The Forlorn Hope Page 7

  When the three prisoners were inside the liquor cabinet, Waldstejn waved the rifle in Quade's direction. For the Private's sake in the aftermath, Waldstejn had to make it clear that his subordinate had nothing to do with what was happening. "Private Quade," the young lieutenant said loudly. "I'm deserting." He paused while he closed up the cabinet. The hinges squealed like the damned in torment. Winking again—he had to be sure Quade did not think that the threat was serious—the officer continued, "You can get bolt cutters and free them as soon as I'm gone, but if you move a muscle while I'm here I'll shoot you down like a dog."

  Waldstejn's belt still hung on the chair out front, so he thrust the pistol into his side pocket. He stepped quickly to the arms locker—another shipping container—and opened it.

  Private Hodicky slipped out from behind the ration boxes which had hidden him until the prisoners were locked in. "What can we do, Lieutenant?" he whispered.

  "Go back to bed and pretend you were asleep," Waldstejn whispered back. He had to tug harder to open the arms' locker than he had the more frequently used liquor store. "On second thought," he said, glancing at the dark-haired Quade, "make sure he knows what's going on and doesn't get himself into trouble. I only need a couple minutes."

  The arms locker held a variety of unassigned pieces and munitions, from anti-tank rockets on down. All Lieutenant Waldstejn needed was a canister of ammunition for the rifle he had appropriated. They were not going to be able to carry much, he and the mercenaries. The Company would probably have a spare weapon for Waldstejn, in fact. But the Cecach officer knew that he would be useless against the bruising recoil of one of the meres' cone-bore guns. Better to carry an assault rifle and at least be able to spray the countryside with it if the need arose.

  He turned back to his subordinates, clutching a ten-kilo can of ammunition by the handle. There was no time to worry about bandoliers and other gear, though he would pick up his belt as he went out. Hodicky was whispering with his mouth close to his friend's ear. Quade was no longer frowning. His face was quiet and as unexpectedly shocking as a razor blade in an apple. Waldstejn swallowed. "I told you not to move!" he shouted to prove to the prisoners that he had not left yet. He strode toward the door, weighted by the rifle and ammunition filling his hands.

  Hodicky touched the tall officer's sleeve. "Good luck, sir," he whispered.

  Lieutenant Albrecht Waldstejn, late Supply Officer of the 522nd Garrison Battalion, nodded back.

  He did not trust himself to speak.

  * * * *

  "Off and on, children!" cried Roland Jensen as he dropped into the gun section's double shelter. He slapped the sole of Herzenberg's right boot for emphasis.

  The four troopers in the shelter jerked alert. The males had been playing a desultory game of Casino. They were using an infra-red signal lamp for light and reading the pips through their night visors. "Your weapons, two basic loads of ammo, and three days rations. Now, now!"

  Jensen's own field pack was already strapped to the back of the gun seat. He swung back outside again.

  Guiterez stuck his head and shoulders out through the end curtain. He was rolling the Casino cloth. "Where we shifting, Sarge?" he asked. "Is this a patrol?"

  "For the moment, we're shifting to the OC on my own authority," the section leader said harshly. He locked a second can of ammunition into the one that was always loaded in the cannon. "Now shut up, get your ass in gear, and do exactly what I goddam tell you.”

  The Sergeant-Gunner loaded a third drum. That should be enough, a balance between functioning and the chance there would be no one alive to feed the gun after the first blasts of a firefight. He waited, breathing hard as he surveyed the compound through his visor. Bright needles 01 amplified light marked each of the locally-manned bunkers. They were constructed of earth over steel planking. That looked far sturdier than the Company's beryllium felt, but when the bombs had hit that morning, two of the heavy roofs had been shaken down and suffocated the troops beneath.

  The necklace of Cecach dug-outs ended in a dark gap a kilometer south of the automatic cannon. Fasolini's shelters had no crowns of light, even on maximum enhancement by the visors. If Jensen had wanted to, he could have located even those by switching to infra-red. The plumes of body heat from the personnel would give away the positions even if no one inside were using an IR light source.

  The gun crew tumbled out. Pavlovich held Herzenberg's pack as well as his own. The recruit was good, though; she would shake down. Another month of campaigning with the Colonel and she would be ready to shift at the drop of a hat.

