told a tale of carnage. The Argentine missile teams had reloaded and now more missile contrails criss-crossed the sky to explode amid his men. Shrapnel and self-forging armor crackers and fuel-air explosives, incendiaries, kinetics, and mini-bombs the size of walnuts flew all around. All kinds of shit trying to ruin my day. They flailed the ground and blasted bunkers and tore human beings to bloody rags. Return fire was equally devastating and O'Grady paused in mid-thought as the torso of one enemy battlesuit flew what was easily fifty meters into the air.
The main gun on his light tank roared again, and again there was a crack like thunder as the long-rod penetrator sped its way down range at an unseen target. Had it done that since he'd last noticed? ... He couldn't remember.
Their armor was getting its ass chewed in this fight. Lt. Osbourn had taken over their command after Lt. Braxton's death, but while he was a competent and able officer, he didn't have the other man's daring panache or timing. By his count there were only four of the light tanks left. Against personnel carriers they fared much better than they did against GEVs and O'Grady could see these starting to peel off headed south towards Shiromori.
O'Grady looked again at his sensor feed then, unbelieving, he popped his face shield and risked a peek around the side of the tank. Infantry. The Argie infantry was right there in visual range. Distant to be sure, and hard to see in the fading light, but the small bulky figures with their small gun flashes were unmistakable. Above him, the tank's close-in blew one apart with a flash of impact sparks. How did they get that close, that fast? He pulled his suits rifle around and charged the chamber. Safety off, good. Then he braced himself against one side of the embankment with a good field of view but stayed under cover. Enemy missiles were now trying for the tank. Behind him, his staff were following his example and spreading out in the trenches.
Well, time for this officer and a gentleman to get his hands dirty...
"--O'Grady, are you still there? Report!" the Colonel was saying. O'Grady brought his gun to his shoulder and started firing. The masive recoil was something he could feel from inside his suit.
"Still here Colonel. Enemy overrunning my position. Goddammit, we need that artillery!" he said.
Bullshit. Even the howitzer can't save us now. What we need is a fucking miracle.
"Williams, where's my artillery?!" Colonel Crenshaw almost screamed at his chief engineer.
Captain Grace Williams was in her engineering poweresuit inside the bases remaining howitzer. Her people were around her, effecting repairs.
"It's bad Colonel. Hit on the traverse motors and structural frame." the engineer in her said.
"I don't care about that Captain. How soon?"
With a loud groan of twisting metal, somebody below her finally won out over the gear box with the help of a battle-suit sized crowbar and gave an armor gloved thumbs up.
"Yes!" Grace cried triumphantly. "Colonel, partial function right now. Firing!"
The Argentines were close now, mixed in with their own troops, but the cannons' gunner picked a target, jabbed the fire switch, and with a roar an enemy personnel carrier disappeared in a million pieces. The next target was a platoon of infantry starting to group together to make a rush forward. Another million fragments littered the battlefield. Red fragments that steamed for a little while before freezing solid.
"Yes!" Grace said again excitedly.
She never saw what happened next. The enemy's response at finding the big gun back in operation was a hail of fire from everything in range. Only her armor saved her life.
So far, so good Major Cinches thought. His men were getting hit harder than he'd hoped for but they'd had their strokes of good fortune as well. That missile hit on the howitzer had been a godsend. Now he just had to use his GEVs to destroy the last missile tank and their remaining lights and his infantry would have a clear path to finishing off the rest. He was about to give the order when he noticed three of his platoons attacking the enemy's perimeter near one of their tanks in violation of orders. Lieutenant Ramon Parrilla's group. Those men exposed themselves in the open to attack and paid accordingly. Dug in, with the tank to anchor their line, the Pan Packers were having an effect all out of proportion to their numbers. Major Cinches watched helpless while half a dozen of his men were cut down in the time it took him to switch frequencies.
"Lieutenant Parrilla," he yelled, "pull your men back, disperse, and await orders!"
"Sir!" came the reply, "We can do it. There's only light resistance. We can sweep them aside and be inside the base!"
"All in good time Lieutenant. The GEV-jockeys will take care of their armor. Stick to the plan. Now pull back!"
Major Cinches watched as his surviving men retreated. Damn that Parrilla, a reserve Lieutenant from the quartermaster section that hadn't done anything more dangerous than operate a forklift until now. He ordered one of his reserve platoons to reinforce that section to make good its losses and turned back to the GEV fight. One of his personnel carriers was up in flames but they'd killed one of the light tanks -- blasted it to bits inside its embankment. The remaining missile tank was now the main threat and his men were bringing everything to bear on it. The Echidna was boxed up against the base and didn't have much room to run, its only help was the infantry around it and the defenders dwindling supply of light tanks. Two GEVs and a -PC blew through the defense line in pursuit only to have two squads of men with panzerfausts pop up from concealment and fire into them from point blank. They killed one of his precious GEVs, turning it into a firey smear on the landscape with their ambush but half of them died in the attempt. Theirs would be a short lived victory though, even now the other two were closing in on the last Echidna. With that gone, the fight would be effectively over...
Then the GEV-PC blew up, although saying that didn't really do the event justice. It was more like it was blown into a million pieces.
The howitzer!
The surviving GEV, looking down the Echidna's missile tubes, went evasive and turned around declining to commit suicide. The missile tank turned suddenly and fired its missiles clear across to the other side of the battlefield.
Huh?
Cinches panned the view to his left -- and found Lieutenant Parrilla leading another infantry charge. Including the platoon he'd sent as reinforcements! The dozen anti-personnel missiles from the Echidna tank scattered their sub-munitions across the field, adding to the defensive fire that had already slaughtered a platoon of his men.
