Bolos: Honor of the Regiment Part 7

"That message could be faked, to throw us off," Wilson said. "I think your whole aid package is some kind of plant . . ."

"Sir!" That was Major Durant, turning in a controller's chair to look at the Coordinator over the top of her old-fas.h.i.+oned gla.s.ses. "Sir, I've been checking the satellite data. The Bolo was attacked. . . ."

"Somebody responding to the attack on Hot Springs Pa.s.s," Wilson shot back. He didn't look quite so sure of himself now.

The woman shook her head slowly, frowning. "I don't think so, Coordinator." She gestured to the master monitor on the wall, summoning up satellite photographs on the keypad beside her. "Look, sir . . . time index 1332 . . . a missile launch from the bottom of Hot Springs Pa.s.s. A second one three minutes later. Artillery from this position launched both attacks . . . on our own lines!"

Wilson rounded on Kyle. "Get me confirmation, d.a.m.n it. Now!"

"Sir . . ." Fife gave up the physical struggle, now, but not the whole battle. "Sir, what about the Bolo?"

But the Coordinator didn't answer.

"The infidels are in complete rout," Hyman Smith-Wentworth said with a grim smile. "Proceed with Alternate Plan Three as outlined . . . pour everything we've got through that pa.s.s."

"Father Hand . . ." Lieutenant Bickerton-Phelps looked uncertain, then plunged ahead. "The plan calls for a rolling barrage across the entire infidel position. We can't guarantee the safety of the traitor. Should we modify the attack to try to protect him?"

Smith-Wentworth made a dismissive gesture. "He has served his purpose. I doubt we could find further use for him now anyway." He fixed his aide with a cold stare. "In fact, he should be eliminated no matter what. Even if he survives and presents himself to us later. An infidel who betrays his own . . . doubly cursed of G.o.d. See to it."

"Yes, Father Hand." The aide saluted and left the command van, leaving Smith-Wentworth to contemplate the battle unfolding beyond the rugged peaks that looked down on the Lord's Host as it moved forward to final victory.

It was hard to believe that mere minutes had pa.s.sed since the first rocket strike. Colonel Vincent Chaffee felt as if he had aged a lifetime since giving those orders, though the clock on the console beside him claimed it was less than ten standard minutes in all.

He heard someone hammering on the door to the van, calling his name, but he ignored it. That was the last part of his orders, to keep the rest of his command staff out of the mobile headquarters, away from access to the rest of the regiment, for as long as possible. He had sealed the door with an electronic lock and refused to answer any of the increasingly desperate messages that came through his board.

Somehow, he knew, acknowledging any of those urgent signals would only make real the horror he had been responsible for this day.

"Warning . . . warning . . . incoming artillery fire." The battle computer blared an attention signal as it recited the message. Chaffee reached out a careless hand to silence the alarm and the harsh mechanical voice.

Ordinarily the attackers would have been more cautious than to throw the full weight of their artillery into a barrage. Counterbattery fire could quickly silence those guns and missile launchers. But the ANM knew that the Second Montana wouldn't be able to coordinate a response. A few individual batteries might get off shots, if they hadn't responded to the retreat orders by now. But without centralized control the Sierrans would be hard-pressed to mount a coherent defense. If Chaffee had been taken out by an attack, command might have s.h.i.+fted smoothly to his Exec, but in this situation the chaos was simply too pervasive to allow the chain of command to function. No doubt Major Reed would have control in a few more minutes. . . .

But by then it would be too late.

I am forced to conclude that the Commander's failure to respond can only mean a successful enemy strike against Headquarters. Obviously enemy forces have penetrated our defenses, to launch an a.s.sault intended to disrupt the Sierran army. There is no way to calculate how far friendly forces have been compromised by these simple infiltration tactics, but there is one inevitable conclusion I must accept.

I am on my own.

Without direction from higher authority, my duty is plain. I have monitored confused communications from other Sierran units which suggest a breakthrough in the pa.s.s 23.6 kilometers east-north-east of my present position. The failure of the defense there, properly exploited and coupled with the breakdown of higher direction for the Sierran defenses, has a 78.9 percent probability of leading to a total collapse of the front. I cannot stand by, idle, while the battle disintegrates around me. This was the error of Marshal Grouchy at Waterloo, to fail to march to the sound of the guns. I will not make the same mistake. My programming and my loyalty to the First Robotic Armored Regiment alike forbid me to stand idly by in this moment of danger. . . .