  Jensen twisted his seat forward into driving position. "Everybody aboard," he said. "This time you ride. And for God's sake, keep your eyes open."

  The gun began to judder forward on its tracks even as the crew obeyed the unexpected order. Jensen never permitted anyone to ride the cannon as if it were transport and not a weapon. The extra load drained the batteries and strained the running gear.

  Somebody looked out of the nearest bunker as they passed with the inevitable chatter of loose tracks. Jensen divided his attention between his course and the bulk of the local headquarters in the center of the Complex. Colonel Fasolini would handle things, he always did.

  But if worst came to worst, nobody was going to take Gunner Jensen's crew without paying the price.

  "Where's a pair of bolt cutters?" demanded Jirik Quade as the front door closed behind Lieutenant Waldstejn. Quade himself ducked into the open arms locker.

  Private Hodicky looked in surprise at his black-haired friend. He and the Supply Officer had assumed that Quade would simply refuse to open the makeshift prison at all. Such a dereliction would implicate Quade in the incident needlessly, because a few minutes' start was all that Waldstejn required. "Ah, Q," Hodicky said, "let's don't be in too much of a rush, huh?" He pitched his voice low so that the prisoners could not hear his hesitation.

  Sergeant Ondru's resonant threats from within the liquor store would have covered the words anyway. "Quade, you crap-head," the non-com was bellowing, "if we're not out of here in thirty seconds it'll be Morale Section for you, not just the glasshouse. God be my witness, I'll have you shot! I know you planned this with him, and you'll by God regret it."

  Quade lunged back out of the arms locker as abruptly as he had entered it. He carried a loaded rifle by the handle at its balance. "Pavel," he shouted angrily, "the cutters—I told you to get the—hell, never mind. I'll use this!"

  "Hodicky, you little turd!" Ondru boomed. "It's your neck too, I swear on my mother's grave!"

  The black-haired private snatched up the tubing he had carried when he burst in on Waldstejn and his escort. The tube was about half his own height, a thick-walled section from a hydraulic suspension. It had made an excellent weapon; now it served as a crowbar as well.

  Quade set down the assault rifle. While Ondru continued to shout threats from inside, the Private slipped his tube through the lock strap. He caught the end of the tube under the edge of the hasp riveted to the door. Using the hasp as a fulcrum, Quade tugged at the tube. Nothing gave. Quade braced his toes under the edge of the door.

  "Q," said Private Hodicky, "wait, I'll get the bolt—"

  "God damn it!" Quade shouted. Tendons sprang into high relief on his throat and wrists. The length of tubing flexed. Seams started at both shoulders of the little man's uniform. Hasp and lock bounced across the room as the rivets gave way. "Mother of God," Quade muttered as he slumped against the door. His lever, noticeably bowed, clanged on the floor.

  "Get this open, you bastards," called the Sergeant.

  Quade stepped away from the container. "Well, do it, Pavel," he ordered huskily. "Open the goddam doors."

  Hodicky obeyed with a feeling of trapped fear. He spent his life skating over the thin ice of others' angers, others' needs, but this was an open abyss beyond his control or understanding. He pulled open the outer leaf. The inner one sprang back under the weight of Sergeant Ondru. On the floor behind him
sat Doubek. The wounded man moaned and held the thigh which none of the three prisoners had thought to bandage. Janko waited hesitantly as well. He was more than willing to let Ondru carry the burden of informing their superiors of what had occurred.

  Ondru's rage was bomb-fierce. It drove him out into the warehouse with a roar. "Now you little s—" he began. There was a pause. In a wholly different voice, the non-com continued, "Quade, what do you think you're doing with that rif—"

  Quade shot the Sergeant through the center of the chest.

  The assault rifle had a burst control which disconnected the sear after five shots, even if the trigger were still depressed. Quade squeezed the trigger eight times to empty the forty-round magazine. Hodicky screamed and stared at his friend to avoid seeing what was happening to the Sergeant.

  The weapon fired light, glass-cored bullets which had little accuracy or striking power beyond three hundred meters. Point blank, as here, the bullets burned holes in thin steel and pulped flesh like a sausage mill. Liquor containers burst as the bottles within them exploded. The air stank of alcohol and blood as Ondru fell backward. Quade's rifle continued to spit round after round into the cra-tered chest. The limbs spasmed and the mouth gaped until a bullet shattered the chin. With horror, Hodicky noticed the gunman's fingers continued to pump the trigger even after the magazine had dropped automatically from the loading well to make room for a fresh one.