The effect was horrific. Men simply ... disappeared. Entire squads screamed and were silenced in unison. Cinches wouldn't, couldn't, believe anyone stupid enough to attack an enemy head on like that. His sensation was one of dumbfound shock and unspeakable hatred. He called up Parrilla's private channel with shaking hands. "Goddamn you Lieutenant," he almost screamed into the mike, only years of service and an officer's professional detachment preventing hysterics, "I told you to pull your men back. Now do it! That's a direct order. Fall back and STAY there!"
"Major, the enemy resistance here is weak. We can roll up their entire flank from here -- "
"Lieutenant! You are relieved! Sargeant Palomar take command. Hold your position and await orders." Major Cinches didn't bother to wait for a reply and switched his attention back to the main battle just in time to watch another group of his men die under the iron flail of the howitzer. This time though the front half of the big gun was blown to pieces by return fire. Now it was the Echidna's turn. That lone missile tank was all that stood between him and victory. The remaining light tanks might still put up a fight but they could be out maneuvered and killed by his nimble GEVs. Likewise, digging the enemy out of the base's labyrinth of corridors would be costly, but without the Echidna to give them a hold on the surface those tunnels would be nothing but death-traps. He could pour kerosene down the airvents and incinerate the whole place if he had to.
The battlefield was now a scene of black smoke columns with scattered battlesuits in grey filtering through them. His surviving GEVs, though few in number, were enough to glide about helping their infantry in the hunt for their enemies. Those were in disarray, fleeing back towards the very doors they'd sallied from. Here and there enemy missile teams still fired at his hovercraft but their numbers were too few to matter. The only pocket of organized resistance was to the north, where Lt. Parrilla was, centered around another tank and a few remaining squads. They'd be dealt with soon enough. The Echidna was the sole enemy vehicle in motion, retreating beyond the base on a road of snowpack between two light tanks in revetments, only one of which was still alive.
He had one -- damaged -- Palomino, a Gaucho LGEV and four surviving Patricio personnel carriers. Properly used, these were more than any missile tank could hope to handle. Let's just not get cocky.
He worked his radio and began giving orders.
Snap. Clik. Wack! Fifty-six. That's how many rounds I have left.
Captain O'Grady replaced the magazine in his rifle and looked around. Incredibly, the Platypus tank was still here. One of the treads was shot off, the front-right armor was pocketed where a missile's shaped charge had blown half-way through and its close-in weaponry was lying about a hundred yards over thataway, but the rest of it was still here. Miraculously, so was he.
He had mixed feelings about that. It wasn't that he had a death wish, but close combat with battlesuit sized weapons was a grotesquely bloody affair and the memories of the battles around Darwin back home came rushing back to him leaving him sick to his soul standing in a field surrounded by pieces of what was so much human SPAM. After all the fights he'd been in it was something of a surprise, but killing still didn't come easy to him. He started to shake. He couldn't stop himself. He just hoped nobody noticed.
Inside his armor, his hand reached for the small package he kept in his shirt pocket. An Imperial Navy pin given to his grandfather at the turn of the century by an elderly japanese kamikaze airman who'd been spared by the dropping of atomic bombs. It had been given to his grandfather as a token of better days and it had stayed in the family ever since. It was worn, rusted and bent as befitted something of its hundred and forty years. He'd carried it with him his entire military career. He thought of his current situation and his mind couldn't help thinking back to the kamikaze pilot he'd never met. It looked like his gift might finally meet the fate it had avoided so long ago.
"Sargeant Dunlap," he called out over the short range, "how are we doing?" To late, he realized he might have made a mistake.
To his relief after a short pause the old veteran replied. "About ten effectives, including yourself. Ammo's almost gone. Two missiles and the Plat left. Sir."
Before he could stop himself, O'Grady translated that into fourteen men dead or wounded. No, he'd seen the murderous effect enemy's weapons on his men. They were all dead, they couldn't be anything else.
"My god, I'm tired."
"Sir?"
He hadn't realized the pickup was still live. "Nothing." He switched it off. Getting sloppy. But there was no rest to be had. The battle still waged to the south.
"Please Shiro," he pleaded though no one could hear him, "just don't lose the missile tank." He was exhausted and there was nothing he could do anymore to affect the course of events. If the Echidna went, he and his men would be helpless, there'd be nothing for it but to beg for terms and endure an enemy prison camp in sub-freezing temperatures ...
Captain Benjamin Shiromori crouched in a hole and watched the Argentinean advance. The plan wasn't much, mostly men sitting in holes with panzerfausts lying next to them. He patted the one resting on his suit's knees.
At this point he knew the hero was supposed to have some brilliant plan for beating a ravening horde of enemies. His son could point to his comic books to prove this. Andy would be surprised to know that "The Plan" had come to daddy while daddy's arse had been front and center to the enemy. In the chaos of retreat he'd organized his men as best he could based on where he'd found them and what they still had, according to a plan still congealing inside his head. He still couldn't remember much of what he'd said, but he'd talked to each surviving squad spread out over six square miles and told them what he wanted them to do. Mercifully, there were more of them left then he'd expected to find and most of them responded with courage and determination to his ad-hoc, desperate plan though they knew it for what it was.
His top sergeant, Anton Chartwell, was next to him looking through his own periscope over the top. The men were in a half-crescent holding the base and a ragged thin line extending for three miles southeast with the panzerfaust equiped troops he'd managed to gather here with him in the gap between the base and what used to be the northern howitzer. Directly in the path of the enemy's hoverarmor. There were others forming a haze of light codes in his displays, shellshocked troops who'd broken and lay cowering or in abject flight. He didn't have time for them. The Argentine GEVs were two and a half miles away in hot pursuit of the Echidna now crossing over his position headed westward. Good, he'd counted on the missile tank fixing their attention. Argentine infantry filled the gap between them and his infantry line to the south and formed a barrier between him and O'Grady pinned down to the north. He glanced towards Chartwell who looked like he was about to say something.
