CHAPTER


THIRTY-FOUR

Gilbert’s Corners, Ravenette

Colonel Manuel Osper looked at Lieutenant Colonel Jay Scroggins, his executive officer, and his battalion sergeant major, Cliff Talus. Unlike many of the other officers and senior noncoms he’d just sent to organize the locals into a militia, both had managed to pull on full uniforms and pistol belts. Scroggins’s uniform was sloppily pulled together, but Talus looked ready for the parade ground. The sergeant major had also managed to snag a fléchette rifle and pouches of reloads for it. He also had a radio.

“What do you hear from the troops?” Osper asked Talus.

“Not a damn thing,” Talus said sourly. “Nobody thunk to get on the horn and report.”

“Did you try all the frequencies?”

Talus gave him the kind of look a question that stupid deserved.

“I had to ask,” Osper apologized. “What about the patrols?”

“I been in contact with all of ’em. They didn’t see nuttin’. I tole ’em to sit tight where they was.”

Osper nodded, that was really all the patrols could do without running the risk of being wiped out in detail. He looked toward the burning barracks, now visible mostly as brightness in the sky; the buildings and houses of Gilbert’s Corners, the officer and senior-noncom housing area, and the intervening trees blocked most of his direct view of the barracks area. He wondered how the Coalition forces who’d attacked had managed to get there undetected by the patrols or any of the security devices he’d had installed. Perhaps General Lyons had been right, that it was a small raiding party, not a major assault force, and they had infiltrated in small groups.

Where was General Lyons for that matter?

If this was a raiding party rather than a full-scale assault…

They attacked the barracks from this side. That meant that they could still be between Gilbert’s Corners and the burning barracks area! We can still beat them!

Osper looked around to see if the locals were yet being organized. Yes, a few small groups were being led by his own people. “Over here,” he yelled. “On me!”

Quickly, a group of about a hundred soldiers and armed civilians were gathered in front of the colonel.

“I want you to divide into five twenty-man platoons.” Colonel Osper pointed at a major. “You’re in command of first platoon. Take them down Center Street. You”—he pointed at another major—“are second platoon. Take them down East Street.” He gave command of the other platoons to three captains and sent one down West Street and the other two along the edges of the village—Gilbert’s Corners three streets along its main axis were unimaginatively named. “Kill anybody you see in a Confederation military uniform.”

“Wait jist a minute there, Colonel!”

Osper looked and saw Heb Cawman, the chairman of the Committee on the Conduct of the War, the very man who’d just a few minutes earlier been whining and crying about how the Confederation forces had just whupped the Coalition defenders.

“Mr. Cawman,” Osper said, “what do you want?”

“Ya can’t kill ’em all. Ya gotta take a pris’ner.”

“All right then, you go with first platoon. Your job will be to pick out a prisoner and take charge of him. Now everybody get moving!”

Cawman blanched and took a step back when Osper told him to go with first platoon, but a sergeant grabbed his arm and pulled him along with the platoon.

Entering the Village of Gilbert’s Corners

Through his infra screen, Captain Wainwright saw that Sergeant Bingh was favoring his right leg, but the limp wasn’t pronounced and he didn’t think it would hold the squad leader back. Bingh had said as much when the captain had asked him about it. But Wainwright didn’t linger on Bingh’s injury, he mostly watched ahead, looking for some indication that a member of the Committee on the Conduct of the War might be in his way. He really wanted to capture one if he could without jeopardizing any of his people.

But what he saw was a mass of men coming down the middle of the street. From their dress, most of the men were armed civilians, but three men who were herding them along and trying to instill some order and discipline were definitely soldiers.

Before Captain Wainwright could alert the other squads, Sergeant Kindy reported a group of armed civilians led by four soldiers coming along the street toward him.

“First and third squads,” Wainwright ordered, “get between the houses and let them pass. We don’t need to leave a lot of dead civilians behind us.”