Although partly buried under 610.71 metric tons of rock and rubble from the collapsed cliff side, I break free with a minimal energy expenditure. Backing away from my original position, I contemplate the crest of Alto Blanco pa.s.s, then release four rapid shots from my h.e.l.lbore at carefully selected points along the cliff. This produces a satisfying additional acc.u.mulation of debris across the narrowest portion of the pa.s.s. It will take a minimum of 5.2 hours for engineering forces to clear a usable path for vehicular traffic over this route, and this should be more than adequate for my purposes. Briefly I consider using N-head missiles to more thoroughly block the choke point, but reject this. My new programming indicates that the use of nuclear weapons of any sort on New Sierra calls for the consultation and approval of three independent civilian leaders to approve release of these systems, and though I am now forced to act on my own initiative tactically I am constrained from making policy decisions in opposition to my new army's standard operating procedures.

Instead I use a final h.e.l.lbore shot to add to the blockage, revise my delay estimates accordingly, and turn away from the position to make my way back down the pa.s.s toward the point where I previously disembarked from the CSS Triumphant just hours before.

I am confident that I can still turn the tide of battle, if only I can get to grips with the enemy in time. And if I can find an effective way to distinguish between friendly forces and those which have been taken over or duped by that enemy . . .

"That thing's coming down from Alto Blanco, Coordinator," someone reported. David Fife looked up at the main monitor, saw the tiny blip that represented the Bolo slowly moving across the map. He was no longer being physically restrained, but the two guards hovered close by, intent on keeping him from causing trouble.

"I thought you said it would obey orders, Fife," Wilson said harshly, the edge of suspicion plain in his voice. "It was supposed to defend the pa.s.s. . . ."

"Jason's been trying to file a situation report," Fife said, voice grim. "When he got no response from Command, he would a.s.sume that he had been cut off from higher authority, maybe by enemy action. He's not just a machine, Coordinator, to sit still and accept the situation. Once he's sure he's on his own, he'll use his own initiative. You saw those h.e.l.lbore bursts a couple of minutes ago. First he blocked the pa.s.s to keep it secure. Now he's going into action."

"You're saying it's run amuck," Wilson said. He laughed, a dry, humorless chuckle. "So much for all your a.s.surances. We can't stop it. . . ."

"If you'd let me get back on the command channel, I'll give him whatever orders you want him to carry out," Fife flared. "For G.o.d's sake, man, stop thinking about him like he's some kind of runaway truck! He's doing exactly what a good officer would do if he was cut off from his high command and knew there was a breakthrough in another sector. He's using his own best judgment! But he's not out of control . . . not yet."

"Not yet," Wilson repeated, almost under his breath. He shook his head abruptly. "No . . . d.a.m.n it, Fife, for all I know that last signal of yours is what made it run wild in the first place." The Coordinator swung around, his finger stabbing in the general direction of Major Durant. "You . . . you're supposed to take charge of those monstrosities. You were shown how to talk to them. Do it. Make the d.a.m.n thing heel . . ."

"It won't work . . ." Fife began, but no one was listening to him now. Durant still didn't have a voiceprint on file in the fighting machine's computer, and Jason wouldn't accept orders without proper identification. In fact, on top of everything else this was just the sort of thing to make it harder to stop the Bolo. Once Jason heard an unauthorized voice on the command channel, he'd become suspicious of any attempt to stop him. He might even shut out Fife on the suspicion that he was captured and being forced to issue false commands. . . .

He slumped against the wall. All he could do now was trust in the Bolo's programming . . . and hope the Sierrans couldn't do anything to make the situation worse.

There wasn't much cause for optimism.

"Command to Unit JSN. Stand down. Stand down and await instructions."

My programming does not recognize the voice, and I quite naturally reject the order for the enemy falsehood that it is. I am still not sure if the enemy presence behind our lines represents an infiltration force or an act of treachery, but this attempt to subvert me confirms my deepest suspicions. Headquarters has been taken by hostile forces, and there is no telling just how far the rot has spread. I must a.s.sume that no other loyal forces are available to a.s.sist me. The resolution of this battle is up to me and me alone.

I am free of the narrow, twisting confines of the pa.s.s now, and there is an open highway leading straight to my objective. Climbing over the berm that lines the paved surface, I increase speed quickly. My sensors continue to tap in to every available source of information, including real-time satellite reconnaissance feeds and the chaotic communications channels, but I know I cannot fully trust any outside information source. It seems that I must rely, when all is said and done, more on my perceptions and internal projections than on conventional sources of data.

