Before the shuttles arrived to add their firepower, the fight was over. The rebels from the second force withdrew into the woods under good discipline, fighting as they retreated, taking as many of their wounded as they could with them.
“It’s the kind of thing we would do if we had to,” Tebba Girana told Lon—an offer of grudging respect for the enemy.
The shuttles circled at ten thousand feet—high enough to ensure that they could escape any rockets fired from the ground, in case there was more fighting close, but their guns and rockets were not needed, and they climbed back toward Long Snake when their short tour was finished.
Few rebels managed to escape from the earlier ambush.
After clearing his action with Lieutenant Taiters, Lon climbed back to the ridge and looked down into the valley. Switching his faceplate to magnify the view, he scanned the length of that battleground. The rebel dead were everywhere. The loyalist militia was on its way down the southern slope, going in to retrieve rifles and ammunition. Several squads of Dirigenters also went into the valley, partly to verify a body count, but mostly to prevent any butchering of surviving rebels.
“I’ve never seen such a slaughter,” Lieutenant Taiters said, joining Lon on the ridge. “There must be eight hundred down there, dead or wounded.”
“Plus the ones we got on the other side,” Lon said. They had heard the preliminary casualty reports for their own people, six dead and thirty-seven wounded in the battalion. The militia company had lost four dead and twenty wounded. “I know we want every advantage we can get to minimize our own casualties, but … this?” Lon made a broad gesture that tried to encompass the entire valley. “Why didn’t they surrender?”
“It’s a civil war, Nolan. Maybe they didn’t see any alternative. Prisoners usually don’t fare very well in this kind of fight. I know the colonel would have preferred it end with less killing, but … ” He shrugged and turned away, then started walking back down the slope. There was simply nothing else intelligent to say, and he wanted to get away from the scene.
The rest of A Company was already near the bottom of the hill, checking the rebel casualties on the north side. Lon stood by the ridge a moment longer, then switched off his magnification, turned, and followed the lieutenant down, then Lon sought out “his” squad. None had been killed or wounded, but Dean Ericks had the visible reminder of a close call. His helmet had been damaged by a bullet, just over his right ear. When Lon reached the squad, Dean was sitting on the ground, holding the helmet in his hands, one finger tracing the crack in the side.
“Three centimeters to the side and no trauma tube in the galaxy could have helped me,” he whispered—speaking to himself. He seemed unaware of anyone else around him.
“Just think if it had been Phip,” Lon suggested. “That melon he carries on his shoulders is a better target.”
The reunion was cut short when Lieutenant Taiters called for Lon to return. “Nobody called time out,” he told Lon. “There’s still work left to do.”
“Yes, sir,” Lon replied. “What next?”
“We’ve got to arrange pickup for the wounded, and this time it’s going to be tricky. I don’t think the rebels are going to give us a clear field. The colonel doesn’t think they will. We’re going to stay put, man those ridges again, and send out platoon-size patrols to try to keep the rebels back.”
“They’re going to land a shuttle in that valley?”
“That’s the plan. I know. It’s going to be a mess. There’s no time to clear the bodies away first, let alone bury them. But it’s our best bet for avoiding additional casualties among our people. We can’t get squeamish about enemy dead.”
“I know that,” Lon said, trying to erase the picture of a shuttle’s skids coming in hot, racing across bodies. “Where will we be, on the ridge or out on patrol?”
“You and I will be out with fourth platoon. Third is staying with the Norbanker militia. And we’re in a hurry.”
Lon followed the lieutenant to where fourth platoon was taking a few minutes’ rest. He was relieved to be moving away from the carnage in the valley, relieved that he would not have to witness the indignities that would be visited upon the rebel dead, but he would have preferred to remain with third platoon. What friends he had in the company were concentrated there. But the men of fourth platoon were not strangers. His position as Taiters’ apprentice had assured that.
Platoon Sergeant Weil Jorgen was waiting for them. The lieutenant spelled out where they were heading on his map-board, with fourth platoon’s squad leaders on circuit, their mapboards slaved to the lieutenant’s. Lon squatted next to Taiters, watching over his shoulder. The briefing took less than a minute. “Any questions?” the lieutenant asked. Jorgen shook his head. There were no questions from the squad leaders either.
“Nolan?” Taiters asked over their private link.
“I’ve got it, sir,” Lon replied.
“Good. Stick with me.”
Weil Jorgen got the platoon formed up and moving northeast. The platoon sergeant took up his position with the second squad in line. The lieutenant and Lon moved with the third squad. Before they got clear of the battalion’s new perimeter, Lon could see one other platoon moving away, to the northwest.
