Knox's Irregulars Page 15

  Randal keyed up Pyatt. "Hey, you got any illumination flares left in your mortar munitions?"

  "One or two, why?"

  "You heard Jeni has the gunship confused. Get me a distraction while I angle for a shot."

  "Rog. Give me a minute."

  Pyatt fought his way from a side street, downing an Abkhenazi fire team along the way. "Get ready, Knox." Smoke belched from his shoulder-mounted mortar and an instant later a bright-white flash burst in front of the gunship. The pilot must have jerked the stick in surprise, because suddenly the attitude of the craft went sharply nose-up.

  Randal wheeled around the side of the demolished korobachka and sighted on the gunship. The reticule on his HUD settled over the craft, the onboard taking a second to achieve lock. His suit shuddered as the autocannon let loose with a stream of rounds.

  The gunship listed, its pilot seeming to fight for control. This was complicated by the loss of several nacelles on the right side which Randal had blasted free. Trailing smoke, it veered away, shearing off a dormant electronic billboard from a roof.

  Randal whispered a thankful prayer, turning his attention back to the ground battle. He had no idea how many of his men were left. The battle had degenerated into individual firefights with little organization on either side. Soon sheer weight of numbers would overwhelm his people. "Pied Piper, what's your status?" he called over the comset.

  "Loading the children. Give us two mikes and then disappear."

  When no end was in sight, the fight had passed in a blur. Knowing that he could soon escape made the next hundred and twenty seconds seem endless.

  At least the enemy vehicles weren't advancing, thanks be to God. They had pulled back about a hundred and fifty meters to regroup. Someone had taken out their command vehicle, a large IFV bristling with dishes and antennae. Its remains smoldered about fifty meters to Randal's front. With such a rigid chain of command, knocking out a link condemned lower echelons to paralysis.

  Though they weren't advancing, the vehicles were keeping up a heavy volume of fire into the buildings. Also, the Abkhenazi infantry was still working its way house to house. They would be oblivious to the death of the higher ups — grunts only worried about what their team sergeant was saying.

  Randal drew down on one of the plasma projector IFVs, scoring a hit on a storage tank and bathing the vehicle in its own superheated energy. He glanced at his HUD. The two minutes were finally up. "Devin, Dev... You still awake?" Or alive?

  His forward observer answered after a moment. "Pop the flare?"

  "Pop it and get clear of the area."

  A green star cluster burst over the battlefield, the parachute-mounted flare descending leisurely out of sight. For anyone who was still alive and listening to their headsets, Randal yelled out, "That's the signal! Disengage and evade. Reform at rally point Lambda."

  He and Pyatt stayed behind, keeping the Abkhenazi occupied to buy time for the retreat. Eventually he commed Pyatt, "I don't think the Abbie's have anything left to shoot at except us. Let's go."

  "Follow me. I found a good route earlier." Pyatt boosted over an apartment building to a side street. Randal followed, nearly draining his jets. They slipped away, leaving the decimated mechanized companies licking their wounds.

  CHAPTER 11

  War is the unfolding of miscalculations.

  —Barbara Tuchman

  The Irregulars slammed shut the rear doors of the crawler, leaving Ariane alone in the dark with a hundred caterwauling children. She didn't mind, her attention only for Jean-Marie. A dull pounding reverberated in the metal box. Something heavy was scaling the cargo compartment. "Is that you, Sergei?" she asked tentatively over the comset.

  "Da. Getting ready for incoming gunship."

  With a screech of metal on metal, objects punched through the roof. She flipped on her helmet and activated the UV-headlamp. Above she could see four metallic spears driven through the ceiling — twin climbing spikes and the long braces tucked away inside the legs of all railgun-equipped suits.

  Lebedev came on the comset again. "How far out is gunship, Jeni?"

  "You should see it any second."

  "Very well." He sounded resigned to his fate.

  The little Belarusian never ceased to amaze Ariane. He always smelled a bit musty and there was a terminally bewildered look to him, but he saw things in ways no one else did. This explained why he was now a human anti-aircraft turret atop a cargo crawler full of ex-hostage children.