  Hodicky nerved himself to touch his friend's shoulder. "Q," he said, "it's okay now. Loosen up." His head ached with terror and the muzzle blasts.

  Sergeant Ondru's head and shoulders had been sawn away from his lower body. Liquor was gurgling from the ravaged cartons and was beginning to pool around the corpse. Neither Janko nor Doubek had been touched by bullets, though a shard of bottle had torn the seated man's face unnoticed. Both of them stared at the gunman. Their faces and clothing gleamed with their Sergeant's blood.

  "Think I'm a faggot, do you, Ondru?" Quade muttered under his breath. He shuddered and turned from the carnage. "Pavel," he said in a normal voice, "I'm going with the Lieutenant. You and him are the only people who ever treated me decent, and I wasn't going to last here without him. You know that." Quade locked a fresh magazine into his rifle, then lifted a canister of ammunition. "See you around," the black-haired man said, using his full hands as an excuse to prevent an embrace.

  "Hey, I'm coming too," Hodicky said brightly. "Sure, I'll—I'll come too." He turned to the door.

  "Wait a minute," said Quade. He was frowning again. "Sure you want to do that?"

  "Gee, it's like you said," Hodicky insisted. "With the Lieutenant gone, our ass was grass for sure."

  "Well, get a rifle then," Quade said bluntly. "We'll need it."

  "Q, I—" Hodicky began. He stepped into the arms locker, taking a rifle and canister as the others had done. "Let's roll," he said in the cheerful, brittle voice of a moment before. He had not loaded the rifle.

  Janko and Doubek watched the two follow their lieutenant. Neither of Ondru's men spoke or moved from the open locker for over a minute after the others had gone.

  * * * *

  "The hell that wasn't shooting," Churchie Dwyer insisted. He stepped to the front opening from which Del Hoybrin still surveyed the interior of the compound. "You heard it, Del, didn't you?"

  "If you say so, Churchie," the big man agreed.

  "It was somebody trying to start an engine," said Bertinelli as he loaded a chip viewer. "Too hollow for a gun."

  A visored head thrust through the back curtain. In the voice of Hussein ben Mehdi, it said, "Doc, I want you to be ready in case something blows yet tonight," Then, "Dwyer? Is that you?" Churchie was recognizable with his visor down only because he stood next to the huge bulk of Trooper Hoybrin. It was pointless to direct a request for information to Del, of course. "Why aren't you two at your posts?"

  "Sir," said Churchie with the deference which came easily when he was not looking for trouble, "Sergeant Hummel relieved us because of our wounds. They have to be dressed every four hours, you—what the hell is that?"

  "It's Sergeant Jensen and the gun," said Del as his friend spun to see what was making the noise. The corpsman frowned and stepped forward, trying to get a look past the shoulders of the other men.

  Lieutenant ben Mehdi backed out of the medical station to look for himself. The OC shelter was only fifty meters away. He had preferred to walk over with his directions to Bertinelli rather than to put his nervousness on the air. Now ben Mehdi called plaintively, "What are you doing here, Guns? Did the Colonel—?" He stopped.

  Jensen braked the gun carriage from the fast walk at which he had brought it from the head of the valley. The whine of its linkless tracks ceased. The Gunner stood and rotated his seat back into the firing position. "This will do for now," he said to his crew. "Dismount but stay close."

  Only then did the blond sergeant walk over to Lieutenant ben Mehdi. He lifted his helmet visor so that he could speak without its muffling. In a very low voice, Jensen said, "Sir, I came in without orders. My boys were out. in West Bumfuck and I didn't want them left if folks started climbing trucks in a hurry."

  Ben Mehdi grimaced beneath his own face shield, then lifted it. "I would to Allah that Guido—" he began. He broke off when Dwyer called, "Visitors, people."

  Someone in Cecach fatigues was panting toward the Operations Center from the direction of the Complex itself. Sergeant Jensen eyed ben Mehdi a moment. The Lieutenant paused uncertainly. Jensen gave a shrill, carrying whistle and unslung his shoulder weapon. "Over here," he called to the newcomer. "And you can leave what you're carrying, just for now."

