When you are occupying a position which the enemy threatens to surround, collect your force immediately, and menace him with offensive movement.
NAPOLEON I
Maxims XXIII
Standard year circa 1810
PLANET ALGERON
Heacox saw Sergeant McKee come to attention and deliver a crisp salute. He returned it and dismissed her as Lieutenant Dero appeared at his side. They were forced to move aside as two columns of heavily laden legionnaires tromped down the ramp. Dero thumbed her visor up and out of the way. “Orders, sir?”
“You know what to do,” Heacox said irritably. “That’s why you’re the XO. We’re here to establish an FOB. Make it happen.”
The truth was that Heacox had only the vaguest notion of the steps involved in creating an FOB and was finding it difficult to concentrate. Because of the blow to the head? Yes, the doctors agreed that such a thing was possible.
But there was another reason for his lack of focus. And that was the ongoing command review of what had come to be known as the Battle of Bloodriver. A debacle in which his entire command had been decimated. Would the investigation lead to formal charges? Dereliction of duty perhaps? Or, God forbid, cowardice?
Yes, almost certainly, if the Naa named Quickstep had his way. The fur ball had been shot in the chest yet he had survived somehow and been telling lies about Heacox ever since. But, Heacox told himself, I still have a chance. If the Naa attack the mesa, and if I distinguish myself, that would go a long way toward restoring my reputation. Then it will be my word against that of a savage. And there can be little doubt as to how that will turn out.
That made Heacox feel better, and he resolved to pay attention as Dero went about the process of establishing the FOB. Security Force Zulu consisted of two platoons of infantry, one platoon of cavalry, and a weapons platoon. The latter being equipped with mortars, rocket launchers, and heavy machine guns.
Force Zulu even had a detachment of artillery that consisted of four energy cannons and a three-person crew for each. In addition, the company had a couple of dozen construction droids, two four-wheeled combat cars, and the promise of air cover should the need arise. Given those resources, the legionnaires should be able to defend the mesa, and therefore the tunnel, indefinitely.
It was, Heacox told himself, a real command, unlike the combined force he had been given to block the raiders at Bloodriver. The ugly truth was that both the Naa and Simms had failed him. A disgraceful reality that he had been forced to elaborate on in his after-action report.
But that was behind him. Buoyed by the thought, Heacox began to make his rounds. All sorts of activities were under way—and it was important to be seen.
• • •
After the unexpected run-in with Heacox, McKee was determined to maintain a low profile, in hopes that the officer would be too busy to mess with her. And that was easy to do because there was a great deal to accomplish.
As a watchtower went up, and habs were assembled, she had her reconstituted squad to look after. And that meant carrying out full maintenance checks on the T-1s. So she pushed the other bio bods to carry out all the field repairs they could. Kyle was a huge help in that regard. But she was still the best tech on the squad, so a lot of the more complex tasks fell to her.
And that’s where she was, working to replace the extender in the lower part of Sykes’s left leg, when Lieutenant Mark Bo dropped by. He had vaguely Asian features, a sunny disposition, and was in command of the company’s cavalry. The addition of McKee’s squad put him over full strength and that pleased him. “So, Sergeant,” Bo said. “I hear you’ve been sucking up all my spare parts.”
“Not all, sir . . . But quite a few,” McKee admitted. “Sorry about that.”
“Well, it can’t be helped I guess. But don’t replace anything with less than 70-percent wear on it. We’ll need parts for the other borgs once the fighting starts.”
McKee had been replacing everything that had more than 60-percent wear but wasn’t about to admit that. She wiped her hands on a rag as she stood. “So, we’re expecting trouble?”
“The odds are pretty good,” Bo replied. “That’s what the Intel people say. It seems that groups of Naa are massing all around us—although they could be planning to head north.”
“Across a pass? I thought they were snowed in.”
“They are . . . But thousands crossed before. Maybe they can do it again. If so, that would be a big problem for our people. They have their hands full already.
“By the way,” Bo added, as he turned to go. “The XO would like to see you.” Then he was gone.