For .05 seconds I contemplate the similarities of my situation and that of Lee before Gettysburg. Perhaps this is what it is like to be a human commander, forced to make decisions without being able to process, or even to collect, all the relevant facts.

It is not a situation that stimulates my pleasure center. I realize, as I continue to drive toward my objective at maximum speed, that I finally have a referent for a word I have long pondered the meaning of.

The word is doubt.

"Nothing. It won't respond."

David Fife didn't react to Dupont's cheerless words, but Coordinator Wilson did. Pacing angrily back and forth across the narrow confines of the command center, the civilian's features were black, drawn. Suddenly the man stopped in mid-stride and gave the two guards bracketing Fife a curt gesture, dismissing them.

"All right . . . I don't have any choice now. Stop it, Fife. But if you're not playing straight with us, I swear I'll kill you myself. . . ."

Fife ignored him, springing across the chamber to bend over Durant and key in the microphone. "Command to Unit JSN. File immediate VSR and stand down to alert mode two!" He transmitted the message in a compressed, high-speed burst and waited, fingers digging into the back of the chair. There was no way to tell what the Bolo would do now.

The pause was unusually long, nearly three seconds, before a reply came back. Fife was surprised when it didn't come as a voice transmission, only as a printout on his monitor. "Unit JSN on independent operations mode. Request positive identification; transmit code 540982."

"You're in!" Durant said. "What's the code group?" Her fingers were poised over the keypad, ready to enter the appropriate numeric code.

Fife shook his head. "I know the code group he's asking for. It's a null . . . he's just trying to play with an enemy by asking for a series of meaningless entry codes. It keeps the bad guys talking while he keeps on closing in." He looked back at Wilson. "I tried to warn you, Coordinator. He has no way of knowing if he can trust me anymore. So he'll carry out whatever mission he's a.s.signed himself before he stands down."

"What about auto-destruct?" General Kyle asked quietly. "I know there's a destruct system incorporated in all your self-directing Bolos."

Fife fixed him with a cold stare. "I won't destroy Jason until I'm sure he's a threat to friendly forces, General. Right now I'm not convinced of that. He didn't even return fire on the battery that took a pot-shot at him earlier. Until he does something that endangers our forces directly, he's still the best hope you people have of getting the situation out there under control."

"He's right," Durant said unexpectedly. "He's right. Listen to him, General. Coordinator."

"Sir!" a technician interrupted the tense moment. "Message from Second Montana Regiment. Major Reed, acting CO. He says Colonel Chaffee turned traitor and fed bad coordinates to the regimental artillery. Ordered a retreat right on the heels of it. He's trying to sort things out, but he doesn't think he can hold. Colonel Chaffee's been killed in an artillery barrage, and the regiment is falling apart . . . What the h.e.l.l?"

"What is it, Corporal?" Wilson demanded.

The technician hit a switch on his panel, and the speakers in the command center came to life with a crackle of static and an even, level voice Fife recognized instantly.

"Soldiers of New Sierra, this is Unit JSN of the First Robotic Armor Regiment, CANS. The enemy has breached our perimeter and compromised our command structure. Rally in defense of Hot Springs Pa.s.s and the road to Denver Prime. We are not yet defeated, only surprised and pushed back. We can still win the victory. New Sierra expects that every man will do his duty today . . ."

Lieutenant Bill O'Brien was hunkered down behind the wreck of a mobile artillery carrier, watching as Sergeant Jenson tied a crude tourniquet above the b.l.o.o.d.y stump of Private Marlow's left wrist. Days ago, even hours ago the sight would have made him violently sick, but in the past few hours...o...b..ien had seen so much horror that one more such sight hardly effected him.

The soldiers of Alpha Company had fled down the pa.s.s, taking heavy casualties all the way, and now they were reduced to a handful of desperate men, their retreat cut off by the ANM troops who had erupted from the pa.s.s to pour down the main road toward Denver Prime. The only reason any of the defenders still survived was the simple fact that there weren't enough survivors to offer any real threat or draw the enemy's attention. As further enemy forces continued to cross the mountains, though, that situation would surely change.

His headphones crackled: an incoming signal on the command channel. O'Brien was torn between feelings of relief and fury. Since the orders to retreat, there had been no coherent communications from higher authority. Now there was nothing he and his pitiful handful of survivors could do, no matter what orders came in.

"Soldiers of New Sierra, this is Unit JSN . . ."