Bingh and Kindy acknowledged the order; Wainwright and Staff Sergeant Fryman followed first squad into the side yard of a house. They had barely settled in before they heard the shot of a projectile rifle, followed by several blaster shots, to the north, where second squad was bypassing Gilbert’s Corners. Then silence. It sounded as if someone had taken a shot at the Marines, and the Marines had responded with greater violence than whoever had shot at them wanted to deal with. Wainwright decided to wait for a report.

The people on the street froze and listened, looking to their left. When nothing more happened for a moment, the soldiers began moving them forward again. Kindy reported the people in the street ahead of him had stopped but were moving again.

There was another single projectile shot and multiple blaster shots from the same direction, and the people in the street scattered for cover; some of them ran away.

“They’s whuppin’ us!” a civilian shrilled. “We’s gotta git out of here while we kin!” He tried to run, but one of the soldiers had a firm grip on his arm and he couldn’t get away.

That looked odd, so Wainwright turned up his ears in case someone said something that would explain it. Someone did.

“Now, now, Mistah Cawman, you heard the colonel. It’s up to you to capture one a them Confederations. You cain’t do thet if’n you runs away.”

Cawman! Was that really the chairman of the Committee on the Conduct of the War? Wainwright used both his magnifier and light-gatherer screens to get a better look at the man’s face. Yes, except for the panicky expression, he looked just like the images of the chairman that Wainwright had seen.

Captain Wainwright suddenly felt less reluctant about civilian casualties; Heb Cawman was too valuable a prize to let a few civilians stand in the way of his capture.

“Three-two,” Wainwright radioed. “Move through the yards toward my position. Stay across the street from me. We have a chance to catch a big fish. Over.”

“Roger,” Kindy came back. “I have your position. We are moving now.”

The soldiers in Wainwright’s view pulled their remaining civilians together and resumed their advance down the street.

Advancing down Center Street

The major that Colonel Osper had turned into a platoon commander was named Belvadeer. He muttered subvocally as he led his makeshift platoon of—of civilians—along Center Street. He had great respect for Colonel Osper, but what was the man thinking? There was no possible way an undisciplined rabble could take on a regular military force the size that must have struck the reinforced battalion and do anything but get slaughtered. And then to send that nincompoop Cawman along! It would be bad enough if Cawman were willing and gung ho about capturing a Confederation soldier, but the man was whining and crying the whole way and would have run off long ago if someone weren’t physically dragging him along. This was purely insane!

But maybe the colonel had a sound reason for what he was doing. If so, Belvadeer wished he’d have told at least his “platoon” commanders what it was. Belvadeer was certain the other officers leading the rabble felt the same as he did. But, dammit, a colonel was a colonel, and a major was a major, and when a colonel said do, a major did. He just hoped he could spot the Confederation forces that were probably—most likely, almost positively—in front of him before they spotted him. If he did, he might just survive the battle.

Major Belvadeer’s “platoon” was just crossing Fifth Street when something happened behind him that nearly made him lose control of his bowels.

The Snatch, Gilbert’s Corners

Captain Wainwright touched helmets with Staff Sergeant Fryman and Sergeant Bingh and told them what he was going to do. He finished with “Watch my UV marker. Bingh, when it looks like I’m close enough, take out the soldier holding him. Fryman, have both squads give me covering fire if the civilians decide to fight.”

Wainwright lay low while the gaggle of armed civilians shuffled past, then silently rose to his feet and padded into the street behind them. Moving as fast as he could without making noise, he shuffled up behind the still-complaining Cawman. He was only a meter behind him when a blaster bolt flamed past and struck the soldier holding Cawman’s arm between the shoulder blades. Wainwright lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Cawman, flung the man over his hip, and spun about to run back to first squad.

Gunfire erupted behind him and was immediately answered by blaster fire from the two Marine squads. He felt the impact of a bullet that hit Cawman; Cawman’s shocked scream came half a second later. Wainwright was almost back at the squad when he felt the impact of the bullet that hit him high on the left side of his back. He collapsed next to Bingh, dropping Cawman. Cawman screamed in agony.

