David Drake: The Forlorn Hope

"Why are you so sure the bomber won't be shot down?" Lieutenant Waldstejn asked. He craned his neck out of the shelter but kept Fasolini in the corner of his eye. The whole floor of the valley swirled like mist from a lake at sunrise. Bomblets which had been flung wide left ragged clots of dust up to the ridge lines and beyond. The explosions had started a few grass fires, now blurred in with the dust pall but sure soon to replace it. "Matter of fact, I'm surprised I don't hear the lasers firing by now."

Fasolini settled himself against a wall. The shelter was unassigned. It had been set up between the Colonel'sOperationsCenter on the compound perimeter and the building of the Complex which housed the 522nd's HQ. The Colonel was a cautious man. He had provided for just the sort of eventuality which had occurred-an attack sudden enough to catch people between the headquarters. Hunching his shoulders to keep the X of his crossbelt from biting him, the mercenary said, "They aren't firing because they don't have a target. And the bomber won't be shot down because it's not a bomber, it's a starship. Only time they need toworry's when they're out of their hyperspace envelope to fire-" he snapped a thumb and finger for emphasis, loud as a pistol shot- "or when somebody goes after them in another spacer. You know how long it takes to get a starship programmed to operate this close to a planet. They must've spent weeks, and it'll be weeks before your side puts anything up to stop them." The older man frowned. "Not that I think they'll hang aroundthat long," he concluded.

"But why here?" Waldstejn said, aloud but more to himself than to his companion. They were speaking in English, the tongue of convenience throughout the human universe. Fasolini had a smattering of a score of languages. He could ask for directions or a woman on most planets. Waldstejn, however, had only his native Czech and business-course English. A month as acting liaison with the mercenaries had sharpened his English into a fluency equalled only by the multi-lingual curses he had picked up in the same school.

"Why the hell's that gun firing?" the Colonel said, frowning toward the northeast corner of the compound. Waldstejn knew the automatic cannonwas emplaced there, toward the most probable channel for armor but almost a kilometer away from the nearest mercenary position. The plan in Praha had been to seed pairs of mercenaries every four hundred meters or so along the perimeter. Fasolini had agreed to man observation posts on both ridge lines-the mercenaries' electronics were an order of magnitude better than Cecach manufactures. Further, Fasolini had agreed to put the cannon at least temporarily where it was most potentially useful. But after taking a good look at the 522nd Garrison Battalion, the Colonel had told Major Lichtenstein that he had no intention of putting his whole force out in packets which would be left with their asses swinging as soon as something popped. You cannot stiffen gelatine with B-Bs; and you could not keep cannon fodder from running just because there was one team still firing within earshot. Most of the Company was therefore bivouacked on a short segment of the northern perimeter.

That meant the cannon was far enough away that Lieutenant Waldstejn had forgotten it. The distance had also thickened the sharp muzzle blasts into something quite different from what he had heard-painfully-during a demonstration firing when the Company first arrived. Waldstejn's lips pursed in speculation.

Fasolini touched the wear-polished spot on his helmet that keyed the radio. He said, "Top to Guns.

What thehell do you think you're upto. Roland? Shut her down before our whole fee goes up the spout!"

The mercenary listened a moment. To Waldstejn, out of the net, the reply was only a tinny burr like that of a distant cicada. The gun continued to fire its eight shots a second, regular as a chronometer.

"Listen, I was on bloodySedalia too," the Colonel shouted suddenly. "I don'tcare what you figured, I'm not having ammo / buy pissed down a- Waldstejn touched the older man on the shoulder. "I'll clear it, Guido," he said. "I'll get an acquisition request off today."

"Hold on!" Fasolini snapped. He took his fingertip from the communicator control. "What do you mean, you'll clear it?" he demanded."You don't have authority to supply one of those mothersthere isn't a unit like it in the whole bloody Federal army."

"And by the time somebody in Military Accounts has figured that out," the local man said reasonably, "we'll both have long white beards. Look, the noise'll make a few of them-" he waved. The breeze carried a burden of faint moans, people too slow or too ignorant to get under cover before the bombs hit- "think they're in a battle, not an abattoir. Requests from independent commands have an automatic clearance up to fifteen thousand crowns-and believe me, the Major knows better than to flag a chitI've approved." The pride in Waldstejn's voice was as obvious as it was justified.

Fasolini squinted at the younger man. Instead of replying directly, the mercenary keyed his communicator again. "Top to Guns," he said. "All right, you've got clearance, Roland. But it's still a bloody waste." To Waldstejn alone he added, "Damned fool thinks they'll be programmed to whip-saw back and forth on the same track, so if he keeps enough crap in the air they'll fly right into-"

The sky flashed a yellow that went white and terrible in the same instant. Fasolini's mouth froze in shocked surmise. Both men leaped up to stare skyward, even though they knew the bombs were soon to follow.

Sergeants Breisach and Ondru were shrieking in the bare lobby of the warehouse where the wave of anti-personnel bombs had caught them. The sheet-metal roof was in scraps and tatters that writhed with by-products of the explosions. Sunlight poured through the dozen meter-diameter holes and the myriads of pinheads stabbed by fragments. The metal had stopped most of the glass-fiber shrapnel itself, but blast-melted droplets of the roof had sprayed down on the lobby.

The sergeants had timed their visit to be sure that the Supply Officer himself was absent. They had a proposal to which they had expected the two privates on duty would agree without argument. Instead, they had received flat refusals. Now neither of the non-coms was seriously injured, but the shower of molten iron had not improved tempers which opposition had already frayed.

Private Hodicky rose gingerly from behind the counter. He boosted himself to the top of it. Hodicky was only a meter fifty-six in height. He could not have seen the floor simply by craning his neck over the broad counter. A splash of metal the size of a thumbnail crackled from a request form on the counter. It left a brown discoloration on the paper. "Are you guys all right?" the Private asked nervously.

Behind Hodicky stood Jirik Quade-dark and scowling and quite obviously regretful that both sergeants were able to get to their feet under their own power. Quade ran a hand through his hair, trying to comb out the flecks shaken from the walls and ceiling by the bombing.

The warehouse personnel had been protected by the counter-top itself. In the lobby, Sergeant Ondru's uniform looked as if he had been dragged through barbed wire on his back, and the tear in Breisach's scalp was no less bloody for being superficial. Breisach's obscenities were uncontrolled and unintelligible, but Ondru retained enough rationality to pick a scapegoat.

Ondru leaped to the counter. He was tall enough to look Hodicky straight in the eye, even before he gripped the Private by the collar and dragged him forward.

"Now Sarge-" the little private cried, scrabbling at the back edge of the counter to avoid being pulled onto the lobby floor. "Now Sarge, we didn't-"

"You little bastard!"Ondru shrieked. "You kept the gate closed so we eouldn't get in under cover, didn't you? Hoped we'd be killed! Well, you little prick, I'll show you killed!"