O'Brien listened to the signal, hardly believing what he was hearing, stirred in spite of himself. New Sierra expects that every man will do his duty. . . .

And in that same moment, explosions blossomed among the enemy APCs around the base of the pa.s.s, a dozen blasts in quick succession, each pinpointed on one of the armored vehicles. In an instant the wave of hostile reinforcements was transformed into the same kind of smoldering wreckage O'Brien had seen among the New Sierran defenders when the friendly fire had ripped through their unprepared ranks.

A low rumble shook the ground, different from the distant crump of explosions, different from the sounds the personnel carriers had made before the attack. It started almost imperceptibly, growing rapidly closer like the approach of a summer thunderstorm echoing among New Sierra's jagged mountains. O'Brien peered cautiously from cover. . . .

He gasped, but he wasn't the only one. He heard Sergeant Jenson's sharp, indrawn breath at the same moment, and knew without looking that the NCO had joined him to survey the scene on the open plain below the mouth of Hot Springs Pa.s.s. And Jenson, experienced or not, was just as awed by what they were seeing now as...o...b..ien himself.

It was like a moving mountain of metal, nearly the size of a small stadium. O'Brien had heard about the Terran supertank often enough, but he had never pictured anything like this. Sheathed in dull, non-reflective armor, it mounted dozens of separate gun emplacements, from the huge h.e.l.lbore a.s.sembly of the main turret to the multiple lasers and machineguns intended for anti-personnel and point defense work. In between were a bewildering array of other weapons systems, kinetic energy guns, missiles, beamers, and things the purposes of which O'Brien could only guess. The Bolo Mark XX sped up the valley on six close-set treads, raising a huge cloud of dust and rolling right over rubble, trees, and the wrecked hulks of shattered vehicles as if they were little more than b.u.mps in a paved highway.

The Bolo repeated the broadcast on the communications system, and someone near O'Brien raised a ragged cheer and started out from cover as if to join the ma.s.sive engine of destruction then and there.

"Hold!" O'Brien barked, flinging out a restraining arm to block the eager soldier's rush.

The lieutenant became aware of the stares focused on him, especially the cold, steady eyes of Sergeant Jenson. He tapped the side of his helmet and tried to keep his voice level as he spoke. "Check your helmet transponders, boys," he said. "If they're not broadcasting, the tank won't be able to tell you from the bad guys. Right?" He waited while they checked their communications links, then waved his hand. "All right! For JSN and New Sierra! Let's go!"

"Bolo's repeating its message again, Coordinator. It's going out on every channel. Should I jam it?"

"Jam it!" Fife exclaimed as the corporal cut off the speakers in the command center. "For G.o.d's sake . . . Wilson, you wanted to see patriotism? Fighting spirit? Soul, was it? Well, there it is! Jason's convinced his commanders have let him down, but by G.o.d he's not giving up!"

Wilson was gaping at him, unresponsive.

"Coordinator," General Kyle said formally. "I recommend we stop trying to interfere with the Bolo and start trying to figure out how to support him."

"I . . ." Wilson's mouth worked soundless for a moment. Then he nodded. "Yes. Yes . . . start pa.s.sing orders to all units to form up and get into action as soon as possible. Let the Bolo fight its battle." He looked at Fife. "G.o.d help me, I never thought . . ."

"It took me a while to accept what they could do, too, sir," Fife said softly. He was looking at Elaine Durant, though. "Sometimes I forget what it's like, being on the outside . . . accepting something like Jason. Dealing with what a Bolo can do isn't a measure of intelligence or education or even sophistication. It's all a matter of what you've seen, in person . . ." He trailed off, feeling inadequate.

It was all too easy for the conquering Terrans to grow complacent in their superiority. They built technological wonders like the Bolo, and scoffed at the parochial att.i.tudes of men like Wilson who still believed in the basic virtues of courage, duty and honor. But the Bolo itself prized those same attributes just as much as these men and women of the far frontier.

That was a lesson the whole Concordiat would have to learn some day if they intended to take a permanent place on the Galactic stage. . . .

I begin to meet active resistance as I move over open ground toward the entrance to Hot Springs Pa.s.s. Several battalions of the enemy have already broken through, and there are more crossing the mountains even as I engage my first opponents.