That rebel force should be somewhere between us, Lon thought. If they haven’t turned one way or the other. He tried not to think of the numbers. This one rebel force might still have eight hundred men—or more—and there were other groups, somewhere. He gave little thought to the possibility that the rebels might suddenly decide that they had had enough bloodshed and surrender or flee back toward their homes. They’re going to be looking for revenge, he realized. And they might outnumber us by ten or fifteen to one. If the platoon ran into the enemy force and could not get away or get quick help … .
Lon forced himself to stop thinking about that, to concentrate on his immediate work. I sure can’t afford to daydream, not now. He took a moment to go through his ritual, checking his rifle and the readouts on his helmet’s head-up display, then looked around to make certain where all of the others were.
The platoon’s course carried it into increasingly hilly territory to the east and northeast. There were many open areas, rocks and wild grasses, and fewer stands of trees—most of those were a compact species that resembled scrub cedar. The platoon avoided the ridgelines, staying in the valleys or low on the slopes, wherever the cover and going were best. Lon was glad to see patches of clouds moving across from the northwest, hiding the stars as they passed, cutting down on the available light.
Once they were well away from the battalion, Lieutenant Taiters changed the deployment of the platoon. One squad stayed out in front on point. Two squads followed in parallel columns, starting fifty yards back. The final squad was rear guard, with a fifty-yard gap between them and the central body. Lon and the lieutenant were on the right, with the platoon’s fourth squad, which had rotated into that position. Sergeant Jorgen was on the left, with second squad. Third had the point; first rear guard. In fourth squad’s line of march, the squad leader was in the number three position. Lieutenant Taiters was two spots back, and Lon was right behind him. Except for those two, the interval between men was kept at about five yards.
The platoon’s assignment was simple. Barring enemy contact, they were to go out a mile along their initial vector, then turn and head east for a half mile before turning back toward the battalion’s position. They were to look for the enemy, plant bugs and mines, try to keep the enemy at least a mile from the valley where the shuttles would be landing. If they ran into the enemy, their first duty would be to report on the location and size of the enemy force. After that, they would try to disengage, or attempt to draw the enemy to one side or the other—away from the LZ. Survival was third on the list of priorities. Protecting the casualties and shuttles came first.
Lon kept his eyes moving, watching where he would place each foot, and scanning his side of the formation, watching the ridges and slopes, looking for any sign of the enemy, any hint of improper movement to branches or grass. Don’t look for the routine, look for the exceptions was the principle. There was a light breeze, its direction appearing to change as the terrain did, but mostly coming from the northwest, the same breeze that was blowing the clouds in.
The platoon moved silently. It was only rarely that Lon heard anything from the Dirigenters—a twig snapping, leaves crunching. And there were few other noises. The usual night routines of the native wildlife had been disrupted by the firefight and had not returned to normal. Occasionally a bird flew overhead—high, a predator searching for food, or tracking the possible threat represented by men prowling the night. Lon had yet to see any of the larger animals, predators or prey. Even close to the main human settlements the indigenous fauna had not yet been driven to extinction, or away. One of the militiamen had told Lon that the dominant predator in this area was a catlike creature that could weigh up to three hundred pounds. It was strong enough to take a human, or even a cow. Lon had heard one of those, wailing in the distance, the first night on Norbank, but had not known what it was until later, when he had had a chance to ask the militiaman about the sound—something like the cry of a coyote.
The platoon reached its mile limit There had been no sign of the enemy. Lieutenant Taiters let the men rest for five minutes while they planted electronic snoops and land mines. He rotated the squads again for the next leg of the patrol. But Taiters, Jorgen, and Nolan retained their same relative positions in the formation, moving with different squads.
“If we’re going to run into anything, it’s most likely along this outside stretch,” Taiters warned his noncoms. “That means extra vigilance on the point and along the right flank.”
How much extra can anyone give when we’re already straining our senses to the limit? Lon wondered. The strain to hear or see anything out to the limits of hearing and vision had already given him a dull headache and burning eyes. Staring into the green-tinted distance shown by his night-vision gear always brought some discomfort, but rarely as much as this time. The volume on his helmet’s external sound pickups was cranked around to maximum, magnifying the few noises there were.
“Lieutenant?”
“What?”
“We might have a little extra warning if we put one or two men way out on the right flank, even with the point or beyond it.”
Taiters hesitated. “They’d be hung out in the wind with little chance that we could help them if they ran into anything.”
“But it might save the rest of the platoon,” Lon said. “You volunteering?”
Lon did not think that his own hesitation was long enough for the lieutenant to notice. “Yes, sir, I’ll go.”
