Knox's Irregulars Page 6

  Not thrilled with the delay, but knowing it was the right thing to do, Randal assented. Equally reluctantly, he broke commo silence. "Cho, this is Knox."

  The answering voice sounded surprised. "You rang, Randy?"

  "Way point four changed. Rendezvous at grid coordinate 2107-5496 at 0630. How copy?"

  She repeated the order back to him. "See you then. Cho out."

  The group descended the plateau, on a shallower grade than the opposite face. Gravel piles made footing slippery, but aside from a few slides the group made it down without incident. At that altitude the undergrowth was scrubby — mostly hardy grasses and gnarled trees. From what Randal understood, the terraformers who made the planet habitable had selected foliage from nearly every highland region of old Terra.

  The terrain was open most of the way to Burnley Gap. If there were any Abkhenazi hiding out there, the team would be badly exposed to incoming fire. Randal split them in two, one group keeping to the long, early-morning shadows and prepared to provide covering fire, the other bounding to the first available cover.

  Leapfrogging, the team crossed the danger area until they were all lying prone in an erosion-created ditch near the village. The ditch ran perpendicular to a well-worn dirt road which traveled from the center of town, down the hill and southward into the mountains.

  Randal was leery about just walking into town for two reasons. First, the village had just been bombed. He wasn't keen on death at the hand of a trigger-happy militiaman. Second, no one was yet sure the New Genevans were still in control of the town.

  "Corporal Knox, to your three," Pyatt said, pointing.

  Shifting his attention, Randal spotted what had interested Pyatt — a man walking the perimeter in a cumbersome-looking suit of powered armor. It was easy to spot, as its entire surface area was gleaming white. Randal supposed it had last been painted in a winter month, which left its owner looking like the polar bear holo Randal had seen at the Terrarium in Shiloh. "Oi, that's a first-generation suit. I thought they'd retired all of those."

  Van Loon high-crawled over and joined the conversation. "Most of 'em. Some they gave to militia commanders. My neighbor got one."

  "Well, that solves one worry. At least they're on our side. We shouldn't all go up though. They're liable to think it's safer to ask forgiveness than ask questions."

  "I'll go." Van Loon rose to his feet.

  "Careful, Jack."

  "I've got a wife and kid. I'm always careful."

  "And that's why you joined the infantry."

  Van Loon didn't answer, intent upon entering the open as slowly and unthreateningly as possible. Keeping his hands well in the air, he began climbing the spur to the hamlet. Any vegetation on the spur had long ago been stripped away by the village, leaving a barren kill zone for Van Loon to cross. The villagers spotted him almost immediately, excited shouts carrying to Randal and the others. Armed men ran to the perimeter.

  Randal wished he could just raise them on the comset, but it was useless trying. The armored infantry used high-level encryption for all their communications. The coms issued to the militia were also encrypted, though on a simpler level. All either of them would receive from the other was squawks and gibberish.

  At about 200 meters from the perimeter, Van Loon halted. His speakers must have been set to full volume, because Randal easily heard him call out, "I'm a good guy. Please nobody put any holes in me." Two militiamen in hunting clothes walked out to Van Loon and escorted him inside. He reemerged several minutes later, gave a thumbs-up and motioned for the team to join him.

  As Randal approached the perimeter, he saw the hard eyes of the village defenders peering from their fighting positions. Mountain people were a tough lot, in his experience. Mounds of fresh dirt sat beside each hole. The militia needed to smooth them out; the piles were signposts for where the fighting positions lay.

  The team filed into town, met there by Van Loon. He stood between an enormous, balding fellow in the obsolete powered armor, and a whip-thin man in a clerical collar. Flipping back his helmet, Randal led his people up to the trio.

  "Corporal Randal Knox," Van Loon said formally, motioning to the large man on his left. "This is Mayor Jowett. He heads the militia here. And this is the Reverend Hauptmann."

  Randal nodded respectfully. "Pleasure to meet you, goodmen."

  The two gave him odd looks, not returning the greeting.

  It took Randal a couple of seconds to realize what was going on. "Yes, that Randal Knox," he said, forcing a smile to set them at ease.