"Wait for it sergeant." he said.
Battlesuited infantry had their work cut out for them when they tried to go up against hovercraft. GEVs were the fastest things on the modern battlefield and despite all the power of their turbine jets, battlesuits were still amongst the slowest. The GEVs also carried heavier guns that outranged anything a suit could hold. On open ground like this, one GEV could kill battlesuits until it either ran out of ammo or the pilot just got bored of squeezing the trigger. Infantry usually acted defensively as a screen for other units, keeping GEVs at bay while the others hammered the GEVs with their even longer-ranged weapons. On their own, battlesuits used their numbers and stealth and aggresive move-to-cover tactics -- and hoped like hell the other guy did something stupid. Like paying too much attention to a lone Echidna missile tank.
"Archer Two," he called to the Echidna, thankful that TacNet was still up, "standby to execute. Sergeant Chartwell will designate." Chartwell had the laser designator.
"Roger. We'll be ready." came the tank commander's reply. Shiromori could hear the rattle and rumble of the engine in the background.
"Get ready!" he called over the net. Around him armored men stood up and crouched pressing their weapons close to their chests, Sergeant Chartwell in the middle. The jets on their backs hit high pitch in unison as exhaust haze washed through their ranks. The enemy was less than a kilometer away now, within range. Captain Shiromori took one more breath and gave the order.
As one, his men lept from cover and fired a massive barrage with their remaining missiles as they touched down. It didn't matter that none of them hit anything -- surprise is in the mind of the enemy. Men who'd run into the shelter of the base minutes ago came running back out to charge the enemy. With the Argentines temporarily thrown into confusion, the Echidna paused just long enough to blind-fire its missiles trusting to Sergeant Chartwell to avoid a blue-on-blue.
Once again, Aussie and Kiwi infantry had an effect all out of proportion with their numbers. Argentine soldiers in their battlesuits thrashed and fell silent as the rapid fire weapons washed over them. Here Shiromori watched as one of his men was blown backwards as an enemy's shell blasted through him. The Argentines back-pedalled, trying to open the range to where they'd have the advantage, the Pan Pac soldiers maniacally determined to prevent that. Others fired heavy machineguns or went at it hand-to-hand.
But the vehicles were what worried Shiromori. The men could just about handle their counterparts, but the damn vehicles could ruin everything. Chartwell had tried for the sole remaining Palomino the enemy still had, but in the rush of combat, he'd mistook his target and the Echidna's missiles rained down on another enemy GEV-PC instead.
"Archer Two, come southeast and prep fire mission." he called into his radio. The Echidna turned and fired when Sergeant Chartwell gave it the go ahead. The Palomino had pulled out of range once the pilot realized what was up and the Gaucho LGEV was to the south suporting the Argentines fighting down there. But another GEV-PC would do just as well. This one was a near miss that flipped the vehicle over without destroying it. Pan Pac soldiers dragged the crew out and shot them. One of them tried to raise his hands, but this was neither the time nor the place -- a short burst ended his life and the Pan Pac soldiers moved on.
But for all his and his men's efforts the battle was turning against them. His men were strained and the enemy was just as determined to win. Their surviving GEVs blasted away at his remaining men, cutting them down in swaths. The Gaucho LGEV was particularily effective, breaking away from the general melee to execute a series of hit-and-run strikes. Another of his precious light tanks exploded under a barrage from the surviving enemy PC's and some missile teams. Colonel Crenshaw rallied some of the men guarding the base and directed them to the fight around the southern salient, but a quick conference confirmed neither thought it would be enough. They'd shot their bolt. Now it was up to him to organize their second retreat within the last fifteen minutes.
"O'Grady! Thomas!" Captain Shiromori shouted after he watched Sergeant Chartwell die to a sniper's bullet, "You've got to hold those forces to the north. Do you hear me? We have to pull back. If they're committed here, now, they'll fuck us all and it's game over. Do you hear me?"
"Ben goddammit, there's not much I can do. I'm down to ten men, fifty bullets, and the tank can't move for shit. But no worries, I have a plan."
"Yeah. I've heard that one before." Colonel Crenshaw interrupted, "Just keep their attentions O'Grady. Out."
Major Cinches breathed a sigh of relief. The missile tank was still alive, but the rest of the enemy forces were smashed. They couldn't have much left after that. At least they'd saved him the trouble of having to go down into their caves after them. But the Echidna had broken free and if he ordered the Palomino and Gaucho to go after it, he was going to lose at least one of them. As hard as it was for him to admit after so much sacrifice, it was enough for one day's work. He'd pull back and hit them again later with renewed force, once the odds weren't quite so even. Now all he needed was someone to cover his retreat. Running men made easy targets and he wasn't going to gamble any more of his mens lives on the mercy of the enemy. Sergeant Palomar's infantry reserve was exactly what he needed for that job. He switched frequencies and called up their status on his computer...
Why... No. NO. NOOOO!!! ME CAGO EN SU PUTA MADRE! (*Lit: "I shit on his whoring mother!")Couldn't those FUCKING PENDEJOS follow a simple FUCKING order?!?
But once again, the men of Lt. Parrilla's command were charging their enemies over open ground.
"Sergeant Palomar! REPORT! NOW!" All trace of a profesional officer was gone from him now. If he could've destroyed the sergeants suit with a press of a button... "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!? ANSWER ME!!!"
"Sir?" the Sergeant replied, in a tone of utter confusion.
"Why are you leading an attack in direct violation of my orders, Sergeant?!?"