So far, I have seen nothing in the enemy a.r.s.enal capable of offering any serious opposition to me, at least not on a one-to-one basis. But the numbers arrayed against me are formidable, and even low-yield HE warheads will eventually wear down my ablative armor protection. I project that I can sustain action for a period in excess of eight hours without relief--a detailed breakdown is beyond even my calculating abilities, given the number of variables in the overall equation. That should provide my comrades of the Citizen's Army ample time to rally to the defense of Denver Prime, while slowing the enemy advance. The key is to take up a position in the pa.s.s itself, astride the sole line of supply and communications available to the enemy. A cla.s.sic manoeuvre sur les derrieres, in the style of Napoleon . . .

I fire a series of secondary guns to break up a concentration of twenty-two enemy tanks approaching from the northwest, and push through heavy wreckage to enter the mouth of the pa.s.s. All now depends upon my ability to maintain myself against whatever the enemy may choose to send against me. I am determined to continue this fight until the army is able to mount a successful counterthrust. The sight of a small cl.u.s.ter of infantry whose personal transponders identify them as friends moving out to join me as I pa.s.s fills my pleasure center with joy, though I must not allow them to gain entrance to my hull in case they prove to be more enemy infiltrators. But somehow I know these are honest soldiers, not agents of the foe, and I am heartened to know that I am not fighting this battle alone.

My new regiment will have one battle credit to its name by the time this engagement is over. Nothing to rival the long history of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards, perhaps, but a badge of honor for the fighting units to follow me . . .

"Jesus Christ . . . Jesus Christ Almighty . . ." Hyman Smith-Wentworth wasn't even conscious of his blasphemy as he muttered the holy name over and over. The Bolo had appeared almost from out of nowhere and brushed past the heavy armor of the Elijah Regiment with hardly a pause. Now it was climbing the pa.s.s, guns blazing in every direction, ma.s.sive treads rolling over anything in its path.

He had been right the first time, after all. This was more like some unstoppable, supernatural force than the product of human technology.

"Father Hand . . ." Bickerton-Phelps was at his elbow, looking as worried as his shaky voice sounded. "Father Hand, don't you have orders for us . . . ?"

"Orders . . ." he said, almost under his breath. Then, more firmly, "Orders. Concentrate everything we've got on that . . . that Satan-sp.a.w.ned thing. Whatever it takes, blast it out of the way. Before we lose our momentum."

As long as the Bolo stood in the pa.s.s, the units that had already penetrated the mountain line would be unsupported. Some of them would be running out of ammunition already. They had been fighting since the first clashes, early in the morning. Without an open route across the pa.s.s, the ANM would be helpless to resupply or reinforce them. And the drive on Denver Prime wouldn't be possible until those units could be supported properly.

That single tank threatened the entire invasion plan. It had to be knocked out. . . .

"Good G.o.d in Heaven," someone was muttering. "How much more punishment can that d.a.m.ned thing take?"

Sitting at the useless communications station, Fife knew exactly how the technician felt. For hours, now, the Bolo Mark XX had stood fast at the top of Hot Springs Pa.s.s, taking everything the enemy could throw at it. The real-time satellite footage on the wall screen didn't show much now, only a rugged saddle between two mountains partly obscured by dust and smoke kicked up by the almost constant artillery and rocket bombardment being directed at the tank.

JSN had run out of missiles and sh.e.l.ls for counterbattery fire long since, putting well over half of the ANM's artillery out of action before his magazines had finally run dry. His anti-personnel charges had also been exhausted, during a wild infantry attack on his position two hours earlier. The enemy infantry was keeping its distance now, cowed by the memory of the men who had been cut down and by the pair of heavy machine guns the Bolo could still bring to bear.

His ablative armor was all but gone now, and gleaming metel showed through in more places than the captain cared to think about. It was the worst beating Fife had ever seen a Bolo take in ten standard years in the field. One tread was ruined, the legacy of a lucky hit by a pair of MMRL warheads. And a diagnostic run over the communications link showed that most of the on-board electronics were nearing the overload point. The Bolo's pain center was red-lining, and that was something Fife had never expected to see.

Jason was dying.

But his secondaries still had a small stock of ammo, and his h.e.l.lbore was fully functional even yet. There was still some fight left in the battered machine, and Jason showed no intention of ending the fight now, no matter how badly he had suffered.

Fife glanced around the room. Wilson and Kyle, side by side near the front of the room right under the monitor, hadn't moved or spoken in a long time. The General had finally managed to coordinate the scattered defenders to make a start at a counterattack, but it would take time to materialize. All New Sierra's senior military leaders could do now was watch. Watch and admire the last stand of Unit JSN of the Line.