Bolos: Honor of the Regiment Part 6

Smith-Wentworth had studied his opposite number in the Sierran camp long before the invasion had been authorized. Coordinator Wilson had surprised him by even allowing the Bolo onto the front lines, but the Third Commander of the Lord's Host still felt he had the measure of the man. The Sierrans had a powerful weapon in the Bolo, but lacked the will to use it properly. Of that Smith-Wentworth was sure.

Long seconds pa.s.sed, and slowly his turmoil subsided. There was nothing supernatural about the Bolo, and he could return to the business at hand without the burden of doubt and dread that had threatened to overwhelm him.

Nonetheless, the tank complicated the immediate situation tremendously. The Hand had planned this campaign down to the last detail, but in an instant everything had been changed by the decision to place the Bolo in the Alto Blanco Pa.s.s. He would have to change his own strategy accordingly . . . and quickly, before the Lord's Host lost the initiative. That was crucial to victory, to force the pace of events rather than allow the infidels to control the flow of battle.

There were only three reasons the Sierrans would have chosen to send the Bolo to Alto Blanco. If they knew the significance of the pa.s.s to Smith-Wentworth's battle plans, he would surely have seen other signs. He doubted they could have discovered his secret weapon, and even if they had, the deployment of the Bolo would surely not have been Wilson's first response to the threat. That left only two possibilities. Either they planned to use the tank to spearhead a counteroffensive to try to relieve the pressure on Hot Springs Pa.s.s, or the Bolo was intended to replace troops defending Alto Blanco so that they could s.h.i.+ft to relieve their hard-pressed comrades of the Mobile Infantry.

The preparations he had seen among the human troops at Alto Blanco suggested that it was the latter option Wilson was following, and that certainly fit everything Smith-Wentworth knew about the man. But either alternative offered unexpected opportunities for the ANM, if only they could exploit the right opening at the right time . . .

"Orders!" he snapped. "First echelon to increase pressure on Sector One. Force the infidels to concentrate their attention on Hot Springs Pa.s.s. . . ." He paused, considering the satellite map again. "Second Echelon to remain in position until further notice. Maintain maximum alert posture. When I order them to move out, I want fast action. Make sure that Colonel Roberts-Moreau understands the importance of this." He stabbed a finger toward Bickerton-Phelps. "And get me our tame infidel on the secure net. It's time to set our new ally in motion on the Lord's behalf. . . ."

I feel a thrill of antic.i.p.ation as I roll up the road toward the Forward Edge of Battle Area. Sheer exhilaration flows from my pleasure center as I contemplate the prospect active combat. I am no longer of the Dinochrome Brigade, but I can make my new regiment's name s.h.i.+ne by successfully completing the mission my Commander has outlined for me.

But despite these positive sensations, I am still conscious of underlying concerns. My mission has been carefully explained, my crucial role in the battle outlined in the Mission Briefing my Commander has transmitted to me. Yet I still feel that I am not being used to fullest capacity. I have noted in years of a.s.sociation with humans that their military decisions are often far from optimum solutions to relatively simple problems of tactics, and my background in military history suggests this is by no means a new phenomena. If Marshal Ney failed to properly utilize combined arms tactics throughout the engagement at Waterloo, and Montrose failed to antic.i.p.ate the movement of Leslie's army prior to Philiphaugh, can I truly expect a human Commander to understand the proper employment of a Bolo Combat Unit given the current situation?

Thoughts of this sort trouble me despite the joy I derive from the prospect of a role in the battle. There was a time, once, when I would merely have noted discrepancies of this sort without allowing them to cast doubt on my Commander's abilities. Is this a result of my reprogramming, or simply a natural outgrowth of experience and observation?

I take 0.003 seconds to create a subroutine to abort such speculations for the duration of the battle ahead. I cannot afford to be caught up in introspection when I find myself in combat at last.

Hyman Smith-Wentworth smiled as he turned away from his communications console and contemplated the battle map once again. The traitor in the Sierran army had confirmed his suspicions. Now he had the information he needed. The Second Montana was being withdrawn from Alto Blanco, leaving only the Bolo on duty there while they moved in to support the beleaguered Mobile Infantry in the adjacent pa.s.s.

It was better than he had dared hope when he framed his original plan. Wilson's defenses were wide open to a decisive stroke. And it would be a stroke that would fall completely without warning, once the traitor started to carry out the orders Smith-Wentworth had framed so carefully. . . .

"All right, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, I want a smooth D and D this time. Not like that sorry job you did in practice. You got me?"