"What? Major, Lieutenant Parrilla ordered the attack with your authority. Sir." Cinches could hear the rattle as the sergeant grunted and fired his cannon. The sergeant was in the thick of it and here he was having to argue with his superior. With a shock like cold water Cinches remembered that he'd switched to a private channel to address Lt. Parrilla and in the heat of battle hadn't switched back to the command channel when he'd relieved the lieutenant and put Sgt. Palomar in charge. With either an adrenaline induced single-mindedness or the belief he'd be vindicated by victory, Lt. Parrilla hadn't informed the sergeant he'd been relieved and launched yet another suicide charge.
Major Cinches didn't pause. Later he would blame himself for what his mistake had done to his men, for now he'd save those he could.
"Sergeant, you are to take command and fall back. Hold your position and await orders. Lt. Parrilla is relieved and to be placed under arrest." He could only watch as more of his men fell dead.
O'Grady emptied half his ammo and had the satisfaction of watching the enemy trooper hit the ground with limp finality. Their missiles were gone and Sergeant Dunlap was dead and the men in the tank were screaming over the TacNet as they burned alive. On the plus side, the enemy assault had spared him having to order a "Charge of the Light Brigade" style attack to cover Shiromori and the men still in retreat to the south.
Once more his small group had decimated the enemy -- if on a lesser scale without the Echidna's help. Once again their blistering fire had forced the Argentines to a halt. They'd break soon and head back: Mission Accomplished for the 217th. But the 217th had paid for their victory, four of them joined the dead Argentineans littered around them. The Argentine's heavy autocannon made excellent sniping weapons and they were skilled in their use.
The enemy started to break off as he'd expected and O'Grady was content to watch them go ... until his eye caught a group of about a dozen or more that didn't look as if they were going to give it up. By twos and threes they pressed home their attack, heading for the buildings around the destroyed howitzer --
And the motor pool...
"Oh. Shite."
Most of the evacuation vehicles and supplies they'd stockpilled were there. It had seemed natural to keep them as part of O'Grady's command and in the press of events they hadn't been transfered to the protection of the main base. If the enemy got in there with battlesuits they could destroy them all and end the planned retreat right there. Even getting in and surviving long enough to report what they'd seen would be bad enough.
"Colonel," he called his superior over the TacNet. "if you have any reserves left, you'd better send them over here. The enemy will be inside North Base soon and they're bound to find the motor pool. I'll hold them as long as I can."
Switching frequencies he addressed his acting sergeant, a Corporal Jenyfer Ryan, "Ryan, take two men and the SAW, deploy around the base of the howitzer. We're outnumbered two-to-one so you don't have to beat them, just pin them until reinforcements get here. Privates Milton, York, with me. We're going to cover the interior corridors. Again, the aim is to delay them as best we can." He then switched to the base's frequency. "Tech Sergeant Hill, have all personnel report to the armory and issue sidearms." Not that unarmored people with pistols and rifles could do much against someone in a suit, but they might distract them. O'Grady tried not to think of what that order was going to cost those men and women in blood. "Right lads, you've got your orders. Now move." O'Grady paused just long enough to scavenge some extra ammo from the blasted corps of Sergeant Dunlap, still burning with smoke pouring from his joints.
Colonel Crenshaw was two miles away. Battlesuited infantry could cover that ground in four minutes, three if they pushed it. He figured he needed to hold for five minutes. They moved towards the howitzers base and found the enemy scouts had got there before them. Men and women in cold weather clothing were piled up at the entrance, their bodies slowly cooling in the infrared. O'Grady kicked aside their improvised barricade and went in with his rifle tucked firmly into his shoulder. As he came to the first cross-corridor Cpl. Ryan reported the machinegun in operation, firing at the main body of the enemy three hundred meters away. But they were under fire, had to change positions soon, and couldn't be sure they could keep the enemy from infiltrating by ones and twos.
"Do the best you can." was all the help he could give them. They spotted their first Argentine a bit later exchanging fire with two of the bases personnel armed with SMGs. They fired and he fired back. The fight ended inconclusively with him backing into a side corridor and them looping around three sides of a square to get between him and the motor pool. There they spread out to cover the approaches.
"Colonel, if you have any reserves left, you'd better send them over here. The enemy will be inside North Base soon and they're bound to find the motor pool. I'll hold them as long as I can."
Colonel Crenshaw fired his rifle from the shoulder. He'd rallied his men at the base's front door and head off in pursuit of their retreating enemy. He hadn't fired a rifle in some time so his aim was a bit off: he only blew off a leg and the figure fell over backwards clutching at his new stump. In spite of their casualties, the Argentines were retreating in good order and his actions were more for show then anything else. O'Grady's warning caught him by surprise.
So he finished the magazine and while he reloaded he considered who was left and who he could spare. Not much, but the motor pool was important. He decided two squads was what he was willing to risk. Any more and he wouldn't have a hope of holding the base if the Argentines were pulling a ruse. And if they fell, there wouldn't be an evacuation either...
"Lieutenant Powers, take two squads from the reserve and head north to relieve Captain O'Grady. You'll have to make your entrance through the motor pool. That's two miles exposed, so move fast and stay low. Everyone else, fall back to the base."
"Sir!" came a chorus of replies.
"Yes sir!" said Lt. Powers. It was more diplomatic than "What reserve?"
Captain O'Grady got Cpl Ryan's report that she'd lost the F77 SAW and Private Takeda. He told her to get inside and try for a surprise attack from their flank before she hooked up with him. The fighting in the corridors had been sporadic, fought at insanely point blank ranges. None of his men were dead yet as they took pains not to exposed themselves but the base personnel had suffered horrendously. Their conventional rifles were useless against suit armor while what the battlesuit's weapons did in return was not something for a man with a weak stomach to see. Basically, only those with the good sense to tell him to fuck off and hide were still breathing.