Sykes had been mute throughout the conversation. Now he flexed his leg. “It feels good.”
“Glad you like it,” McKee replied. “Because I have a feeling we’re going to be very busy.”
The FOB was coming together quickly, but there was still plenty to do as McKee crossed the compound. She had to pause to let some robots pass, saw a couple of T-1s mince by, and felt sorry for the ground pounders who were digging a ditch. None of which was unusual.
But what was unusual was the presence of a civilian. She was clad in what looked like a safari outfit and was talking to the company’s sole medical officer. And as McKee passed the woman, their eyes met. That was when McKee saw what might have been a flash of recognition. Except that was impossible since they didn’t know each other. Then the moment was over as McKee continued on her way. She was left with the impression of a tall woman with short hair, a narrow face, and brooding eyes.
The encounter was still fresh in McKee’s mind as she entered the one-room HQ hab. Some techs were seated in front of a field-ready com console, and Dero was talking to the company’s sergeant major. He was a big man with a handlebar mustache, a florid complexion, and a parade-ground voice. He was complaining about a lack of water and McKee felt a sudden sense of guilt. She should have thought of that, should have gone looking, and should have reported the problem to Hasbro.
So she stood off to one side, feeling stupid and wishing that she was smarter, until the conversation came to an end. There were some snowbanks, and those would have to do until additional water could be found or brought in.
Once the sergeant major left, Dero motioned her over. “Pull up a crate and take a load off.”
McKee sat on a crate labeled COM PARTS-3 and the next few minutes were spent catching up. There was no mention of Heacox, nor could there be, with other people present. Then, when it became apparent that Dero wasn’t going to give her some sort of task to do, McKee mentioned the civilian. “Oh, that’s Carly Vickers.” Dero replied. “She was sent out to replace Travers. You know . . . The guy who was fragged.”
McKee felt a stab of fear. Travers had been checking on her. Had Vickers been sent to do the same thing? Was the long arm of Ophelia’s security apparatus reaching out to get her? She struggled to maintain her composure. “Really? That makes sense I guess. But why would she want to come out here?”
“To see what it’s like, I guess,” Dero responded. “Captain Heacox gave the okay.”
McKee got the feeling that Dero might have said more had the two of them been alone. The rest of the conversation consisted of operational stuff. It was all very casual, but McKee knew that Dero used such conversations to obtain feedback, gauge morale, and pinpoint problems. It was one of the things that made Dero such a good officer.
It was starting to get dark as McKee left the HQ hab and made her way back to the third platoon. She could imagine all sorts of reasons why Vickers could be there, legitimate reasons, having nothing to do with her. But she couldn’t shake the memory of Vickers’s eyes and the look of recognition there. They hadn’t met—so what did that suggest? A photo, that’s what. Vickers had seen one or more photos of her. Of course, plenty of people had . . . Especially in the wake of the medal ceremony and assassination on Earth.
Still, the uneasiness regarding Vickers continued to haunt McKee even as she fell into an uneasy sleep an hour later. She couldn’t escape the feeling that something was after her. Something more dangerous than the Naa.
After seven hours of fitful sleep, McKee rose, took a sponge bath, and ate an MRE. Then it was time to attend the officer/NCO briefing scheduled for 0800. It took place just north of the compound, where a scattering of boulders served as seats. The air was cold, and McKee could see her breath as she took up a position not far from Bo.
Heacox was present, but Dero did most of the talking, something that came as no surprise to the audience. Everyone knew Heacox was in trouble—and the XO was pulling the load.
During the next half hour, all sorts of things were discussed, but the main message was simple. Thousands of Naa were gathering around the legionnaires. They weren’t close enough to see. Not yet. But, as Dero pointed out, the smoke from their fires was visible out on the horizon—where hundreds of gray tendrils had woven themselves into a hazy blanket. It formed a circle that started in the east and extended south and west. In fact, the only place where it wasn’t visible was to the north, where the Towers of Algeron blocked the way.
“So,” Dero said, “it’s pretty clear that they’re coming. And satellite photos confirm it. The only question is when. Tell your people to work even harder. Captain Heacox wants all of our defenses on line by 1500 hours. No excuses.”
