Starfist: FlashFire (11 page)

The part of the post exchange building they were in had once been the women’s wear department. The sergeant major had torn a dress into strips and was using them to stanch the flow of blood from his severed leg. “Didn’t bring a first-aid kit and I think all our medics are down,” he said, leaning back and relaxing as Carman tightened the tourniquet. The sergeant major’s face was white from loss of blood and his lips were turning blue. “You got a cigarette on you?” he asked.

“I don’t smoke, Sergeant Major. Sorry. Look, you stay here, I’m gonna find a medic.”

The old NCO put a hand on Carman’s arm, “Don’t mind, lad, I’ve lost too much blood. These boys took a direct hit from a heavy shell, wiped out half the company. You go over there and see the captain. He can use your help more than I can.” He closed his eyes.

“Captain! Captain!” Carman yelled.

“Who the hell are you?” the stocky officer demanded.

“Sergeant Carman, Bravo Company, Sir! Sir, the sergeant major needs a medic,” he gestured to where the old soldier lay.

The captain only shook his head. “Old fool,” he muttered but it was said in the way young men talk about older men they admire, “he should’ve stayed up at battalion headquarters, but you know him, always out with the troops.” He shook his head. “I don’t know where the hell my medics are—most of my NCOs and officers for that matter! We got plastered in here, goddamnit! Who’d you say you were again?”

“Sergeant Car—”

“See those men over there setting up the Arrows? That’s what’s left of my third platoon. Their platoon sergeant and officer are down. You get your ass over there and take charge. Mohammed’s toenails, I’ve got goddamn PFCs acting as squad leaders! You are now Platoon Sergeant—what’s your name again, son?”

“Carman, sir.”

“—Platoon Sergeant Carman. Bravo Company doesn’t exist anymore, Sergeant. You’re my man now.”

“But the sergeant major, sir!”

“He’s dead. Get to work,” the captain spun on his heel and gave orders to some other men.

“They’re
coming
!” someone shouted. It got very quiet among the men of Charlie Company in the women’s wear department of the Fort Seymour post exchange.

Private Solden struggled to control his breathing. He found that cursing to himself helped. “Come on, come on, you bastard, come on!” he whispered. “I’m going to get you, you bastard, I’m going to get you!” As the lead tank in the column loomed bigger and bigger Solden knew that if he remained calm he could not miss. If he could stop that one tank the others in the column would be blocked and that would give the men in the fallback positions time to bring up more antitank weapons and to reinforce the line against the infantry assault that was sure to follow.

He thought he was familiar with the machine approaching him. It had thick sloped armor plating on the front. To stop it he’d have to get his missile to detonate at the point where the armor plate met the turret, otherwise the missile could bounce harmlessly off the glacis plating. The Straight Arrows could penetrate the thickest armor, but only if they hit straight on, so the shaped charge inside the warhead could burn its way through to explode inside the machine. That would be a very difficult shot under these conditions. He knew the best way he could make it count for sure was to let the monster get almost on top of him before he fired. But he could not let it get out into the small plaza before the main gate, otherwise there’d be room for the rest of the column to drive around it, so he’d have to take his one and only shot at a range of about one hundred meters! Or: run out into the plaza, get close enough to be sure he couldn’t miss, and fire the M72—in full view of the tank gunners.

Private Alee Solden picked up his weapon and ran.

The people who lived on the world known as Cabala were very religious. They frequently had epiphanies during which the Spirit of the Lord would be revealed to them in all its stunning glory. Such experiences could come upon the people of Cabala at almost any time. They relished them and honored those who had them and rejoiced in their revelations. Thus the gunner on board the lead tank approaching what was left of Fort Seymour did not see Private Alee Solden running toward him; he saw an Angel of the Lord and unbounded joy seized him, consumed him so thoroughly he never heard his tank commander screaming, “Kill him! Kill him!” in his headset. And then a sunburst enveloped him and lifted him to heaven on fiery wings.

The column was stopped, just as Private Solden hoped it would be and the 3rd Division’s artillery slaughtered the infantry behind it. But then the fighter-bombers returned and other columns easily broke through different parts of the unmanned perimeter and began a relentless pounding of the remaining defenders, forcing them inexorably back into Bataan.

Private Alee Solden was never heard of again.

General Alistair Cazombi’s face was drawn and pale in the dim light of his command bunker. For three days and nights the enemy had been pounding them relentlessly but infantry and armor had not been able to cross the plain that separated the Main Post from Bataan. Brigadier Sorca had integrated the remains of his division into Cazombi’s defenses and he had agreed without argument that as the ranking surviving officer, Cazombi was to command the remaining Confederation forces on Ravenette, and he would serve under his orders. In fact, Major General Cazombi was the senior representative of the Confederation in that whole sector of Human Space because the Confederation consulate had been silent since the attack began. Either the diplomats were prisoners or they had been sent packing; the naval base on Chilianwala likewise had not been heard from so it was assumed that it had also been taken.