Lieutenant Bill O'Brien hid a smile as he listened to the platoon NCO growling his orders to the men in the cramped APC as it lurched up the road toward the crest of Hot Springs Pa.s.s. Sergeant Jenson was a long-service noncom in the CANS, unlike most of the ordinary soldiers in the Reserve platoon called to active duty for the duration of the crisis. Unlike O'Brien himself, when it came to that. Ordinarily New Sierra's army was a skeleton force, a mere framework, and probably ninety percent of the men facing combat today had never before heard shots fired outside a practice range. The handful of experienced men like Jenson could draw on long training, and some of them, at least, had seen real combat ten years back during the sharp engagement with those renegade Legura who had destroyed a farming town in Appalachia before the army had mobilized against them. . . .

But for most of them, this was the first time. Some of the men were afraid, others were high on visions of valor and glory. And as for O'Brien himself, he was neither excited nor afraid, only painfully aware of the fact that his militia commission had put him in the position of being leader of Third Platoon, Alpha Company, Second Montana Mechanized Regiment, and as platoon leader he was responsible for the lives of the thirty-three men in his command. The knowledge weighed heavy in his mind.

"This is it, Lieutenant," the corporal driving the aged personnel carrier reported over the vehicle's intercom system. "Major says Third Platoon's got the trench line to the left."

The tracked vehicle lurched one last time and came to a halt with gears clas.h.i.+ng, and the rear hatch ground slowly open. "Right!" Jenson shouted over the noise of the hatch mechanism. "Dismount and Disperse! By the numbers! Go! Go! Go!"

Soldiers piled out of the rear of the APC, weapons clutched tight against their chests, faces set and grim. When all four squads had dismounted, O'Brien followed them out, with Jenson close behind him.

The scene made him stop and gape. Hot Springs Pa.s.s had been a favorite among tourists and nature lovers from all over New Sierra, a serpentine col running through the highest chain of mountains on the planet. Here, at the very crest of the pa.s.s, the road skirted along the edge of Mount Hope, with the high shoulder of the mountain looming to the south and a sheer drop down into the valleys around Denver Prime to the north. It was one of the most breathtaking views on a planet of spectacular scenery, but today O'Brien hardly noticed the natural beauty. His attention was riveted to man-made vistas, none of which could be described as beautiful.

The s.p.a.ce between mountainside and cliff, perhaps two hundred meters across at its narrowest, had been cut by a series of trenches, protected in front by dirt-and-sandbag parapets and a few strings of barbed wire. Individual rifle pits were positioned further up the pa.s.s. There had been a number of fighting vehicles dug in behind the trench lines, but even O'Brien's unpracticed eye could see that none of them was usable now. The defensive position had been hit hard by the earlier enemy attacks, and sh.e.l.l craters and still-burning hulks that had once been tanks further scarred the battered landscape.

A few ragged figures looked up as the soldiers of the Second Montana dismounted from their carriers, but for the most part the defenders in the trenches showed little interest in the newcomers. One tattered scarecrow of a man, though, crossed from the shelter of a wrecked hoverjeep to meet O'Brien as Jenson took charge of getting the platoon into the trench. It took long seconds for O'Brien to notice the captain's bars on the other man's grimy, mud- and blood-caked fatigues, and his salute was belated.

The other officer didn't even bother to return the gesture. "Thank G.o.d you got here when you did," he said. "The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are getting ready for another push, and I don't see how we could've held them again . . ." He trailed off, almost falling over from fatigue. With an effort he went on. "Mount Hope's screened off most of their arty, so they can't do much to you until they get their direct fire stuff right up into the pa.s.s. Tell your men to use their anti-tank rockets on anything that comes through there." His finger pointed vaguely to the bend in the pa.s.s where Mount Hope and Dark Mountain framed the southern end of the col and the beginning of the descent into occupied Montana.

"Y-yes, sir," O'Brien said hesitantly, taken aback by the officer and by the all too evident scars of battle all around him. It was one thing to talk about war, quite another to see the reality of a battlefield. "I . . . I relieve you, Captain."

The Mobile Infantry man nodded, gave a sketchy salute, and staggered off toward a cl.u.s.ter of his men loading aboard one of the APCs. They would be pulled back out of the front line, at least for the moment.

Jenson had the men well in hand, and O'Brien knew better than to interfere with the NCO. That left him time, though, to dwell on the uneasiness stirred up by his first view of Hot Springs Pa.s.s. Pacing restlessly near the APC, he tried to fight down the fear that was threatening to overwhelm him. He had a responsibility to the men under his command, and couldn't afford to give in to panic.