  It was unlikely that, however badly the Colonel's negotiations were going, the indigs were going to send a sapper to bomb the OC. It was also cheaper not to take the chance.

  The newcomer dropped his burden. As the man approached at a staggering jog, both ben Mehdi and the non-com recognized him as Waldstejn, the local Supply Officer. He was blown from the half-kilometer run, but the exertion had also damped his nervousness. "Where's the Colonel?" Waldstejn demanded. "Need to see him fast."

  Sergeant Jensen eased and ben Mehdi found his tongue. "I thought you might know," the mercenary officer said. "He was with your people." Ben Mehdi gestured toward the Headquarters building. "Or did you come from the warehouse?"

  "Mary, Mother of God," Lieutenant Waldstejn wheezed. He bent over with his hands on his knees to draw deep breaths. The assault rifle which he gripped clattered on his right shin. "All right," he said, straightening abruptly. The eyes of the gun crew and the troopers who had been in the medical station were on him. "They're going to kill you, trade your lives for an easy deal themselves. Lichtenstein and the rest."

  Churchie Dwyer whistled a snatch of tune under his breath, but no one interrupted.

  "You've got outposts north and south on the ridges?" the Federal officer asked.

  "North only," said ben Mehdi. "We've loaned your people the gear on the other side."

  "Call them in, back here," Waldstejn said. "Like the gun, good, but you'll have to leave it because—"

  "Who the hell are you to give orders?" demanded Sergeant Jensen.

  "Look," Albrecht Waldstejn pleaded, "I won't have the bastards kill you. For God's sake, take my word for it till Guido gets back. I can maybe find you a way out, but we've got to move!'

  Lieutenant ben Mehdi touched his commo key. "Black One," he called in a voice even tenser than usual under the circumstances, "this is Red Two. Bring in the Listening Post at once. Disable the gear, just bring them in."

  "Sarge," called one of the gun crewmen. Two more figures were stumbling across the clear area between the Complex and the bunkers surrounding its perimeter.

  Waldstejn stiffened. His goggles were not as efficient as the mercenaries' visors. "There were some guards," he began, "but I don't think they'd—oh!" The two short figures in Federal cammies could be only Quade and Hodicky, the damned fools. "They're mine," Waldstejn said, "it's all r
ight."

  The Privates approached the group around their lieutenant. They were in better shape than the run had left Waldstejn. The Cecach officer ignored them. He said to Jensen and ben Mehdi, "You've got a path through the mines besides the one along the pylons to the west, right?" The mercenaries nodded. "Right," continued Lieutenant Waldstejn. "You can create a diversion around the trucks—"

  All the mercenaries stiffened as their helmets popped on the command channel. There were no words over the radio. The night suddenly flashed and crackled with gunfire in front of the battalion headquarters. Troopers spun up the electronic magnification of their gunsights and strained to see why half a dozen assault rifles had fired.

  Del Hoybrin had been watching Headquarters even before the shooting. He flipped his face shield up and out of the way to keep it from interfering with his cheek-weld on his gun stock.

  "Del!" Churchie shouted beside him.

  The open door of the building five hundred meters away was a perfect aiming point. Hoybrin fired a three-round burst. His big body rocked back. Leaning into the weapon, he fired again. The yellow rectangle of light down-range smeared ragged as poured concrete shattered under the impact of the osmium missiles. One of the Federal riflemen began spraying the night in nervous flickers. His chances of hitting anything at the range were next to nothing.

  Del Hoybrin fired a third burst before Dwyer wrestled up the muzzle of the gun. None of the other mercenaries had tried to interfere. They had gone flat on their bellies, watching the big man with a caution born of experience. "Del!" Churchie screamed, "don't shoot now!"

  Albrecht Waldstejn and his men had dropped to the ground a moment after the mercenaries had done so. "God help us," the Cecach officer said to ben Mehdi. "Let's get to your Operations Center and try to sort this out fast."

  "But Churchie," Del Hoybrin was saying in surprise. "I was watching them. They just killed the Colonel."

  * * * *

  "The lights!" shouted Captain Brionca. "Turn out the lights!"

  Strojnowski might have been soldier enough to risk it, but he was more interested in rolling outside to learn what was going on. The squad on guard was from his own Third Company.