On the fourth day, there was a lull in the fighting and an officer bearing a white flag drove toward them in a command car. He was now sitting opposite General Cazombi, his blindfold removed.

“General, General Lyons sends his greetings and wishes you to review the terms he is proposing for your surrender.”

“Coffee, Colonel?” Cazombi asked. The emissary shook his head. The terms were written on a sheet of paper, not recorded on a crystal, and that made Cazombi smile. So typical of a throwback like Davis Lyons, he thought. “Return to General Lyons with my compliments, sir, and tell him we shall review these terms and respond within an hour.”

The Coalition colonel stood. “Sir, you have put up a splendid defense. Your troops fought valiantly.

We wish to end this slaughter. Please consider General Lyons’s terms, General. There would be no dishonor in your surrender.”

“Thank you. I have to discuss this with my officers.”

“These terms are very generous,” Brigadier Sorca admitted after he’d scanned the paper. “I think the terms will be observed with punctiliousness. And my men don’t have much fight left in them, sir.”

General Cazombi could have disagreed with that statement but he chose to say nothing. “Gentlemen?” he looked at the small group of senior officers standing in around him. “A show of hands? Those in favor of surrender, raise a hand.” All but one officer—a colonel who’d commanded a brigade, now decimated—raised their hands. “It looks almost unanimous, gentlemen. Colonel, why do you disagree?”

The colonel stepped forward. He was a big, red-faced man and his hands were swathed in bandages. “Because, General, when I swore my oath as an officer, I swore never to surrender my men so long as I had the means to resist. We still have those means, sir, thanks to your foresight,” he glanced at Sorca, who shot him a killing look. “To surrender now would dishonor the men who served under me and who sacrificed their lives obedient to orders.”

The room had gone silent except for the subdued crackling of the communications systems as outposts reported in. Work had stopped momentarily because everyone in the bunker knew what was going on and they all watched the small knot of officers intently.

“Good point, Colonel. Anybody have anything to add?” Nobody spoke up. Brigadier General Sorca glared at the colonel and the other officers stared at the floor. “All right, gentlemen, we fight on.” He held up a hand to forestall any further argument. “Yesterday I dispatched a Doomsday drone outlining our situation and requesting immediate reinforcement. We shall hold out in the hope that reinforcements arrive.”

“You
what
—” Sorca blurted. “You—you made up your mind before we had this conference?”

“I just made up my mind, General, now that I’ve seen Lyons’s terms. Now that we’ve discussed them I reject them.”

“But it’ll take three weeks before the drone reaches Earth!” Sorca exclaimed. “And who knows how long after that until a relief force can be dispatched much less get here to do us any good! Goddamnit, General, we cannot possibly hold out that long!”

“Three weeks less one day, General,” Cazombi replied calmly. “Gentlemen, return to your commands and duties. When and if surrender becomes imminent, we shall dispatch a second drone. Until that becomes our only alternative, I want no more talk of surrender.”

He turned and retired behind the curtain that divided his small sleeping cubicle from the rest of the command post. He sighed and sat at his field desk and took a folded piece of paper out of a pocket. He had written a difficult message on it during the night. It was intended for the second drone, if one was ever sent. “Madam President,” it began, “it is with head bowed in sorrow but not in shame that I have the sad duty to inform your Excellency that today,” the date and time were left blank, “I have arranged for the surrender of the remaining Confederation forces at Fort Seymour on Ravenette . . .” He had not gotten any further. He had wanted to add something about the valor of his troops and commend them for the fight they’d put up, but he felt superstitious about doing that while they still had a chance. He could write something flowery and deathless when the time came. And if he wasn’t around to write it, well, somebody else would have the chance to go down in history. He folded the paper and put it back into his pocket.

Now, for the second time in a long while, Major General Alistair Cazombi let his real feelings show as he stepped back out into the command post. “
All right, people!”
he shouted, turning every head in the bunker, “get back to work, goddamnit! We aren’t dead yet! These bastards have started a war on us, and as long as I’m in command, we’re going to fight them and we’re going to win!”

Everyone stood and cheered.

CHAPTER TEN

Madam Chang-Sturdevant’s hand dangled loosely at her side; her face, drawn and white, showed clearly the lines of worry etched there. “This means war,” she muttered wearily. “War,” she repeated.

“We have no other response,” Marcus Berentus said bitterly. “This is what they’ve wanted all along. They have forced this on us.”

Chang-Sturdevant cast her eyes back on the screen where the message from General Cazombi glared back at her. She read it again.