  Johnny gunned the engine, the cargo vehicle accelerating with a jerk that set the children to shrieking. Ariane braced as best she could, afraid she might hurt one of them with her heavy suit.

  Centrifugal force pulled everyone to the side as Johnny thudded around the circular drive. She felt a thump as they left the drive and hit open road. It was surprising how much speed Johnny could coax from the large vehicle.

  "Gunship is behind us! Is shooting!"

  Five holes appeared high on the wall of the cargo compartment, matched by five ragged exit holes on the facing side. For those in the compartment, it was like sitting in a cathedral bell while a madman hammered it.

  The impact of heavy-caliber rounds rocked the vehicle, its metal body shuddering. The response from Johnny was immediate. Far more rapidly than she would have believed possible, the world shifted about 90-degrees, the crawler tilting at the sudden turn. Ariane huddled over Jean-Marie, praying quietly.

  Lebedev's running monologue played in her ears. Did he know he was still transmitting? "Davai, you foolish thing! Lock! Nyet, nyet, nyet... Idi syuda... Come around... Blin! Ah... little more..."

  A deafening BOOM! filled the compartment. Ariane cried out, sure they were all dead. Opening her eyes, she checked Jean-Marie with frantic urgency. He was unharmed.

  Above, she saw night sky. Fresh snow flurries swirled into the long furrow torn in the roof where Lebedev once rode. The ceiling was peeled back like a can.

  She set Jean-Marie carefully aside. Giving a hop, she caught the lip of the roof and hauled herself up for a look. The remains of the gunship were spread over a snow-covered playground, the largest section burning cheerily in the canopy of an old cedar.

  A dark lump lay on the sidewalk, unmoving. Lebedev.

  "Johnny, stop! We lost Sergei."

  The crawler rumbled to a halt. Pulling herself out through the roof, Ariane leapt from the back of the vehicle, hurrying to her fallen friend. He was just starting to stir when she reached him. "Bozhe moi..." he moaned, reaching a hand up to her, pawing the air as he missed.

  "You did it, Sergei! You saved us." She helped him to his feet and opened the cargo doors. He climbed gingerly inside, groaning. When he saw the roof he laughed, a high-pitched, wheezy sort of laugh. "I think I might have misunderestimated the recoil."

  "Perhaps a bit?" Ariane said politely, pulling Jean-Marie back into her lap.

  Johnny drove to a prearranged rendezvous point. The children were ushered underground, past the watchful eyes of a full Irregular platoon and into a broad mineshaft. Pallets had been set up in anticipation of incoming wounded.

  Keeping to themselves was a group of goodwives. They looked ill at ease in the unfamiliar Catacombs. Having been told to wear dark clothing for the mission, many were dressed in odd combinations selected for color rather than style. One stepped from the group, smiling kindly at Ariane. Even in the shabby surroundings she maintained a dignified air, her gray hair neatly coiffed. "I'm Goodwife Alston. May I help you with the children?"

  Ariane nodded, brushing ballistic-weave armored fingers through Jean-Marie's hair, wishing she could unsuit. "Oh, please. We need to learn if there are any siblings among them."

  Goodwives shepherded the children into the center of the chamber. Irregular medics treated the few who had received light wounds during ride. All seemed traumatized, though they showed it in different ways: some stared sullenly at the ground, others cried, and still others yelled and jabbered excitedly.

  Ariane watc
hed in admiration as Goodwife Alston gained their attention. It was obvious she was a mother, gently but firmly quieting them. Ariane felt a pang. Her own mother would never be able to pass along mother-wisdom in that quiet way she had had.

  After several minutes of reassuring the children that they were in safe hands once more, the goodwife asked, "Does anyone have a brother with them here today?"

  Several raised their hands, including one towheaded set of four brothers.

  The goodwife took charge, pairing two children to each of the women who'd volunteered to shelter them. Siblings were kept together. At the end she stood by the four brothers, smiling. "My husband and I have a sugar beet farm well outside the city. No one has seen fit to bother us. The work is hard, but I also have six children of my own for you to play with."

  A guide led each woman back to the surface with her new charges. Whenever possible, their parents would be informed that they were alive, but not where they were being kept. The chance that the Abkhenazi would come looking for the Janissary children was simply too great.