A hoverjeep's fans whined behind him, and O'Brien looked up in time to see the vehicle settling down a few meters away, kicking up a cloud of dust. The tall, slender officer in the back of the open-topped vehicle stood up slowly, looking crisp and fresh in his combat fatigues. He tucked a swagger stick under one arm and surveyed the pa.s.s with a calm, calculating gaze. His eyes came to rest on O'Brien, and he beckoned the lieutenant closer.

Saluting, O'Brien obeyed the summons. He had never met Colonel Vincent Chaffee in person, but he knew the man by repute. A rich merchant from Montana, Chaffee had been elected to command of the regiment a few years back, before O'Brien had joined the unit. Handsome, popular, caring, Chaffee was something of a legend among his men. The colonel had even contributed some of his own money to the regimental warchest to allow them to buy better uniforms and equipment than other CANS units could generally afford.

"You're O'Brien, right?" Chaffee asked, returning his salute. His voice was as sharp and penetrating as his cold blue eyes.

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant replied, surprised that the colonel knew him.

"Third Platoon, Alpha," the officer continued softly. "Top scores in the marksmans.h.i.+p compet.i.tion last year. You've got a good outfit, O'Brien. Look after them."

"Yes, sir," he repeated.

Chaffee was silent for a long moment. Finally, he nodded dismissal, sat down, and gestured to his driver, The hoverjeep stirred once again, rising on a cus.h.i.+on of air, pivoting nimbly, and shot away back down the pa.s.s toward the regiment's field headquarters at the mouth of the col.

O'Brien stared after the vehicle, his thoughts a turmoil of pride and determination. The colonel had singled him out, and Third Platoon, for special notice, and William Arthur O'Brien was eager now to show his superior what he could do.

As he walked slowly to the trench where his men had taken up their positions, there was no lingering trace of fear or doubt in his mind.

"Alpha Company reports a column of enemy troops and vehicles is starting to move up the pa.s.s, Colonel. They estimate it to be about brigade strength."

Colonel Vincent Chaffee nodded vaguely at the captain's report and kept his eyes fixed on the situation map. He had returned from his short tour of the front lines to take his place in his command van near the base of Hot Springs Pa.s.s. The mobile headquarters vehicle had been stopped down here in order to keep the road clear for combat troops and vehicles heading for the defensive positions near the crest. Batteries of mobile multiple rocket launchers had cl.u.s.tered around the van and were busy checking and counter-checking their powerful armaments in preparation for pouring fire support into the battle. The redeployment had gone like clockwork, though according to the last reports out of Wilson's headquarters it had nearly come too late to make any real difference. The Mobile Infantry had been ground down by prolonged, intensive pressure all morning, and Chaffee's Second Montana regiment could easily have arrived too late to prevent the breakthrough Wilson was desperate to stop.

He heard the staff officer leave the van when it was clear there would be no reply to the report. Chaffee slumped in his chair, leaning his hands on his forehead. If we had been an hour longer, none of this would have mattered, he thought, discouraged and weary. But he had brought the troops into position in time to make a difference after all.

And his masters . . . his real masters, on the far side of the mountains, demanded action. Vincent Chaffee had no choice but to obey.

His ties to Deseret went back long before the current war. His father's company had started doing business with the neighboring world in the days before the current wave of expansionism had taken hold in the Archspeaker's government. Back then there had been nothing of treachery in his contacts, but over the years Chaffee Import-Export had done some questionable business with official representatives of the Archspeaker and his council. It was only after long a.s.sociation that Vincent Chaffee had realized that the business ties were being used to cover long-term espionage activities, and the weight of evidence that had been building up over the years was more than enough to implicate the family in a spy scandal that would rock all of New Sierra.

So Deseret had acquired a club to hold over the Chaffees, to force their active cooperation. In the growing mood of interplanetary tension leading up to the outbreak of the war, the leaking of the Chaffee role in Deseret's espionage schemes would have been enough to destroy the family, and not just figuratively. There had been several public lynchings of suspected traitors in Montana and Appalachia. Chaffee's mother was long dead, but his father still lived in Denver Prime, and his sister, who knew nothing about the scandal, was a teacher in Shenandoah.

Short of gathering up the whole family and fleeing the planet, there was little they could have done if Deseret had carried out the threat to reveal them as spies. So Chaffee had played along with it, trying to continue his normal activities even as war loomed closer. That included maintaining his position with the Citizen's Army. He had wanted to refuse the Colonelcy of the Second Montana when he was elected to the post, but his contact at the Deseret Emba.s.sy had ordered him to accept the post and carry out his duties.