Lieutenant Bo took McKee aside as the meeting came to an end. “You’re the most experienced noncom in the platoon,” he said. “That’s why I’m going to use your squad as a quick-reaction force. When the poop hits the fan, I’ll send you and your people to whatever point is under the most pressure.”
It was like a free ticket to a meat grinder. But all McKee could do was say, “Yes, sir. We’ll be ready.”
Bo looked away and back again. “If I fall, you will take command. The other squad leaders know.”
It was like a bolt out of the blue, and McKee didn’t know what to say. “No way, sir . . . That isn’t . . .”
Bo held up a hand to silence her. “I know . . . I’m going to live forever. We all are. But remember this . . . If it happens, lead the platoon the way you lead your squad: from the front, hands on, and with a sense of humor.” Then he was gone.
Having pushed so hard earlier, McKee’s squad was fully operational by 1100 hours. So with nothing to do, McKee made her way over to the watchtower and climbed the ladder. The platform was fifty feet above the ground and large enough for four people. Two lookouts were on duty and one of them smiled as McKee appeared. The name on his chest protector was Purdy. “Hey, Sarge . . . Chilly, huh?”
“That’s an understatement,” McKee said, as she eyed the pewter gray sky. “So what’s going on? Have you seen anything interesting?”
“There are at least a dozen scouts out there,” Purdy replied. “And some of ’em are pretty close. Here, take my binoculars. See that rock about a hundred yards east of the mesa? The one with the patch of snow next to it? Take a look.”
McKee did as instructed and didn’t see anything unusual at first. Then the snow moved slightly, and she saw a wisp of lung-warmed air. A warrior was hidden next to the boulder using a white travel rug for cover. “Cheeky bastard,” she commented. “Why don’t you shoot him?”
“We’d like to,” Purdy replied. “But the lieutenant says to wait. We’ll bag the bastard when the fur balls make their move.”
The lieutenant was right, McKee decided. If the lookouts killed the Naa, another would be sent to replace him. At least they knew where this one was hiding.
McKee took a moment to scan the horizon. There was no sign of the smoke she’d seen earlier. Was that because of the way the weather was closing in? Or had the fires been extinguished?
We’ll know soon enough, she thought to herself as she turned the glasses on the compound below. It was rectangular in shape and not that much different from the marching camps the Roman Legions favored.
The soil from the three-foot-deep ditch that surrounded the compound had been used to build a chest-high embankment. There was no palisade, or rows of stakes, because there weren’t any trees to work with. The thirty-foot wide-open space behind the embankment was backed by more fighting positions. And they, plus the bunkers at the center of the compound, represented the ultimate fallback position. Paths had been left so that the heavy machine guns that guarded each corner of the rectangle could be dragged back for what would be a desperate last stand. A situation so bad it didn’t bear thinking about.
So McKee was about to return the binos to Purdy when something caught her eye. Sykes? Yes, even though all of the Legion’s T-1s might look alike to the untrained eye, McKee could pick her cyborgs out of any crowd. And Sykes was speaking to another equally recognizable figure. Sykes and Vickers. What did they have in common? The answer fell like a bolt of lightning: Andromeda McKee.
Suddenly, McKee was reminded of the personal questions Sykes had been asking her. All sorts of stuff about where she had grown up, her friends, and her family. Was he simply nosey? Or was there something else behind the questions? She felt a profound emptiness at the pit of her stomach.
But before she could give the matter any additional thought, the second lookout spoke. “Hit the button, Purdy . . . Here they come.”
Purdy flipped a cover out of the way and thumbed a switch. A Klaxon began to bleat as McKee raised the glasses and swept the horizon. The Naa were so far away that they looked like a smudge. But she knew it would take a lot of bodies to form the undulating wave. All coming her way. She handed the binoculars to Purdy. “Thanks, Corporal. It looks like you’re going to have a front-row seat.”
“Yeah,” the other noncom said glumly. “Lucky me.”
McKee grinned. “And one other thing . . .”
“Yes?”