  Ariane kissed Goodwife Alston on either cheek. "Thank you for your help. I couldn't have—"

  "Yes, you could have. But it was my pleasure. Take care of that baby," the older woman said, stroking a thumb down Jean-Marie's cheek. "You all should be proud of what you did tonight. I think it's just marvelous." Turning, she motioned to her new boys. "Come along, young goodmen. We have quite a hike ahead of us."

  Watching them leave, Ariane caught herself smiling. It was a marvelous thing they had done.

  Too soon, cries of "Medic! Medic!" echoed down the shaft. A flashlight beam ricocheted its way toward Ariane and two Irregulars shuffled into the area, carrying the broken body of their comrade between them. Her elation withering, Ariane let a sentry guide her to the aid station.

  A never-ending flow of dead and wounded streamed into the primitive hospital throughout the night. She and a handful of assistants were quickly swamped. Out of necessity they established a harsh triage, with many of the gravely wounded placed in a nearby chamber, comforted by friends. There were no painkillers to spare. The lightly wounded were also separated, though volunteers worked to keep them from falling into shock, giving them warm drinks and elevating their legs.

  Those with moderate wounds received first priority. Ariane struggled to save those she could, working as fast as she was able with the help of the suit's medical AI. Nevertheless, many from that group died of injuries before she reached them.

  By the end, patients no longer had faces, only wounds. The post-adrenaline crash had left her queasy and weak. The universe had fallen away, and her world was the operating table — blood, confusion and the appalling variety of suffering that man could inflict on man. But outsiders kept intruding. The mindless howls of the dying filled the corridors; her assistants kept pressing her for advice — as if she knew what to do.

  Many, many hours later all that could be done was done. Finding an unoccupied pallet she collapsed upon it, heedless of the gore-soaked sheets.

  ***

  Randal paused quietly outside the chamber Ariane shared with Jeni, listening as she spoke to Jean-Marie in the nonsensical patter that is the common language of infants and adults. It was jarringly normal after the previous night's madness.

  He spoke through the sheet the girls hung for privacy. "It's Randal. Mind if I join you?"

  "Come in. . ." Ariane sat on her pallet, playing with the boy's toes and making him giggle. The twenty-month-old seemed to be weathering events surprisingly well.

  "Just wanted to check on you," Randal said, taking a seat on a folding chair and feeling like he was intruding. "How are you faring?"

  The girl smiled at him. He was amazed how much she could say with a simple expression, the smile at once tender and world-weary. "Better," she said, elevating a shoulder incrementally. "I'm so thankful to have Jean-Marie home. But..." She paused, waving it off. "You have enough to worry about, and it's selfish of me to complain."

  He shook his head, reaching out for her hand. "I care about you - I want to hear." Hesitating, he added, "You're one of my troops. It's my job to listen."

  The look she gave made him feel as opaque as transplastic. "Your job," she said, giving his hand a squeeze.

  "And we're friends. Naturally. Now tell me what's wrong."

  "It's just. . . We lost almost a quarter of the Irregulars last night. Any idea how many people died in surgery last night because of me? People keep looking to me for help, and I'm a mess." She chewed her lip thoughtfully. "Do you know what that feels like?"

  As he always did at such times, Randal wished Van Loon were in his place. He was so much better at this sort of thing. "Ariane, you're doing a fine job. We're all impressed with how you're handling yourself in a tough spot."

  She let go of his hand and stared at the wall. "I don't need a pep talk, Randal. I need someone to listen to me."

  He shifted uncomfortably on the metal chair. It was tempting to hide behind a leader's need for detachment and drop the conversation. He might even be justified in doing it. But he knew it was a decision he would regret later. "I do know how it feels. Are you kidding? I've elevated self-loathing to an art."

  "You? You always seem so sure of yourself."

  He laughed cynically. "It says in the manual that I'm supposed to. But plenty of those Irregulars are dead because I don't know what I'm doing. They're my mistakes, but other people get to do the dying. So yeah, I know a little of what you're feeling."

  "Between the two of us, it's a wonder anyone survives this place at all."