Now he understood why. He was the linch-pin in the invasion plan. Originally, the pressure on Hot Springs Pa.s.s had been intended as a diversion, with the real blow scheduled to go through Alto Blanco after Chaffee withdrew his regiment on a signal from the invaders. Now the plan had changed, but the intent was the same. Chaffee was supposed to let the ANM through the mountains.

And, G.o.d help him, that was what he would do. At least if Deseret won the fight they would give the Chaffees asylum . . . perhaps even more. There had been hints of a role in a collaborationist government. Chaffee had wanted to reject the orders out of hand, but the safety of his family . . . yes, and the possibility of gain, he had to admit reluctantly . . . they were powerful temptations he couldn't ignore.

"Command, this is Alpha Six," a voice crackled over one of the comm channels. "We need fire support up here! Target coordinates one-one-five by oh-nine-seven, square black two. Repeating . . ."

Chaffee checked the coordinates on his map display, going through the motions mechanically. The CO of Alpha Company was asking for a barrage across the path of the oncoming ANM troops.

Now the time for equivocation was over. And Chaffee knew what he had to do.

He would give the orders, just as Smith-Wentworth had dictated them.

The decision made, Chaffee couldn't act quickly enough. He reached for his communications board, suddenly determined to act before pangs of conscience overtook him once more. That young lieutenant he had talked to up in the pa.s.s, so nervous, so eager to please . . . all the other men he had tried to take care of in his years as the regimental CO . . . ordering their deaths this way was the most difficult thing he'd ever been called upon to do. Yet he really had no choice in the matter. Probably all of them would die anyway, in the face of Deseret's overwhelming military force. Maybe Chaffee's treachery today would actually save some lives that would otherwise be lost in a hopeless stand against the odds. . . .

"Battery one, Command," he rasped. "Fire mission. Coordinates one-one-seven by oh-nine-eight, square black one. Execute!"

"One-one-seven, oh-nine-eight, black one," a voice answered promptly. "On the way!"

He shuddered as he heard the MMRL open fire, the thirty missiles streaking from their tubes in rapid succession. The coordinates he had given were a few hundred meters closer than the ones Alpha Company had fed him. The barrage would fall on the defenders, not in front of them.

Chaffee could hardly bear the thought of it. Those boys up there looked to him . . .

The renegade thrust the thought from his mind. "Battery four, Command," he said, tension making his voice harsh. "Fire mission. Coordinates two-four-one by one-eight-three, square red six. Execute!"

"Red six?" a confused voice came back on the line. "That's the base camp at Alto Blanco, sir!"

"New orders, Captain," Chaffee said tightly. "We're going to bring down the whole cliff side and block the pa.s.s so they can bring the Terran tank this way. Now carry out the mission, d.a.m.n it, or I'll have your a.s.s in a sling!"

"Uh . . . two-four-one, one-eight-three, red six," the voice quavered. "On . . . on the way!"

Chaffee leaned back in his chair, trying to close his ears to the confused babble erupting from the speakers. The die was cast. For good or ill . . . and Chaffee knew it was for ill. But it was too late for second thoughts now.

"Incoming! Incoming! Oh, G.o.d . . . look out!"

Explosions were blossoming all along the line. Major Alfred Kennedy watched in horror as a battered Sierran APC carrying a handful of Mobile Infantry survivors back toward the safety of the rear erupted in a pillar of smoke and flame. Seemingly in slow motion, bits of armor and debris arced outward, a rain of shattered wreckage that pelted the nearest troops. He saw a seat, probably the gunner's chair from the ruined turret, falling lazily a few meters away.

And still the missiles fell.

"Command! Command! Abort fire mission!" Kennedy screamed the message into his microphone, but he couldn't tell if he was still transmitting. "Abort the fire mission! For G.o.d's sake, you're hitting us!"

He was still shouting when the final missile hit barely ten meters from his trench. A fragment sliced his body almost in half, and Major Alfred Kennedy died without ever knowing the fire mission had been no mistake . . .

"They've got the Major!" Lieutenant O'Brien could barely keep control of his voice. "G.o.d d.a.m.n it, they got Major Kennedy!"

"Easy, sir," Sergeant Jenson said. "Easy . . . If he's down, and Captain Briggs . . . that makes you the man, Lieutenant."

O'Brien clutched his battle rifle tight against his chest and tried to fight back the panic that rose somewhere deep in his gut. He had never expected the CANS to ever see real combat, not until the day the invaders had actually landed. And he had never pictured his first combat experience as anything like this horror. Old military trideos had depicted the chaos of battle, had suggested the dangers of "friendly fire," but he had never really believed any of it.

All that had changed in seconds.

"What . . . what should I do, Jenson?"