  The two glanced at each other. "This is a surprise," said the mayor. "We're all great admirers of your father."

  "I am too," he said, anxious to change the subject. "Did you get caught by air strikes?"

  "We did." The reverend motioned to the gutted buildings Randal saw burning earlier. "Some families lost everything, but thanks be to Jesus, no one was killed."

  The mayor rumbled in a deep basso, "There was only a pair of aircraft. We drove them off after the second pass. They didn't expect so much ground fire, I imagine."

  "It looks like you have the fires in hand, but can we provide any other help? We have a medic," interjected Van Loon.

  "No, we were fortunate. The woman and children were in the mineshaft you see beyond the church there, and the men were in their holes. However, I see that you've a wounded man of your own," the reverend said, looking to where Nabil rested.

  "We got hammered pretty hard at the border," Van Loon answered quietly.

  "Well, you can rest in the church and we'll put on coffee. We're hungry for news. The town is in a trideo dead zone with these mountains and our satellite comsystem hasn't been able to get anything for two days."

  That explains why they haven't evacuated, Randal thought, not relishing the bad tidings he was about to deliver.

  The reverend and his wife, a plump, cheerful woman in insulated nightclothes, set them up in the church sanctuary. Like all buildings in the town it had been prefabricated and delivered by cargo dirigibles. These were slow, but cheap to produce and maintain, and capable of efficiently moving tons of cargo over otherwise impassable terrain.

  Since a limited number of firms produced these prefab structures, one little mountain town looked much like another. This church had the same stained glass windows and synth-wood pews he remembered from the chapel at the winter resort he frequented in childhood.

  Seated on sleeping mats, their armor arranged along the wall, the group sipped coffee and updated the mayor and reverend on recent events. An hour later they heard the whoosh of the PSV landing outside. Randal grimaced. He'd forgotten to warn the militia about Jeni's arrival.

  "Nice, Randal." Jeni strolled into the sanctuary with Johnny at her heels. "Those hicks almost shot us." Abruptly she noticed the two villagers. "Greetings and salutations. What a charming outpost you have! I love the. . . trees."

  "Mayor, Reverend, this is our dronekeeper, Lance Corporal Cho, and our support vehicle pilot, Private Warfield."

  Johnny shuffled his feet a bit, spiking up his blond bangs in a habitual gesture. He returned their greetings with a grin. Randal suspected his mental capacity was overtasked with suppressing snickers at Jeni's gaffe.

  Jeni plopped down next to Ariane, nudging her out of the way. "Bad news, Randy. The Abbies finally got resupplied, or whatever was holding them up. They're on the move now in a big way."

  Frowning, Mayor Jowett cut in. "Are they likely to come here?"

  Biting the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, Randal considered the question. "The road they'd follow is several klicks to the east. But they won't leave an unpacified village along their supply route. We're going to need to evacuate you." He sighed inwardly. Taking charge of the NGDF survivors had been an unwelcome enough surprise. Nursemaiding a hundred-odd civilians through occupied territory was definitely not covered in Basic Indoc.

  To his credit, the mayor didn't protest, instead merely slapping his thighs and standing. "I'll inform the
village elders. It'll take a few hours to get things together."

  ***

  Randal awoke mid-morning. He stretched and wandered over to Ariane. The girl was kneeling next to Nabil, changing his dressing. She didn't look up as he approached. "I'm worried about him."

  "What's wrong?" He took a seat on the nearest pew.

  "I can't get his fever down. He must have a secondary infection or something. It was dark, and there was dirt everywhere..." She trailed off, fingers clearing strands of brown hair from her eyes. "I'm doing the best I can."

  Randal wished Van Loon were awake. He was so much better at talking to women. Safely married, he had nothing to fear from them. "You're doing a great job. We're all thankful to have you here, Mireault, really." Not sure what gesture would be appropriate, he settled for giving her shoulder a companionable squeeze.

  The girl started at the contact. "Thank you, Corporal Knox," she said, setting aside the soiled dressing and returning to Nabil.

  "Hang in there." With a parting smile he left her, pushing out the double doors of the church. On the stoop he found Van Loon meditatively rolling two dark, fat cigars between his palms.