The Argentines charged him again, two of them advancing down the corridor he was covering. He'd been pushed back, trading space for time faster than he'd ever feared. Powers had better get here soon because there was only one more intersection he could afford to give up. After that there was only the connecting corridor built to protect the main complex from accidental fires or explosions in the vehicle bay. He stuck his gun around the corner and triggered a short burst. The lead Argentine soldier hit the ground and snap-rolled under cover while the other in overwatch fired over his head. A torrent of shells and light explosives struck, ricocheting down the corrider destroying lights and fixtures as they went. O'Grady lept across to the other side and dropped a proximity grenade before continuing on towards the motor pool.
He made his next cover before the two could round the corner but they spotted his grenade and blew it up from a safe distance. Say what you wanted about their commander who would order them into all those bloody assaults up above, but the Argentine soldier was as good as any he'd ever faced. And damn him to hell for it.
Teniente Segundo Ramon Parrilla was no genius but he knew when someone was trying to fuck with him. Those damn Pan Packers were skirmishing with his men, dragging the fight out as long as they could. They were playing for time, and though he wasn't sure exactly why, he knew that if that's what the enemy wanted, that was the one thing he needed to deny them most.
"Sargento Betancourt, how is our flank?"
"As well as could be expected, Teniente. They've killed Private Pilar, but we've got both of them pinned down now."
"Alright Sargento, gather three -- no, four men. You're going to punch through here. And we'll cover you." Parrilla had been in these tunnels long enough to get a feel for the place. Pushing straight through their middle would isolate the remaining two in opposite corners. Defeat in detail, that simple.
O'Grady watched helplessly as Corporal Tate died. Five-on-one left little in the way of alternate outcomes. First a hail of bullets and grenades from the Argentine grenade launchers in the enclosed spaces of the base. When Tate stuck his rifle out to reply the man waiting for this blew his hand off. Incredibly, despite the pain, Cpl. Tate had grabbed at his severed hand with the other to recover his gun, but without realizing it, by leaning over and reaching across his body, he'd exposed his head. Now all O'Grady could do is take snap shots as man after man jumped through his field of fire as they pushed straight through to the motor pool with nothing now to stop them.
"Powers," he said to no one over his now uselessly jammed radio, "I hope you're close, mate. Because if you're not here in 60 seconds we are well and truly fucked." It wouldn't take them long to spot the tunnel and investigate.
2nd Lieutenant Ted Powers firewalled his engines again as reached the mouth of the motor pool. He'd come all this way to rescue his Captain and enemy jamming kept him from knowing if Captain O'Grady was even still alive. Getting his men across a recent battlefield out in the open had felt like something little short of a suicide pact. He'd done it by the seat of his pants, keeping most of his men in close with four sacrifice flankers and putting their trust in speed above all else. His two squads were a hodge-podge of survivors from both the 217th and the 135th and that worried him to no end. They hadn't worked together, much less practiced close quarters combat as a squad before, they'd merely had more than half-full jump tanks when he'd checked the roster.
He led his two squads through the access tunnel towards where his last report more or less said Captain O'Grady was holed up. The tunnel was carved into the living ice with an open blast door in front of him. They were used mostly by regular personnel but had been built large enough for battlesuits to move about in. Ted crouched with his back to the hatch with his gun at port arms and scanned ahead. At his nod, some of his men ran past him taking the lead. In turn, he retracted the stock of his suit's rifle, reducing it to carbine length and once again checked his load.
Damn, I'm nervous.
Thirteen men in battlesuits that could fly throught the air and lay devastation for miles around them scampered packed single file down a little tunnel in the ice. The proximity of the others was of no comfort to the men. They were not trained to fight like this.
A camo-dressed figure appeared in the corridor ahead of them. Argentine PITA scout suit, Powers thought before his pointman, Private Lennox, openned fire. The other man fired back, and an insane exchange of fire at point blank ensued with Lennox going to one knee, rifle on full automatic. The next man in line added a long tearing bursts from his shoulder. Everything became flashes and ricochets and metallic SPANGS for the men behind these two as they scrambled for non-existing cover. Ricochets bounced around them and the lighting fixtures exploded but they were helpless, unable to fight back for their own two men in front of them. Mercifully, it was quick and brief, over before it really registered on the senses. It was all panic fire, but amid the debris and random impacts, the two men in front managed to hose their target down after sweeping the walls and roof around him. They slammed him up against the far wall with half a dozen holes in his chest, but he was still firing on the way down and his last burst, with a pung-pwang!, scored on Lennox's head. Lt. Power saw the man's suit crash to the ground in a way that only confirmed the sudden flat line on his medical telemetry display.
Damn! was Lt. Power's next thought as he looked around and his men reloaded. They've made good time through these tunnels. Now let me think, this blast containment shaft doubles back around that way to parallel this tunnel ten meters away...
"FUCK!"
In an instant he was turning left and bringing his carbine level, pointed at the wall. The others, startled, saw his move and with eyes shot wide put it together for themselves.
The wall exploded in their faces. A block of ice the size of a man's head hit Lt. Powers in the chest slamming him against the far wall and knocking him to the ground. Smaller bits filled the air around them and clouded his vision. In an instant, everything had gone straight to hell. No plan, no tactic had ever envisioned this. Neverminding they had no targets, they fired back at their unseen enemies, blasting away at the wall in front of them on full auto.
BlamBlamBlamBlamBlam!
The wall disintegrated under their massed fire. The men in assault suits swept back and forth with their big belt-fed SAWs, while others pumped in armor-piercing grenades from their rifles. The racket they created was deafening. In the enclosed space, echos and blasts only added to the chaos. Chips filled the air and sheafs of ice pilled up in front of them and still the shooting went on.