Arlan nodded. “I’ll ask Roy Bantor to go along with you. He could walk on eggs and not crack a one.” Bantor was a lance corporal, assistant leader of fourth platoon’s second squad. “Just remember, it’s going to be his show. You’re still just a cadet. You’re not in the line of command yet.”
“I remember.”
Lon listened while the lieutenant called Bantor and asked if he was willing to volunteer for the mission—and Taiters emphasized that it was not an order. Bantor did not hesitate. He came forward to where Taiters and Nolan were waiting.
The lieutenant spelled out the job precisely. Roy nodded, then turned to Lon. “Your idea?”
“My idea,” Lon confirmed. “Your patrol.”
“Right, a two-man patrol.” Lon could not see Roy’s face behind the tinted faceplate and was not certain what to make of the lance corporal’s tone. “Just remember, there’s no room for mistakes when we get out on our own.” Lon nodded. Roy gestured, and they moved away from the rest of the platoon.
Bantor moved quickly, but with assurance. His first goal was to put distance between the two of them and the rest of the platoon, moving a hundred yards to the north before turning. Even then he did not slacken the pace. The idea was for the two men to get even with the point, and that still was a hundred yards to the west when they made the turn.
“We’re going to have to loop around wide again when the platoon turns back to the south,” Roy whispered over a private channel once they started west. “If this is going to work, we can’t just parallel the rest. We’re going to have to range about, look for the enemy. It won’t do any good if we just walk into a trap and get bagged without a chance to warn the others.”
“Right,” Lon said. He did not want to waste his air or attention. Staying on Roy’s heels and avoiding any noise while they hurried through a wooded area took all of the concentration he could muster. Bantor seemed to move effortlessly through the forest, but Nolan had to work at doing it properly.
As they neared the point squad, a hundred yards to their left, Bantor finally slowed his pace. They were still not moving as deliberately as the platoon, but Lon no longer felt as if he were in a walking race.
We got this far without drawing fire, he thought, then: Think ambush. Look for the sort of spot you’d pick if you were laying the trap instead of walking into it. Think what you’d do if you were the enemy, and assume he’s at least as smart as you think you are.
Roy started to angle a little to the right, farther out. Once he was beyond the level of the point squad, he slowed his pace more, visibly taking care where he set his feet. Lon hardly dared to breathe. They were effectively alone between the enemy and any friendly forces. They were also getting near the track the company had followed on its way south, not quite as far out as where they had left the mines and snoops.
“Watch for booby traps,” Roy said. Lon did not bother to reply. There was no need.
Two minutes later, Bantor stopped—went motionless. Nolan did the same, a fraction of a second behind the lance corporal, and looked past him, trying to spot whatever it was that had caused Bantor to freeze in place. Lon scanned ahead and to the side, slowly, looking for the slightest hint—but he did not see or hear anything that did not belong.
After nearly a minute of standing absolutely motionless, Roy shook his head minimally and started moving again. A false alarm, Lon thought. But for several more minutes the two men were far more deliberate in their movements, slower, pausing after every step to look and listen. It was not until they finally turned the corner and started heading south again that Roy started to move a little faster. On its “inside” track, the platoon’s point squad had drawn even with them again.
If anything’s going to happen, it should be soon, Lon thought. In another five minutes they would probably be too close to the rest of the battalion for the rebels to dare anything. If they were going to strike, it would come out here, well beyond the range of the weapons of the rest of the Dirigenters. Lon stopped for an instant, letting Roy get a couple of steps farther ahead of him while he turned and looked back and to the right. If I was running the rebel force here and had spotted us, I’d move in behind us and aim for the others, he thought. Count on that for surprise. Let the two scouts go to get at the full platoon.
Thinking about that scenario increased his nervousness. Lon started walking again, leaving the extra gap between him and Roy. Bantor had seen that Nolan was farther back and said nothing about it. As long as each man knew exactly where the other was, the extra distance between them was a safety valve, making it slightly less likely that both would be taken out by a single burst of gunfire.
“Nolan.” Bantor’s whisper was almost inaudible even over the radio. “Stay here. Get down and take a good position. I’m going out a little farther to the side, then I’ll come straight back in.”
“You see something?”
“No, not really. I’ve just got an itch I need to scratch.”
Lon moved a couple of steps, then crouched behind a tree trunk. Roy waited until Lon was in position and had his weapon set before he started moving off to the west, one very cautious step at a time, his rifle at the ready and tracing arcs from side to side. Lon scanned the forest in front of his companion, his eyes also tracing arcs, farther and farther out.
Bantor had gone less than thirty yards before a single gunshot rang out and he fell.