  "Be your best friend if I get one of those, Jack," Randal said, taking a seat and resting back against the railing.

  "Who do you think I was waiting for?"

  He took the cigar and cutter from Van Loon and sliced a wedge-shaped section from the endcap.

  "Here's a light."

  "Thanks." Sparking up with the electric lighter, Randal took a soulful drag and evaluated the end of the cigar critically to ensure he had an even burn.

  The two smoked in silence. Around them the villagers bustled, loading cargo crawlers with supplies and packing away valuables. For the two men it was a tranquil moment, time slowing into the lazy curl of cigar smoke. Randal savored each mouthful, taking it in slowly, appreciating the faint cedar undertones.

  The mood was broken as he registered Pyatt's glowering presence across the street. Randal raised his cigar in recognition, exhaling a long plume of smoke in his general direction. Pulling a disgusted face, Pyatt stormed off. "You know the origin of the term 'First Century Church Movement,' Jack?"

  "Tell me."

  "The secret fear that someone, somewhere, is enjoying themselves."

  Van Loon chuckled. "You're his commander now. You don't get the luxury of antagonizing him."

  He was right of course. The buzzword for the NGDF's command philosophy was "servant leadership." While this entailed no blurring of who was in charge, it did mean that leaders ate last, slept last, and considered their men before themselves, at least ideally. "Message received, Jack. Will comply."

  Down the center of town a line of crawlers was forming. These rugged, tracked vehicles were the primary means of transport in the highlands. Though slow, their low center of gravity and powerful engines were ideal for the rough terrain. The crawlers were piled high with crates, canisters and miscellanea. Bewildered children were strapped onto the removable benches which lined the beds of the vehicles.

  Jeni's voice sounded over the PSV's external speakers. She and Johnny had spent the morning sleeping in-harness. After the Banshee strike of the previous night, Randal wanted early warning if a follow-up attack was launched. "Randy, we've got company. I count six flyers inbound."

  Stubbing out his cigar, Randal hustled back into the church, manually activating his suit's comset. "Fast movers?" That would be nice — interceptors wouldn't pose much of a threat to the village.

  "Wait one, battlecomp is still IDing them." A whispered curse. "Tentative identification — it looks like troop carriers."

  Crunching the numbers, Randal calculated the odds they faced. A forty-man platoon per transport meant a full company would be arriving soon. Worse, if they were air mobile they weren't grunt infantry, but the Theocratic Guard.

  Randal ran to the door. Outside, the mayor was directing the loading of one of the cargo crawlers. "Mayor Jowett, we need to get these people moving! The Abbies have Theocratic Guardsmen inbound!"

  He ducked back inside the church. The others were looking to him for orders, and he stalled for time while suiting up. What in the world did he have to tell them? Whatever orders he gave, people were going to die.

  At least he could ensure that no women would die by his order. "Listen. . . Mireault, you'll travel with the convoy and provide medical support. The rest of us will stay behind to buy time for them to escape."

  "Corporal, are you sure?"

  "I am. You're too valuable to risk in a skirmish like this. The civilians will need you along the way."

  As they left the church, the mayor was already sending off the convoy. Whatever wasn't loaded would have to be abandoned. He apparently had the same idea as Randal; the majority of the men were remaining behind while a small detachment of militia was detailed to guard the women and children.

  Ariane squatted down, hefted Nabil and carried him to the nearest crawler. She fastened him in and gave the group a wave as the vehicles rumbled into motion. A gaggle of rangy-looking mountain dogs trailed in the dust of the crawlers, their howls echoing from the mountainside. Soon the convoy rounded the mountain, following a road that looked like a glorified game trail.

  The rest took their places on the line.

  That morning the militia had improved the defensive positions, deepening their holes in the frozen ground and piling scrap metal to frustrate enemy fire. There were sixteen militiamen holding the line in groups of four, one group on either flank, the remaining two in the center. Randal dispatched Van Loon to the right flank, himself to the left. He wanted the added firepower of Lebedev's railgun and Pyatt's autoloading mortar to shore up the vital center.