“You can shoot that scout now.”
• • •
Heacox removed the headset and gave it to a waiting com tech. Dero was staring at him. Waiting to hear what the officers in Fort Camerone’s Combat Control Center had said. His voice was wooden even to his ears. “They will try to give us some air support. That’s all we can expect. The battle up north is even worse than before. It seems that Colonel Bodry was killed, Chief Lifetaker turned against us, and they can’t commit any additional troops without making the fort vulnerable to attack. They even had the nerve to ask me for a platoon of infantry!”
Dero looked away and back again. “Shit.”
Heacox frowned. “There’s no need for profanity.”
Dero laughed and walked out. She didn’t care what Heacox thought, and he knew why. All of them were going to die.
Heacox stood. It took all of his effort, and his legs felt shaky. Drones had been sent out. And now, as the images came streaming back, they appeared on a row of monitors. Heacox could see riders. Hundreds of them. Some with spears from which pennants flew. Others waved rifles in the air, or stood on their galloping dooths, or switched mounts in dazzling displays of athleticism.
Would one of the savages he was looking at kill him? And how painful would that death be? Heacox felt an urgent need to take a shit and was fumbling at his pants as he left the hab. Fortunately, the latrine was not only close by but completely deserted. He barely made it.
• • •
The battle started when a dooth stepped on a mine. The explosion sent chunks of the animal and its rider soaring into the air. By the time they fell, the horde had advanced twenty feet and couldn’t stop. Not with thousands of mounts pressing from behind.
And there were more explosions. Dozens of them as the mines planted over the past couple of days did their terrible work. But there were only a few hundred of the devices, and that was not enough to stop the waves of Naa charging in from three directions.
Due to the wide-open terrain off to the west, the western army had farther to travel. That meant the Naa pushing in from the east and the south came into range first. The reward for that endeavor was a full salvo from the energy cannons sited on the southeast side of the mesa. As with all such weapons, they couldn’t fire over hills the way conventional artillery could. But there was no need for that, as bolts of energy struck the front ranks and blew bloody pathways through a heaving mass of flesh and bone.
Hundreds of riders and animals were killed with each shot, but the horde closed in to replace its losses, and the gaps ceased to exist. Had there been twenty cannons, they would have been able to turn the tide. But there were four and, because they generated so much heat, the weapons could only fire two rounds per minute. That would have been fine against a smaller force, but it wasn’t nearly fast enough for the situation at hand.
So the tidal wave arrived, broke against the south end of the mesa, and was forced to split in two. Mortars had been firing for some time by then, but now the heavy machine guns began to chug, and riders fell in a welter of blood. But not all. And that was when McKee got the call. “Charlie-Two to Charlie-Eight. Head for the south end of the mesa and report to Lieutenant Sanchez. His ground pounders need some help. Over.”
The rest of the squad had been listening, so there was no need to relay the order. A simple, “Let’s move out,” was sufficient.
As McKee led her people south, the sounds of battle grew steadily louder. Though muted by her helmet, she could hear the thump, thump, thump of mortar rounds going off, the incessant chatter of automatic weapons, and the bang of grenades. All interspersed with voice traffic on the company push. “. . . They’re massing to the right. Drop some HE on them.”
“. . . Your other left, Bravo-Seven-Three. And aim. We’re gonna need every bullet we have.”
“. . . Pull Hollister out of there and put another man on that fifty.”
And so it went as the squad arrived at the south end of the mesa and McKee looked out over the platoon of legionnaires dug in there, to a heaving sea of warriors and their dooths. All trying to reach the top of the plateau and the humans who occupied it. Fortunately, most of them couldn’t access the bank due to the crowd in front of them, but their weapons could. And the air was full of spears, arrows, and bullets. They began to ping Sykes’s armor, and McKee sought to keep her head down as something buzzed past her left ear.
Lieutenant Sanchez had taken cover behind a rock formation. He waved McKee over. “The bastards brought ladders!” he shouted. “There’s a bunch of them at the foot of the embankment—and we need to push them back. Check channel 43 for the drone feed.”