Before the sergeant could reply, O'Brien's command channel came alive. "Command to all units! Command to all units!" It was Colonel Chaffee's voice, a welcome beacon in the middle of O'Brien's terror. "Retreat! Retreat! Retreat! All units abandon positions and retreat! Get the h.e.l.l out of there. . . ."

Disaster . . . utter, complete disaster. Something must have happened behind the lines to cause all this, something that was forcing Chaffee to completely abandon the pa.s.s.

"Alphas! This is...o...b..ien!" the lieutenant said, activating his own mike. "Orders from Command! Withdraw! On the double, withdraw!"

"G.o.dd.a.m.n!" someone said over the line. "What's going on back there?"

"Maybe that big tank went nuts or something," someone else said. "Never trusted the thing . . ."

"Quiet on the line!" Jenson cut in. "Retreat! Carry out your orders!"

Lieutenant O'Brien scrambled from the trench and ran for the nearest cover to the rear, still clutching the rifle. So far, in his first battle, he hadn't fired a shot.

"What the h.e.l.l is going on out there?"

Like the other officers in the command center, David Fife couldn't answer Coordinator Wilson. Everything had been going so smoothly. Then, in an instant, everything was transformed, but so far no one knew just what was happening out there.

"Coordinator," General Kyle said formally, looking up from a communications panel. "We can't raise anyone at Second Montana's regimental command. They're off the air. But I'm getting reports from Hot Springs Pa.s.s . . . a Captain Holmes who claims he's taken command of the Mobile Infantry. There are reports the Bolo has fired on Hot Springs Pa.s.s. . . ."

"Nonsense!" Fife snapped. "There's no way . . ."

"Silence!" Wilson said harshly. "Kyle, can you get those people to dig in somehow? If they run, we're wide open. . . ."

"Without Chaffee to get his people in order, it's going to take more time than we have, Coordinator," Kyle told him. "Trying to get control over individual tactical units from here. . . ."

Fife shut out the by-play, thinking furiously. Jason couldn't have been responsible . . .

He crossed to another console. "Command to Unit JSN," he said quickly. This particular comm circuit was configured to duplicate the functions of the portable communications link in his quarters. It was specifically designed for contact with the Bolo, converting his spoken words into high-speed coded signals only the robotic brain on board the tank could process. "File an immediate VSR! Override priority!"

My Commander's orders come as missiles fall on my position, and for a period of .0018 seconds my survival center refuses to acknowledge the priority override while I attempt to deal with the unexpected attack. Using my Firefinder counterbattery radar system to project the ballistic paths of the incoming warheads back to their launch point, I realize I have been fired upon by batteries identified by IFF signals as friendly units. Is it some trick of the enemy? Or merely an accident? Such an error should be impossible, but my files tell me that so-called friendly fire has been a factor in countless battles from earliest history right up to the present.

My responses seem unduly sluggish today. I finally resolve the internal conflict in favor of accepting the Commander's instructions, knowing that he may be able to explain the situation.

"Unit JSN of the Line filing VSR," I transmit. "Under attack by apparent friendly fire. Requesting instructions."

As I finish my transmission I am aware of a ma.s.s of rock subsiding from the cliffs above my position, piling up on my deck and turret without inflicting significant damage. The four missiles that have impacted close to my position have done only minimal harm to my ablative outer armor, and a quick systems check reveals that I remain at an operating capacity of 99.65 percent. But the sudden change in the tactical situation concerns me.

"Unit JSN of the Line filing VSR," I repeat 0.015 seconds later. "Under attack by apparent friendly fire. Requesting instructions."

More missiles fall, and more rock and rubble collapse upon me. And still my Commander doesn't respond. . . .

Captain David Fife struggled in the grip of two burly Sierran guards as the Bolo's transmission was repeated for the third time. "d.a.m.n it, I've got to answer that!" he said harshly.

But the soldiers held him fast, obedient to the curt orders Wilson had given them when the Coordinator first spotted him at the communications panel.

"n.o.body touches that console," Wilson ordered. He turned to look Fife in the eye. "Just what the h.e.l.l are you playing at, Terry? If that monstrosity of yours has attacked our lines . . ."

"But Jason didn't do it!" Fife said. "h.e.l.l, he's reporting friendly fire on his position, too! Listen, G.o.dd.a.m.n it!" He pointed toward the Bolo communications link as a fourth VSR message came from the speakers in the same flat monotone as all the ones before.

But Fife knew that the Bolo's mechanical voice was no clue to what was going on inside its computerized brain. Bolos were more than cold machines. And if this one reached the wrong conclusions in the wake of being cut off from higher command, it would certainly take action. Even Fife wasn't sure what form that action would take.