The civilians were firing in all directions, including over the nearby houses. The two remaining soldiers were yelling at them, trying to get them to concentrate their fire on the Marines’ fire, but they were panicked by the plasma bolts tearing through their mass and wouldn’t pay attention. When a bolt hit one of the soldiers, some of the civilians dropped their weapons and began crawling, scrabbling to get out of the killing zone. A couple threw away their rifles and screamed, “Don’t shoot me! Don’t shoot!”

In a moment it was over; Fryman was able to turn his attention to the two casualties lying next to him. “Bingh, check out Cawman,” he ordered as he began to examine Wainwright. The captain’s wound was bad, so maybe it was fortunate that he was unconscious. The bullet that had hit him wasn’t powerful enough to go all the way through and was still in there someplace. At least he was only bleeding from one place—at least only one place on the outside; Fryman had no way of knowing whether he also had serious internal bleeding.

Fryman contacted Doc Natron. Natron told him to pack the wound and said he’d try to infiltrate to their position with a stasis bag. Fryman had talked to Natron on the command circuit so Lieutenant Rollings could hear—that was faster than making a separate report.

Lieutenant Rollings radioed to stand tight, he was on his way with fourth squad.

Only after he’d packed Wainwright’s wound and talked to Rollings did Fryman turn his attention to Cawman.

“He just got winged,” Bingh said, and lashed Cawman’s hands behind his back.

“The way he’s crying, it sounds like his guts have been ripped out.”

Bingh grunted.

East Street, Gilbert’s Corners

“Wha’ the hell is thet!” someone shouted when the firing broke out on Center Street.

“Damfino,” someone else shouted.

The major commanding the East Street “platoon” swore out loud. He didn’t have any communications, so he couldn’t talk to Major Belvadeer to find out if he needed help. He stood in indecision about what to do. If Confederation troops were on Center Street and had attacked Belvadeer’s group, they might also be coming along East Street—even though no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t see anybody down the length of the street.

Some of the civilians made the decision for him.

“We gotta git over there, give ’em some hep!” someone yelled. That started the whole mob running toward Center Street.

When they got there, they were shocked by the number of bodies lying in the street. The hunters among them were surprised there wasn’t any blood on the street; they didn’t know that the plasma bolts fired by the Marines cauterized wounds as they made them so there was usually no bleeding.

  

Lieutenant Rollings and fourth squad reached East Street right after the “platoon” of locals moved off it; they heard the locals running along the cross street to their right.

“Let’s go!” Rollings ordered, and ran faster between the houses. He spotted the UV markers on the backs of the Marines of third squad and alerted them to his approach. When he got there, he dropped to one knee next to Sergeant Kindy.

“Where are they?” Rollings asked.

“First squad’s directly across from us,” Sergeant Kindy answered.

Using his infra screen, Rollings was able to make out the faint heat signatures of Staff Sergeant Fryman and first squad. He looked to his right, where the group from East Street was milling about, and sprinted across to first squad after telling fourth squad to stay with third. Gunny Lytle went with him.

“How is he?” he asked as soon as he got there.

“Pretty bad, I think,” Fryman said. He described the wound again.

Rollings radioed Doc Natron and asked where he was.

“I’m only about a hundred meters from you. But there are armed people between us, and they’re moving in your direction.”

“Is anybody with you?”

“Corporal Quinn.”

“Get out of the line of fire. If they’re coming toward us, we’re probably going to have to fight.”

“Will do. We’ll swing around to your left, try to bypass those civilians.”