McKee nodded. “Roger that, sir.” Then to the squad, “You heard the lieutenant. Let’s go out and fire down on them.”
The infantry’s fighting positions were set back from the edge by six feet. That gave them some additional protection but meant they couldn’t see firsthand what was taking place at the foot of the embankment. Not without peering over the side, which would be fatal. So they had been rolling grenades over the edge and monitoring the feed on channel 43. It showed piles of dead bodies, but McKee could see a team with a ladder as well. They were getting ready to push it up, so they could storm the top.
Sanchez ordered his troops to stop firing as the T-1s and their riders went out to the very edge of the embankment. They looked down, the Naa looked up, and McKee could see the terror on some of their faces as the cyborgs opened fire. The .50-caliber slugs harvested lives like wheat as McKee and the other bio bods tossed grenades into a mass of tightly packed bodies.
She saw one rider leave his animal and jump dooth to dooth in an attempt to flee the carnage, only to be cut down by Larkin, who was firing his AXE. But the battle was anything but one-sided. The T-1s were big targets and easy to hit, especially at close range. They were generally immune to spears, arrows, and small-arms fire, which was why they had been chosen for the job.
Not so the bio bods, however. And as Sykes turned to fire on a group of warriors, McKee found herself exposed to fire. Was that an accident? Or was Sykes trying to get her killed? “Sykes . . . Turn to the right,” McKee said, as a bullet nipped at her neck. “Your butt is bulletproof, but mine isn’t.”
“Sorry, Sarge,” Sykes said, as he made the turn. He said he was sorry, but was he? Not that it made much difference at the moment because all McKee could do was fire her AXE and give thanks as the Naa were forced to withdraw. “Pull back, Charlie-Eight,” Sanchez ordered. “We can see all of them now, and you’re in the line of fire.”
McKee gave the order, and the moment they were clear, the infantry platoon opened fire. Would the same thing happen all over again? Yes, if the Naa came in such numbers that the legionnaires couldn’t hold them back.
“Charlie-Eight, this is Charlie-Two,” Bo said. “They’re taking a run at the slide. I have a squad here but we could use some help.”
“Copy that,” McKee replied. “On the way. Over.”
The slide area that McKee and her squad had been forced to climb while running from the Naa was a weak point in the Legion’s defenses. They knew it, and the enemy knew it. So the Naa who had been forced up from the south end of the mesa were trying to charge straight up it. And judging from the carpet of dead bodies that covered the approaches, they had cleared the protective minefield by dying in it. Now the survivors were free to take run after run at what amounted to a ramp.
Bo and his T-1 were halfway down the slope along with three members of a squad. McKee led her people past the group of robots who were digging more fighting positions and down the slope to the point where Bo was waiting. He pointed toward the west. “See how they’re circling out there? That’s what they do while they get up the courage to come at us. Then, once they’re ready, about a hundred of the bastards ride straight in. And they have some of our weapons. They nailed Charlie-Seven-Four with a rocket. And once she fell, they killed Charlie-Seven, too.”
Seven had been one of Bo’s squad leaders. And as McKee looked out at the wheeling riders, she could see that two of them were towing a T-1 behind them. The carcass bounced over a rock and landed hard. A dead cyborg would make quite a display in their home village. There was nothing the legionnaires could do about that, but McKee spotted what might be an opportunity. “Look over there, sir . . . See the group of Naa who are staying in one place? The ones with the pennants? They could be chiefs.”
Bo looked. “By God, I think you’re right.”
“We might be able to take them out,” McKee suggested.
“Maybe,” Bo allowed cautiously. “If you had a diversion. Something to draw most of them away.”
McKee knew he was right. Any attempt to charge two or three hundred Naa warriors would not only fail but get everyone killed. Then something occurred to her. “How about using one of the construction droids? We could send it out and let them chase it down.”
“Good idea,” Bo said enthusiastically. “I hate to sacrifice a robot, but if those warriors are chiefs, the trade-off could be worth it. I’ll order one of the droids to join us. Then we’ll go for it.”