  The Platoon Support Vehicle was kept well to the rear. While it mounted defensive armament, he wasn't willing to risk it for a temporary tactical advantage. There was always the danger of interceptors skulking behind the shuttles, hidden from sensors in the acoustic clutter of the mountains. Each LANCER suit was dependent upon a recharged power pack from the PSV every seventy-two hours. There were adapters so the suits could recharge from ordinary power sources, but there were few of those in the wilderness. Losing the PSV would mean abandoning their armor.

  "Three klicks out," Jeni updated them. "Should be in visual any second."

  Six black, snub-nosed shuttles appeared on Randal's viewscreen. Their noses pitched upward as orange thrusters fired from beneath, the pilots pulling a quick deceleration. Mentally extrapolating their course, Randal realized they intended to land right in the middle of the village. Expecting only lightly armed militia, they apparently thought themselves invulnerable.

  Their mistake.

  Lebedev's railgun boomed across the valley, the magnetically-propelled projectile slicing through the air toward the lead transport. The craft was in a landing posture, its wide underbelly fully exposed. The projectile's force of impact split the thing nearly in two, igniting its propellant in a bright orange ball of flame. Burning wreckage rained down on the town, the fuselage leaving a black smudge against the mountainside.

  Randal and Van Loon opened up with their autocannons, each targeting the same transport. Fire danced along its hull, a snub wing shearing free as the shuttle curved into a steep dive. Trailing smoke, it plowed into the ground, digging a long furrow. The loading door had just opened when the craft exploded.

  With more alacrity than Randal expected, the four remaining shuttles broke off their landing, wheeling away from the unexpected resistance like vultures driven from carrion. For several minutes they disappeared into the mountains, apparently reevaluating the situation.

  "Look lively, guys, they're back!" Jeni called over the comset.

  The shuttles flew around the plateau Randal and the others had scaled the previous night. Keeping as close to nap-of-the-earth as they could, they landed at the base of Burnley Gap's spur. Immediately the shuttles disgorged a wave of troops in silt-gray uniforms.

  Theocratic Guard units were co
nsidered elite forces by the Abkhenazi military. While discipline was brutal in these units, pay and prestige came with membership. They were much better trained and equipped than the grunt soldiers of the Abkhenazi line infantry. This was evident as they swarmed up the hillside, keeping a good volume of fire going even on the move.

  Randal resisted the inviting targets the grounded shuttles presented, instead setting up grazing fire with his LMG. Squeezing off controlled bursts, he kept the rounds about a meter off the ground, ensuring a hit even on the ones keeping low.

  Over the crackle of small arms fire he could hear the mortar and railgun joining the fight. The small mortar shells took out clusters of troops with shrapnel, while the railgun made craters where soldiers once stood.

  Nearby, the reverend squeezed off shots from one of the militia's flechette rifles. At the same time he shouted Psalms to bolster the men around him. "Praise be to the Lord my Rock, who trains my hands for war! And my fingers for battle!" A pause for breath, followed by a dead-accurate shot. "He is my loving God, and my fortress!" Another Abkhenazi brought down. "My stronghold and deliverer..." Drop clip and reload.

  The mountaineers were all excellent shots, but their success was hampered by the body armor of the Theocratic Guards. Again and again Abkhenazi went down, only to rise to their feet and return fire. The enemy troops exacted their own pound of flesh. An old timer next to Randal pitched backward, killed instantly.

  There was a flash down the line from Randal, followed by a thunderclap and an expanding gray cloud. When the smoke cleared, only Lebedev still held the position. Randal spotted the rocketeer down the hillside, the missile tube smoking on his shoulder. He blasted the Abkhenazi and hailed Lebedev on the comset. "Sergei, still with us?"

  "Shto sluchilos, Kapral?" The Belarusian answered, sounding a little dazed. "I think am okay."

  Things were not okay. In fact, they were quickly becoming ugly. The Abkhenazi were dividing into three detachments. The largest of these was in the prone, putting enough pressure on the New Genevans to keep their heads down. Meanwhile, Randal could see the other two detachments scuttling to the flanks, intent on catching the defenders in crossfire.