“Roger.” Rollings looked back to the civilians who were now checking the bodies in the street and heard someone out of sight on the side street yelling at them to move, telling them the street was a killing zone. The civilians looked up and around uncertainly, but four soldiers who were among them took the voice at its word and sprinted toward it. That set off the others, and they ran after the soldiers and out of sight. Rollings then looked west and saw a group of armed men led by two soldiers less than thirty meters away—easing toward the Marines’ position. He looked toward Captain Wainwright and thought quickly. The captain was in no condition to be moved; he’d likely die if he was. That meant they had to stay in place until Doc Natron arrived and was able to put him in a stasis bag. Which meant they were going to have to fight. He estimated there were twenty men, close to it anyway, coming toward them. He had six Marines with him here. Gunny Lytle, Staff Sergeant Morgan, and two squads were across the street. If these seventeen Marines couldn’t break twenty men, mostly civilians, they needed to turn in their Eagle, Globe, and Starstreams.

“Gunny, Fryman, and first squad,” he said into the first section circuit, “you’re group one. Third and fourth squads are group two.

“Group one, on my command, engage the armed men to our west.” Rollings gave the Marines with him a few seconds to get into position, then ordered, “Fire!”

Five blasters and two hand-blasters blazed into the approaching men, and nine of them fell immediately. The others screamed and scattered for cover. Not all of them made it.

“Cease fire!” Rollings ordered when the last of the men was out of sight. He heard the sound of people running, crashing through hedges and fences. Another sound drew his attention to the south. When he looked, he saw men advancing toward his position. But these weren’t walking in the open, they were flitting from concealment to cover, staying out of sight as much as possible.

Assembly Point, Gilbert’s Corners

More armed civilians poured in, led by officers and noncoms, beginning almost immediately after Colonel Osper sent off his first five “platoons.” Soon he had close to two hundred men. He had to restrain the first arrivals from following Major Belvadeer down Center Street, they were so anxious not to miss the action. But as more men arrived and saw others mustering, they were more willing to stand in place and wait for orders.

Colonel Osper was huddling with Lieutenant Colonel Scroggins and Sergeant Major Talus, working out a plan to use the people they had as a reaction force, when the first firing opened up on Center Street.

When Osper and Scroggins turned to look toward the fighting, Talus turned to the gathered men and roared in his best sergeant major’s voice for them to hold in place. When the civilians, who just wanted to help their neighbors, stopped and gaped at him with the fear his voice elicited, he glared, then nodded in satisfaction and turned his back on them.

Colonel Osper was struck by a sudden thought. “Is it true,” he asked Talus, “thet the Confederation Marines have some kind of invisibility suit?”

Talus, who had served an enlistment in the Confederation Army before going home to Cabala and joining the planetary army there, nodded. “Yes, sir. They calls ’em chameleons.”

Damn! That’s how they were able to get past our patrols and visual detector system. Thet’s Confederation Marines we’s fightin’, not the damn army.”

Talus gave Osper another of those looks. After spending an enlistment in the Confederation Army, he knew how much more capable it was than the Cabala Army.

“How many of ’em do you think there is?” Osper asked nobody in particular.

Talus gave him another look, but turned his gaze toward the dying firefight without saying, “How the hell should I know?”—which was on his tongue. Instead, he said, “From what I seen down there, and what I heard t’ the west, I’d say a platoon.”

Osper looked at him in disbelief. “One platoon couldn’t have done all thet to the barracks area.”

Talus shrugged. “This is mebbe a blocking force, t’ keep reinforcements from coming from the village.” He turned back to the impatient armed men, who were now being held back by the officers and noncoms among them, and gave them a glare that swept from one side to the other. They backed off and settled down.

“A blocking force,” Osper murmured, “that makes sense.” He thought for a few more seconds, then turned to face his irregular company.

“Listen up, men!” he shouted loudly enough for all of them to hear. “This is what we’s gonna do.”

Marine Defense, Gilbert’s Corners

“You sure shook them up,” Doc Natron said when he reached the group guarding Captain Wainwright. He gave the wounded raid commander a quick examination. “You’re sure there’s no exit wound?” he asked as he searched for one.

“If there is one, I couldn’t find it,” Staff Sergeant Fryman answered.

