David Drake - The Forlorn Hope

"That observation post's still manned," said Sergeant Mboko. "They had a light on last night."

"Campbellsaid he smashed the monitors beforehe leap-frogged in," Jo Hummel responded. "Unless they switched gear from the south OP, then it's visual only. And I doubt any of the indigs could figure out how to connect Class 3 sensors even if they did try." Hummel was still looking at Dwyer. He would not meet her eyes.

"Well," said Sergeant Jensen, "I like it better than trying to enter along the truck route. And that was the best choiceI'd heard."

"Even if the sensors aren't working," said Sergeant Mboko patiently, "there are guards there. If anything happens, we've still got to get down the back slope and through the bunkers after they're alerted. That's just what you were afraid of if they'd mined the Colonel's corridor."

"No, it'll still work," said Waldstejn with sudden animation. His headache had dulled to a background level after they halted. The muscle cramps and bruises were almost a pleasure by comparison. "I'll be the first one through. If anything happens, a shot or somebody hits the alarm, I'll be right there at the radio. Nobody on night duty in Headquarters is going to worry if he's told in Czech it's all right."

"God dammit, you arenot going to do that," Sergeant Hummel insisted with real anger. "No goddam body but you has a prayer of making a deal with that spacer. Things are tight enough anyway without a bunch of us trying to introduce ourself while all hell breaks loose." She paused, breathing hard. "Nothing wrong with the plan, though," she muttered. "I'll go first instead."

The Cecach officer sighed and struck both his palms against the ground. A thorn jabbed the heel of his right hand. "Sergeant," he said, "we aren't talking about being understood. If the first thing the duty officer hears after a shot at the OP is somebody muttering pidgin on the radio, he's not even going towonder what happened. He's going to know, and he's going to hit the general alarm so fast his hand blurs. This isn't hero time, this is business."

"Well, hell, your kid can do it then," said Churchie Dwyer.

They had forgotten him. The command group turned in surprise to an unexpected voice. The muttered statement made sense only to Waldstejn anyway. In the brief pause, the Cecach captain said, "Private Hodicky? Ah, I don't think-"

"Well, why not then, dammit?" Jo Hummel ' interrupted. "He's a native speaker and he's damned well expendable!"

The Captain's mind flashed red, but no retort was called for. In the present circumstances, 'expendable' was a technical term, like 'dead'. A factor to take into account.

In any case, it was impossible to object to Sergeant Hummel's characterization when she had just volunteered to take the lead position herself. Waldstejn said, "I think we've got to class Private Hodicky with the walking wounded. His friend, you know, Quade-that was a bad shock to him."

"It's going to be a worse shock if they're waiting and kill us all!" Hussein ben Mehdi burst out. "The only way we got out alive was they were all looking the other way. And this is theRubes, not the bone-brains in the 522nd!"

"Hey," said Trooper Dwyer.

The others ignored him. "That's right, Captain," said Sergeant Mboko. "They need that big a garrison if they're going to keep the Complex going with all those civilians."

"Ten to one odds if we crash in," Hummel agreed harshly."And them in bunkers, likely with heavy weapons this time. Who the hell do you think weare, an armored division?"

"Captain!" said Churchie Dwyer. For the first time, the veteran trooper had lifted his head toward the command group and had spoken distinctly. They looked back at him. "Captain," Dwyer said, reverting to his normal whining tone toward superiors, "the kid'll be OK. He's coming around. And he'll be OK."

Waldstejn sighed. He began picking at the thorn in his palm. "We've got a lot of choice, don't we?" he said to his hands. Then he looked up. "All right, Hodicky will be with the leading element to cover in an emergency," he said crisply. "Thank you, Pri-Trooper."

Churchie Dwyer dipped his head in response. He slid backward, looking for a placemore clear of brush so that he could turn around. Albrecht Waldstejn called after him, "Trooper? We'll brief him later, of course, but-would you tell Pavel about this? Give him a little more warning."

Churchie nodded again. As Dwyer crawled away, the Cecach officer was saying, "All right, the observation post is nearer where we want to go; but da we have details of the bunkers along that section of the compound?"

The markers were stakes of brush split lengthwise so that their white cores faced the oncoming troops. Tape would have been better, but they did not have tape, did not have wire-did not even have cloth which would not determinedly blend in with its surroundings. Directly ahead of Pavel Hodicky, Churchie Dwyer grunted as he thrust another stake into the ground. He began to crawl forward, angling to the right this time.

The Cecach private had not thought about the mines at all during the time he was stationed at Smiricky #4. The mines had been strewn around the valley years before in much the same way that the cluster bombs had been dropped during the Republican attack. They were laid on the reverse slopes instead of being targeted on the valley itself, of course; and unli'ke thebombs, they did not arm themselves until they had been exposed to the air for an hour or two. After that, they slowly weathered to the look of rocks the size of a child's fist. They remained lethal until they were detonated, and a kilogram's pressure or less was quite enough to set them off.

"Another stake!"Churchie whispered.

Hodicky passed one to the veteran, taking another in turn from Del Hoybrin behind him. Colonel Fasolini's escape route had been a genuine corridor, cleared to a minimum width of two meters. It had a single dog-leg in it so that a fortunate intruder could not simply follow his nose across the minefield; but the escape route had been intended for fast use under adverse circumstances.

Churchie Dwyer had not needed such a corridor, -nor could he have have cleared one without being caught. Wherever possible, Dwyer had skirted mines which lay in his immediate way. Only when chance had sewn an area too thickly to be avoided had he actually removed mines. There was no safe way to do that except by blowing them in place. Trooper Hoybrin had carefully dropped a hundred-kilo sack of dirt on each mine while his partner prayed that both the blast and the noise would be adequately absorbed.

The path which resulted from the troopers' combined labors was a snake trail. Churchie himself was muttering gloomy appraisals. Pavel Hodicky would have been terrified of what he was doing, except that he was even more terrified of what he might be about to do.

Hodicky had been issued a helmet salvaged from one of the four dead. It had blood on the inner lining, but that wasnot why he did not wear it now. Bareheaded, with the darkerWoodland pattern of his uniform turnedout, Hodicky might for a moment pass for a Rube soldier. The off-planet precision of the metal-fiber helmet would mark him at once to anyone who saw it; and Hodicky had learned very early in life that the top of his head was generally going to be the first part of him people saw.

Dwyer paused again. Hodicky had been following by watching the veteran's boots and pretending there was nothing else around him. Now Churchie was gesturing forward with one crooked finger. The Cecach private forced himself to look.

Slightly above them and less than three meters away was the sand-bagged end of a shelter. Two narrow firing slits had been left in the facing wall. The light from within the shelter made the slits glare at Hodicky like the eyes of a predator.