Bo was planning to come along. McKee gave him points for that but was reluctant to surrender her tiny command. “Yes, sir.”
Bo summoned a robot and gave it some orders plus an armed grenade for each “hand.” The idea was that when the robot “died,” its hand would open, the safety lever or “spoon” would release, and with any luck at all the machine would take a couple of warriors with it.
Having acknowledged its orders, the robot took the rest of the slope in a series of jumps. Then, as it arrived on flat ground, the android began to run in the same way a human would, only faster. The enemy noticed it right away.
Naa warriors were incredibly brave, but they were also undisciplined and determined to build their personal reputations before all else. So with no one who could tell them to do otherwise, all of them gave chase in hopes that they would be the one to bring the machine down.
That was the chance Bo had been waiting for, and he uttered a whoop of excitement as he led McKee and her squad out onto the flat, rock-strewn desert. The group of Naa they were after remained where they were for a moment, as if unable to believe what they were seeing, then bolted for the south and the safety of the horde.
They were too late. The T-1s were running at fifty miles per hour by that time and on an angle that would cut the Naa off. As they began to close on the group, McKee saw that one of the Naa was carrying a totem stick, and she knew he was a mystic. As such, his death might affect morale even more than the loss of some chiefs would.
Rather than try to flee, the Naa turned to face their pursuers and were immediately cut down. It was a slaughter, and it made McKee feel sick to her stomach, as the entire party went down, mystic included. “Got ’em!” Bo shouted triumphantly. “Mission accomplished. Time to run like hell.”
As the squad turned back toward the mesa, McKee heard two overlapping explosions and knew the robot’s grenades had gone off. She looked to the right, saw that at least some members of the horde had seen the attack on their leaders and were starting to respond. Now it was their turn to attack.
McKee was still in the process of absorbing that fact when Lieutenant Dero’s voice flooded her helmet. “Charlie-Two, this is Zulu-Two. Stop the combat car! Destroy it if you have to. Over.”
McKee turned to look at the mesa, and sure enough, one of the four-wheeled combat cars was bumping its way downslope. Then, as it hit the bottom, the vehicle took off. “You heard the XO,” Bo said over the squad push. “Stop that thing. Over.”
That was easier said than done. Two of the T-1s scored hits on it, but the car had been built to take that kind of punishment, and kept on coming. The squad could follow it. But if they did, the Naa would cut off their line of retreat.
Dero could monitor the whole thing via a variety of camera shots from both the bio bods and the cyborgs and wasn’t about to let that happen. “Okay, break it off. Return to base. Over.”
“Roger that,” Bo replied. “So who was at the wheel? Over.”
“Captain Heacox,” Dero said darkly. “Major Hasbro has assumed command. Over.”
The news didn’t come as a shock to McKee—not given what she’d heard about the Battle of Bloodriver. But where did Heacox plan to go? There was no way for him to reach Fort Camerone on his own, and he would be court-martialed if he did. That seemed to suggest that he was in a blind panic. And the officer’s decision to run was a frank assessment of what Heacox thought was going to happen to those on the mesa.
The squad managed to outrun the Naa, but not by much, and as the horde swept in, a battery of mortars opened up on them. The explosions were sufficient to slow the pursuers and force them to turn around. Then, without top leaders to provide them with guidance, they lost what little bit of cohesiveness they had. And that made it the perfect moment for subchiefs to assert themselves, issue conflicting commands, and rekindle old grudges.
So the original group withdrew to a point just out of range, where they broke into smaller groups, dismounted, and began to heat water over hundreds of tiny fires. But with a new army of unbloodied warriors starting to arrive from the west, it wouldn’t be long before the leaderless rabble were subsumed by the larger group.
Meanwhile, during the brief period of time while Bo, McKee, and her squad were out on the desert floor, something horrible had taken place. The south end of the plateau had been overrun. And as they arrived on top of the mesa, Dero was there to meet them. She was mounted on a T-1. “We lost the south end of the plateau and most of the people stationed there,” Dero said grimly. “I called for air support and got the usual ‘We’ll send someone as soon as we can’ bullshit.