“Well, neither can I. A couple of you, give me a hand getting him into a stasis bag.” Corporal Musica and Lance Corporal Wehrli helped lift Wainwright into the bag, which Natron closed and activated. “He should be all right now until we get him back to the Kiowa.” He looked at Heb Cawman, who had stopped whining. “Now what about that one?”

Cawman looked up, his eyes rolling in terror. The Marines were talking on their short-range radios, so he couldn’t hear them, but he could tell they were all around him.

“He just got winged,” Sergeant Bingh said, “he can walk on his own.”

Cawman whimpered, but looked up when Bingh nudged him with his foot.

“We can go now,” Natron said.

“Right,” Rollings said. “First squad, you carry the captain. Fryman, lead the way.” He called for Gunny Lytle to bring the other two squads over. The lieutenant grabbed the prisoner and yanked him to his feet. “You’re coming with me,” he snarled through his speaker.

“Aye, aye,” Fryman said, and headed deeper between the houses, heading toward West Street. He looked around the back corner of the house when he reached it and stopped. “Company’s coming,” he said into the command circuit. “Snooping and pooping, like the ones on the street.”

“How close are they?” Rollings asked. “Can we get across before they reach us?”

“If everybody’s here and we run, yeah.”

“Then move out at the double.”

The Marines ran on the balls of their feet, to keep the noise down. But eighteen men are going to make some noise, especially if one of them is reluctant, and Heb Cawman was most decidedly reluctant.

“I hear ’em!” somebody yelled from twenty meters away, and fired a wild shot down the backyards.

“Don’ shoot! It’s me, Heb Cawman! Don’ shoot or y’all’ll hit me!”

That brought a fusillade of fire down the way, but the Marines were already between the houses fronting on West Street and running faster.

Gunny Lytle caught up with Rollings and Cawman. “I’ve got him,” he said through his speaker so Cawman could hear, and gripped the chairman’s arm in a grip far tighter than Rollings’s. “Mr. Cawman,” he snarled close to his ear, “one more peep out of you and I’m going to break your arm.” He squeezed tighter. Cawman yelped, but cut it off when Lytle increased the pressure even more. “And then I’ll gag you so tight you’ll think you’re suffocating.”

“I-I’ll be quiet!” Cawman squeaked.

Fryman stopped again at the front corner of the house the Marines were passing. “More of them coming,” he radioed, “and they’re right here.”

One of the passing armed men suddenly stopped and looked to his right, between the houses where the chameleoned Marines were. He didn’t hear or see anything out of place, but something felt wrong about the side yards. He twisted to point his shotgun into the yards and jerked the trigger.

Fryman shot him.

Fourth squad, by then right behind Fryman, opened up on the passing men, flaming holes through many of them. The others ran, ignoring commands to get down and fire between the houses. A few flung wild shots behind themselves as they ran.

“Let’s go,” Rollings ordered. “Move!” The Marines sprinted across the street, chased by gunfire from Center Street.

“Third squad,” Rollings ordered, “put a few rounds into them.”

Third squad went prone, facing back the way they’d come, and fired into the men they saw moving between the houses from Center Street. When the men from Center Street stopped shooting, and nobody else was entering the side yards, third squad got up and sprinted after the other Marines.

Two minutes later, all the Marines were out of Gilbert’s Corners and headed generally southwest. Continuing gunfire in Gilbert’s Corners receded behind them.

Once they were a few hundred meters south of the village and there was no sign of pursuit, Rollings had third squad head for its puddle jumpers on its own. He stayed with first squad and had fourth squad join them for security—and to trade off carrying the stasis bag—until they reached first squad’s cached puddle jumpers. Within hours of the Battle of Gilbert’s Corners, all of the Marines had their puddle jumpers and were assembled at the pickup point where the AstroGhost was to take them up to the Kiowa.

Heb Cawman had been carried slung between Corporals Nomonon and Jaschke. With Gunny Lytle’s firm grip off his bruised arm, he felt free to scream the entire time he was airborne.