Fuck Fuck FUCK!!! Powers screamed to himself. His brain was mush, he couldn't think. We're just packed in here. We can't even see what we're shooting at! Fuck command responsibilities, I want to live!
The Argentines big 15 mm guns seemed to punch through the ten meters almost as if it weren't there. His men started to die, dropping suddenly or flung back when the bullets found them. One to his left, then one to his right, what had been his front just seconds ago. More men further back. Some of the big slugs struck over his head, where his chest should have been. One man started screaming over the squadnet when a round blew off his arm inside his suit. The enemy's lower rate of fire was the only thing saving them, so they stood there and emptied their guns, again and again. Reloading and firing, while the enemy's heavier guns picked them off one by one.
WA-BAM! WA-BAM!
BlamBlamBlamBlamBlam!
WA-BAM! WA-BAM!
It was so frightening it was funny in a certain morbid way. Here they were with their fingers mashed down on their triggers, burning ammo and scared out of their flipping minds -- and Powers couldn't even tell if their rounds were getting through all that ice or not. It should, their weapons were designed to penetrate inches of steel from a mile away, but: How the fuck should I know what the protective qualities of ice ten meters thick are?! Maybe the ice wasn't stopping their bullets, just deflecting them. That would be enough, right? All he knew was that those damn heavy slugs were getting through to them.
One of the machine gunners emptied his entire 500 round belt, only to drop the reload. Instead of grabbing another, he bent over to chase after it on all fours. Even with their guns still firing, everyone turned to look at him with disbelief on their faces. Like, what the fuck are you doing?!? With bullets flying all about them in this panic even reloading their guns seemed to take an unnatural effort. One man at the back end was screaming curses and shit to only now realize he'd had his gun on safe the whole time.
BlamBlamBlamBlamBlam!
Lt. Powers kept firing and reloading. He couldn't remember how many times. He swept his fire back and forth, swirling up and down, tracing every patern on the wall in front of him like a little kid with his first crayon. It was a while before any of them noticed there wasn't any more shooting coming from the other side.
"Cease Fire! CEASE FIRE, I said!" Lt. Powers found himself saying and getting back up.
The rest of his squad hesitated, but stopped.
"I think we got 'em."
Lt. Powers looked around at what was left. They stood there in the sudden silence, looking dazed and confused. There were six guys left to his left and one to his right. He also realized that sometime during the fight he'd pissed his pants. No kidding. Everyone was looking around; at their dead comrades, at little mountains of spent magazines littering the floor and at him with open-mouth numbed looks on their faces. They were still trying to convince themselves it was all really real.
Powers wasn't entirely sure what to do. He was doing his own bit of unreality check. Maybe it was his training or maybe it was just his nerves had had enough. He had one big shudder and was almost back to normal. It was as if a fuse blew inside his head from the overload and suddenly he was calm again. Weird. All that tactical stuff he'd learned at the academy was coming back to him. It was kind of like mentally saying "ah, fuck it" and suddenly, he was at ease and thinking again. He turned to the man to his right with a look that said: Well?
"Well what?" the man replied aloud, taken aback.
"Well, go see if they're dead or not."
The corporal took a step back and thumbed the corridor. Are you nuts?!? went unsaid between them.
"Ok, everyone: reload." there were scattered snaps and clicks as fresh magazines slid home. "Now, by the numbers everyone," he said, "FIRE!"
Again, the whole squad blazed away at the wall, and hopefully, the men beyond it. More ice fell down and more chips of the stuff flew up and around them. The surviving machine gunner, he of buttered fingers, worked his way through another five hundred rounds and Lt. Powers added his own bit. He swept high, just in case some enemy had proped themselves up high between the walls but there was no rewarding *thud* that he could tell of. Others swept low and others swept the middle and others didn't know what they were doing, so they just dug a hole in the wall with their bullets. When it was over Powers looked back at the man he'd chosen.
"Are you happy now?" he asked the man.
The singled out lance corporal got all defensive, put his hands up and started moving. "Right Oh. I'm going. I'm going."
Slowly, so very slowly, the man worked his way to the corner. He gave the dead scout there a nudge with his rifle and then slowly stepped out of sight. Everyone waited ...
"YAAHHH!!!"
Gunfire came from around the corner. The rest of them didn't bother to wonder what or why, they just sent another thousand rounds into the already pulverized wall in front of them. Again cubic meters of ice shattered and flew in every direction. An unarmored man would have been killed. Killed and burried. Powers found himself running down the hall, intent on getting to his man and covering his retreat when...
The corporal stepped back into the passage with his arms up. "Uh, sorry. My bad. Just got nervous is all." he said.
Power's could have hit a wall they way he came to a stop. He was at a complete loss for words, "Corporal..." he began almost in a warning tone. He knew he needed a snappy one-liner and he needed it bad, but his brain just wasn't up to doing the situation justice. "Oh, forget it." he finished with resignation and waved his squad forward. If they ever made a movie out of this he'd have a word with the scriptwriter first.
O'Grady saw Lieutenant Powers emerge from the tunnel and trudge towards him. He was in front of a terminal, watching the last four enemy soldiers running back towards their line. He could have savaged them more as they'd fled back in disorder through and out of the base into the open, but O'Grady was happy to watch them go. Let some second-guessing REMF tell him he was supposed to fight to his last drop of blood. He'd started this fight with twenty-seven men and women to guard North Base. He now had three.
No wait, that didn't count the slaughter of the base personnel...
Sergeant Dunlap was dead. So was Collins, Takeda and Tate and Seacord and Hill. And Evelyn hadn't spoken to him in a month. He'd wanted to rotate back home to try and patch things up and now he was in a warzone and --
Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
None of this is going to do you any damn good, idiot. You can't make things better with her if you're dead. Now get your shit together and quit whinning.