“Go down and provide the ground pounders with some additional support. They’re keeping the Naa at bay while Major Hasbro and the engineers dig a new trench. If it works, we may be able to keep the bastards out of the compound.”
The division of responsibility made sense to McKee. Having been forced to take command, Hasbro was leaving Dero in charge of combat operations while he did what he did best. A lesser officer might have insisted on supplanting Dero, to everybody’s detriment.
“Where’s Sanchez?” Bo wanted to know.
“Dead,” Dero said bleakly. “And Royce, too. Sergeant Major Jenkins is in command south of here. You’re staying with me. I’ll let Jenkins know that Sergeant McKee and her people are on the way.”
Heacox was gone, half the officers were dead, and they were surrounded. McKee felt scared and was grateful for the visor that hid her face. Larkin’s was open, and judging by his expression, he was enjoying himself. Why couldn’t she be that way?
The answer continued to elude her as they jumped over the zigzag trench the robots were digging for Hasbro. From there it was only a short distance to the point where Jenkins was running the fight. A bloodstained bandage was wrapped around his head, and he was at the center of a skirmish line that ran east and west. The legionnaires were lying or kneeling behind whatever cover they could find—and McKee was shocked to see the wide fifteen- to twenty-foot intervals that separated them.
Rather than have the T-1s draw unnecessary fire, McKee ordered them to kneel and jumped to the ground. There was a series of pops as one of the Naa fired, followed by two short bursts from an AXE. That was when McKee realized how important dooths were to the Naa. Without the mobility and shock value the big beasts brought to the battlefield, the warriors were much more vulnerable—which helped explain why they hadn’t been able to sweep the top of the mesa. Sergeant Major Jenkins nodded as McKee knelt next to him. “Welcome to the party, McKee. I’ve got a job for you.”
Something about Jenkins and his professionalism acted to infuse McKee with some much-needed confidence. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with shooting some Naa, would it?”
Jenkins allowed himself a rare smile. “As a matter of fact, it would. The bastards popped our last drone about fifteen minutes ago. But just before we lost it, I caught a glimpse of something interesting. It looks like the furries brought a catapult up onto the mesa piece by piece, and now they’re putting it together. What we don’t need is rocks and fireballs falling out of the sky.”
McKee frowned. “What about our artillery? And mortars?”
The sergeant major’s expression darkened. “We were forced to destroy two cannons in order to prevent them from being captured. One melted down and the third was moved inside the compound. As for the mortars, we’re running low on bombs for them. I’d like to save what we have for the next major attack.”
McKee was shocked to hear how much had been lost but managed to reply with the brevity that the Legion’s noncoms were known for. “Roger that. We’ll take care of it.”
The light had faded by then, and complete darkness was only minutes away. That suited McKee just fine. The Naa had good night vision, but the legionnaires would be able to see even better thanks to the technology they had, and that could make an important difference.
There was only one way to tackle the mission, and that was head-on. But rather than go in as a group, or in a column, McKee ordered the T-1s to spread out. Then, on her command, they surged forward.
The response was immediate. The Naa opened fire. But with four targets to shoot at, they were forced to divide their fire accordingly. That, plus speed and a series of zigzag movements, gave the legionnaires a chance. And within a matter of seconds they were behind the enemy’s front line and shooting at the heat blobs beyond. In some ways it was better than fighting during the day because the targets were easier to “see.”
The warriors in the front line could turn, of course, thereby exposing their backs to Jenkins and his soldiers, but if they fired, there was a good chance of hitting their own people. So the volume of fire decreased as the squad raced south.
Then they were there, cutting down the warriors working on the half-assembled catapult while dropping white phosphorus grenades all around the wooden weapon. As the devices went off, they produced a great deal of heat and set the catapult ablaze.
McKee felt a sense of satisfaction as she ordered her people to turn and head back. And that was when Clay stepped on a mine. Odds were that it had been left by retreating legionnaires rather than planted by the Naa. Not that it made any difference. The explosion blew the cyborg’s left leg off and Hagen fell with him. It was the kind of opportunity the Naa had been hoping for, and they attacked.