  Randal smirked, unlimbering from the chair to sit facing her on the pallet. She set Jean-Marie off to the side, giving him a mess tin to play with.

  "You're doing an amazing job, Ariane. All stirring speeches aside, you really are. You have from the beginning," he said, breath tight in his chest. He reached forward, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes.

  "Vraiment? I thought you hated me when we first met."

  "No, I never hated you. Maybe I was scared. One look and it was clear you were going to mix up my well-ordered life." Resting back on his palms, he shrugged. "I knew I could fall for you if I wasn't careful."

  There. It was out in the open.

  She regarded him mutely, dark eyes searching his face.

  Dreading silence, Randal pressed on. Her level look only pushed him that much closer to babbling, so he closed his eyes. "But it happened, you know? I think about you constantly. I'm sorry, I'm really bad at this sort of..."

  His flow of words was stemmed by the soft pressure of her lips.

  Eyes popping open as if spring-loaded, Randal broke off the kiss in surprise. That close, her breath was sweet and warm on his face in the coolness of the underground. He could make out the natural scent of her hair and the clean, soapy smell of her skin. His body felt charged the same way it did during combat.

  Pressing a hand softly to her cheek, he kissed the corners of her mouth, then tilted his head to kiss her fully. Menelaus had always seemed impetuous to him, but while kissing Ariane, Randal could understand launching an armada for the sake of a woman.

  For a long while he held her tightly, thrilling at the closeness of her. He didn't speak, not wanting to complicate the perfect simplicity of the moment. Even Jean-Marie seemed to sense it, playing quietly with the mess tin and exploring the chamber.

  "I win the bet, Johnny. I knew they were a couple."

  Ariane and Randal both froze, eyes darting to the door. Jeni and her sidekick stood in the entry wearing identical grins.

  Flushing six shades of red, Randal tried to keep his voice light. "She had something in her eye."

  "Totally plausible, Randy. I give my blessing to this, but remember what I said before — I get to be a bridesmaid."

  Ever Jeni's mascot, Johnny chimed in with, "Right. And Ariane has to name her firstborn after me."

  An awkward silence ensued.

  Jeni jabbed him viciously with an elbow. "Nice on
e, oaf." Turning back to Randal, she favored him with a wink. "Leave six inches for the Holy Spirit."

  Once they were gone, Ariane and Randal shared a nervous laugh. "Well."

  "Well indeed. I'd better go check in on Pieter. He's had scouts near the spaceport and was supposed to brief me."

  "I understand."

  He kissed her on the cheek and tickled Jean-Marie's round belly. "I'll talk to you soon." Ariane nodded, not seeming to know what to say either.

  As he walked the corridor to Pieter's chamber he could still feel the delightful pressure of her lips. His handful of summertime flirtations gave no perspective on the happy commotion he felt inside. Nearing Pieter's quarters, he did his best to wipe the silly smile from his face.

  Not bothering to knock, he wandered into Pieter's room, taking a seat on the pallet.

  Pieter was dressed in dark fatigue pants and a black sweater bearing the Saint Athanasius Academy crest. He looked up from the piles of hastily-scrawled NATE reports surrounding him. Swirling a tulip-bulbed glass at Randal, he asked cheerily, "Care for a cordial?"

  Randal craned his neck to read a note about MagLev supply trains. "Huh? No, thanks."

  "A martini then? It'll have to be a Monty, as vermouth supplies have fallen to emergency levels."

  "No luck in scrounging vermouth?" He was continually amazed at Pieter's knack for expanding his liquor cabinet. The week before, he'd traded an extra pair of boots for a bottle of Armagnac — a major coup.

  "Not as of yet. I've been reduced to making them dry as the bloody Samarkand Desert. But we all must make sacrifices for the war effort."

  "It's a noble cross you bear, my friend."

  "Sure I can't tempt you? I've some Drambuie and a spot of applejack left."

  "Thanks, but I have to talk with Pyatt after this. One whiff of demon liquor and he'll get irate."

  Pieter shuddered. "He's disagreeable, though that al-Hise character is the true piece of work."

  "Nabil has his ways," Randal said with a shrug. "How's your scout training with him going?"