He saw Lt. Powers start to grow uncomfortable with his silence. "One moment Lieutenant." he said, then made a small show of checking TacNet to see what condition the rest of the garrison was in. With the clearing of the air all the little microchips were starting to file their automatic reports. Raw data that would be processed and algorized to death by a hierarchy of silicon switches. It was part of that "Information Warfare" shit everyone said had changed the way wars were fought. Yeah, my bloody arse. He noticed that the expected lifespan of a man under his command in combat had dropped to one minute and seventeen seconds. One more of those fucking statistics the electron-pussies treasure so much. He blanked that out and called up the list of surviving personnel. He turned the screen so the Lieutenant could see it. The younger man blanched.
"Good thing you stopped them when you did, Ted." he said after a moment. "Whoever that commander was may have been a complete idiot, but if those sods had made it past you we'd have had to surrender and beg for terms. Good job."
Powers had nothing to say to such a compliment. He struggled to find words, but O'Grady let him off the hook.
"There are still some of our people in here," O'Grady told him, "take the men and find them. Some may be wounded, do what you can. Gather any critical equipment you find and see to the dead. We'll give them a quick burial before we leave. Make sure the men get some rest. Make sure you do too. And find me a jet pack." He'd dropped his off somewhere so he could move faster on foot.
They dug Capt. Williams out of the rubble and sent her to the improvised hospital they'd set up. Nicks and bruises and a busted wing, nothing serious. Then he went to report to Colonel Crenshaw in person. Shiromori was there too. So was his 2IC, Osbourn, who'd survived the carnage the enemy'd wreaked on their tanks.
"We go?" he asked at the end.
"We go." Crenshaw said.
Five minutes after the chaplain had his say, two light tanks, one Echidna, and one captured enemy GEV-PC along with a train of fuel and supply trucks and a cement mixer, carrying some forty-odd troopers, as many supply clerks, cooks and so forth (and even some prisoners), set out from Outpost Four headed south. And no prying eyes saw them go.
1st Marine, 1st Battalion Mobile Command Post
65° West, 72° South, Near the foot of Mt. Ward
Palmer Land, Antarctica
November 28, 2085 2125 Local Time
"Incoming aircraft!"
Major Juan Carlos Cinches stood in the dark antarctic night, in the snow lit by a lone flood lamp, and awaited the arrival of his commanding officer. Captain Banderas was dead, so was Sgt. Betancourt. On the other hand Sgt. Palomar was still alive, and of course, so was Lt. Parrilla, now under guard and facing a court-martial and quite possibly a firing squad.
Colonel Luis Daniel Fernandez stepped out of the VTOL and with the dying fans still whipping the air around him walked over to the Major. Cinches saluted.
"Tell me." Fernandez said without introductions.
Major Cinches did.
Colonel Fernandez showed no expression, he had the answer to the question he'd asked himself before. Major Cinches must know his career was over. The invasion plan had from the first centered on the elements of shock and surprise for success. Indeed, Colonel Fernandez's worst fear had been exactly this: that some garrison or another would find the time to get it together and put up a decent fight. But the plan had never depended on catching the enemy unawares. Major Cinches knew this as well as he did and should have kept an eye out for trouble. Indeed, he should have expected it. He should have recognized his lead elements reports for what they were and hit this outpost only after he was fully prepared instead of committing piecemeal attacks and hoping for the best.
For a moment Colonel Fernandez's conscience struggled with itself. The thought that he could be second-guessing the Major crossed his mind and he considered it carefully. He knew that Palmer Land's geography made concentration of forces easier said than done, plus the first day's schedule had been very ambitious -- putting pressure on Cinches. Then there was the fact that this was the one clear failure on the part of Argentina's forces here to date. It would be too easy to scapegoat Cinches -- who for the actions of one colossally craven lieutenant could have been standing in front of him with victory in the one hand and the promise of Layton's head on a pike in the other.
Besides, one did not lightly dismiss a senior commander in the field, the effect on morale could be devastating. Further, Major Cinches was not a featherweight theoretician, his past record fighting the Combine in the Amazon placing him beyond reproach in that regard. He'd virtually destroyed an entire Combine Armor Battalion in a river delta and Fernandez had a tendency to respect lieutenants that could do that. In the final analysis, their country was at war and the question wasn't whether Major Cinches's career could survive the review board, but rather: was he still of use to him? It was past time to find out.
Fernandez gestured towards the nearby camp being set up by the 1st Battalion indicating to Cinches to walk that way with him.
"Major," he said, "I find your reports most disturbing. We hold this ground, but the enemy's army remains. The men have suffered terrible casualties. I would not have expected that Alliance second-echelon units such as these could stand against the elite 1st Marines."
There was no masking the criticism in those words, but the Major didn't hesitate. "Yes, my Colonel. Alliance forces are well trained and capably equipped and they've succeeded in repelling our assaults to date. I still face two of their tanks and a missilier with up to sixty infantry."
"Your plans?"
"Containment. For now. My forces here aren't ready for another assault and the rest of the First is dispersed up north holding the mineshafts. I plan to work around the base with my remaining GEVs and small detachments of infantry to set up ambushes in case Colonel Layton tries for a link-up, but I'm afraid reducing the holdouts will have to fall to the 15th LACR. I've taken steps to coordinate our logistics with them so they'll be able to stage themselves using our supplies."
"You do not feel this course of action to be too passive?"
"Colonel, with the forces I have available I believe I could indeed take the base -- we've accounted for both their howitzers -- but it would be a case of mutual attrition and 1st Battalion would be finished as an effective fighting force. I will do this if it prevents Layton from replenishing his supplies, but I would rather wait until it was absolutely necessary. Right now, in this, time is on our side. Time to regroup, strip our garrisons to the bone and move them here, to reorg our squads and deploy reinforcements from the 15th."
Well, at least Major Cinches hadn't been paralysed by failure.
"You're not deploying the GEVs to watch the base?" he asked after thought.
"I have only the two, and they have a missile tank. I don't want to risk them to counter-ambushes. Instead, I have infantry keeping an eye on the enemy base. They're the next best thing."
"Very well." Colonel Fernandez said, and then it occurred to him that the Major may have turned overly aggressive instead of passive as he'd originally feared. That willingness to sacrifice his command... Not that aggression was anything to discourage in a field commander, but...
He chided himself. He should have expected it from the first, Major Cinches was after all, the commander of a Marine battalion.
"Major," he said at last, "you are not to sacrifice your command to take that garrison. The enemy has supply depots hidden throughout this area and if Layton can't resupply here, he'll do it somewhere else. Contain them here but preserve 1st Battalion. Reinforcements are enroute from the mainland and First will need a core cadre to rebuild itself. Live to fight another day, Major."
"Yes, my Colonel." the other replied.
They continued their walk together towards the camp in silence.
"Colonel. I'd like to request that when the battalion is re-equipped it receives a larger proportion of attack GEVs. This desolate terrain is more conductive towards fast-strike vehicles than it is to infantry operations." Unsaid between them was that the 1st Marine as it stood was ill equipped for this new Theater of Operations and its open steppes. Their envisioned range of operations had been amphibious landings in South America, either the mountains of Chile or the jungles of Brazil -- hence the infantry heavy nature of their formation. They'd been tapped for this mission simply because they were the only large amphibious unit Argentina had.
"I've already forwarded such a recommendation to General Alvarez at the Rosadal. In your copious spare time you are to draw up a field retraining schedule. You'll be getting whole squadron units detached from our Rapid Reaction Reserves, as good as any front-line unit if not quite as good as our Marines." Argentina didn't have a large number of GEVs in her Order-of-Battle, concentrating instead on heavy conventional armor more suited to jungles. But she did have a number of elite GEV equipped units deployed to cover the flat southern Pampas and act as a central reserve. "To be implemented within a week. I hope."
"Yes, my Colonel." Major Cinches said, and they kept walking.
Damn, Fernandez thought to himself. He knew part of the reason he'd come here had been to take command and personally orchestrate the final destruction of Col. Layton and the 10th Light Horse. Now he'd got here only to find there wasn't much of 1st Battalion left. Damn,we knew the Alliance was up to something when they deployed the 10th Light Horse to Antarctica, we even anticipated a beefing up of their security in the area. Our intel on supplies shipped spoke of increased training schedules, not just stockpilling. But who'd have expected garrison units could put up this kind of a fight? Garrisons were drawn from reservist or conscripts or from the orphans of combat expended unit -- burnouts.
He knew there was no real answer to that question, combat units had many qualities that might make them better or worse than other units, but ultimately, the other guy didn't wanted to die any more than you did. In part, the reason the garrison here had fought so hard was because they hadn't had any other choice.
Major Cinches for his part had his failings, but he'd fought well and was chomping at the bit to do more. Which left just one more question, would the men follow him?
The men and women of 1st Battalion were busy laying out their camp, building igloos and using explosives for makeshift vehicle shelters. Some were dressed in cold climate coats while others were still in their battlesuits, doing the heavy work. Equipment and packs lay about in small piles with the casual regard of troops busy with other duties. Discipline seemed good, Colonel Fernandez couldn't see them of course, but he felt sure guards were out in the distance protecting their comrades. He picked one group at random and walked up to them.
The senior NCO, a Sergeant Mennos, snapped to and called the others to attention when he saw their approach.
"What's your name?" Fernandez asked a private in the group. It was the oldest trick in the book. And the dumbest since their names were right there on their uniforms. But it worked, it always worked.
"Private Zapata, Sir. 4th Squad, 2nd Company, Sir." the private said with eyes wide at being the center of his Colonel's attention.
"Relax son. Where're you from Zapata ... ?"
"Ignacio, Sir. From Santa Fe."
Fernandez talked his way through the group. He asked them about their homes, their girls and their hobbies. He told them some Pan Pac jokes he'd had his staff think up beforehand and he listened intently as they described the fighting in their own words. He nodded sagely when they made a point and gave them short, blunt answers to their questions. He played the part of their father figure, stern but fair, and he radiated strength and confidence as he went amongst them shaking their hands. He watched with satisfaction as he saw them straighten up with renewed pride and vigor reaffirming their brotherhood of arms. They were simple soldiers, and he was proud of the relaxed ease in the bond between them. At last, one of them pulled out a pocket camera and they posed for a picture together, then it was time to go.
"Sir?" It was Private Zapata.
"What is it soldier?"
"Colonel," Zapata said looking him straight in the face, "you're testing us. You're testing us because we're in bad shape and you want to see if we've any fight left in us. Am I right?"
Colonel Fernandez could not, would not, flinch from that question. Simple soldiers.
"Yes. You are." he said quietly, looking the younger man straight in the face.
The men around him grew silent for a long moment. Then.
"Thank you sir." Zapata said, and gave the Colonel one of the sharpest salutes of his life.
"One more question Major." he asked as they were walking away. "Why didn't you spot this Lieutenant Parrilla for what he was, before he committed such acts?" He saw the barb hit home, and for the first time Fernandez caught a flash of anger cross the other man's face. Good, he won't back down. Even from me.
"Colonel," the other man said cooly, "I am responsible for the men under my command, but no man can truely know how another will react in combat. Most of the time we don't know how we ourselves will deal with it."
End of Part Four