MADAM PRESIDENT. I HAVE THE DUTY TO REPORT TO YOU THAT AT 0631 HOURS LOCAL TIME THE FORCES OF RAVENETTE, REINFORCED BY MILITARY UNITS CONTRIBUTED BY THE OTHER MEMBERS OF THE SO-CALLED SECESSIONIST COALITION, LAUNCHED A CONCERTED AND UNPROVOKED ATTACK ON FORT SEYMOUR. OUR INITIAL CASUALTIES HAVE BEEN HEAVY BUT WE ARE HOLDING A REINFORCED POSITION THAT THE ENEMY, DESPITE BRINGING HEAVY FORCES AGAINST US, HAS NOT YET BEEN ABLE TO PENETRATE.

THIS ATTACK CONSTITUTES AN AGGRESSIVE AND UNPROVOKED ACT OF WAR AGAINST THE CONFEDERATION OF HUMAN WORLDS.

THE STATUS OF OUR DEFENDING FORCE IS INCLUDED AS AN ATTACHMENT TO THIS MESSAGE ALONG WITH OUR ESTIMATE OF THE ENEMY’S STRENGTH AND CAPABILITIES AND HIS ORDER OF BATTLE. WE ARE COMPLETELY SURROUNDED IN OUR POSITION AND THERE IS NO HOPE OF A BREAKOUT OF ANY KIND.

WE HAVE BEEN OUT OF CONTACT WITH THE CONFEDERATION CONSULATE ON RAVENETTE AS WELL AS THE NAVAL BASE ON CHILIANWALA AND MUST ASSUME THEY ARE BOTH TAKEN AND OUR PERSONNEL THERE INTERNED BY THE ENEMY. THEREFORE, AS THE SENIOR CONFEDERATION REPRESENTATIVE IN THIS QUADRANT OF HUMAN SPACE, AS WELL AS THE RANKING MILITARY OFFICER PRESENT, I HAVE TAKEN CHARGE OF THE FORCES STILL INTACT AT FORT SEYMOUR. IT IS MY INTENTION TO HOLD THIS POSITION UNTIL REINFORCED. I ESTIMATE THAT AT OUR PRESENT LEVEL OF COMBAT WE MAY SUCCEED IN HOLDING THIS PLACE FROM SIX TO EIGHT WEEKS. YOU WILL NOTE BY THE ATTACHMENT THAT WE ARE VASTLY OUTNUMBERED IN MEN, WEAPONS, AND MATERIEL, BUT NEVER IN FIGHTING SPIRIT, COURAGE, AND SACRIFICE IN OUR SWORN DUTY TO RESIST THIS NAKED AGGRESSION.

I RESPECTFULLY REQUEST IMMEDIATE REINFORCEMENT.

GOD BLESS OUR TROOPS, CAZOMBI, MG

“This was sent three weeks ago?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So we don’t even know if General Cazombi and his men are still holding out or are prisoners by now, do we?”

“No, but General Cazombi has quite a reputation as a fighter. He meant what he said in that message. We have no choice, barring another message announcing his surrender, except to send a relief force. And if Cazombi is forced to surrender, well, either we send a field army or two and a fleet to back it up, or we negotiate.”

“ ‘God bless our troops,’ ” Chang-Sturdevant repeated. “At least this officer knows who really counts in our armed forces. Marcus, where do we get the troops and the vessels to send a force large enough to help these poor, brave—” her voice caught and she shook her head silently, sadly. “Well, dammit, Marcus, we are not going to negotiate with these people! I tried—we tried—every way we could to work out our differences, offered them every concession they asked for, and now this?” She gestured angrily at the message on her screen. “They didn’t even have the courtesy to let us know in advance that they would attack. A sneak attack!” The color rushed back into her face. “Well, they’re sure as hell going to know when we responded to this—this outrage!”

“The Combined Chiefs are on their way here now.”

“Good! I want that Marine, Aguinaldo, in on this, Marcus, I want him here more than anybody else.” Chang-Sturdevant sighed. “I shall summon the rest of my cabinet and we shall agree on how to respond. Then I’ll go before the Congress and read them General Cazombi’s message. I’ll inform them that I’m going to issue an Executive Order authorizing the deployment of troops to Ravenette to respond to a threat to the Confederation. I have that authority as President under the War Powers Section of our Constitution. Our Congress is like all democratic deliberative bodies, Marcus; its members divided in their opinions, overly cautious, and slow to act. I’ll get the votes for a war resolution, but not right now, not even with this,” she gestured at Cazombi’s message. “They’ve been in session debating our response since the Ordinance of Secession was issued. This should change everything but it’ll take time. We can have only one response now.

“Now, Marcus, would you leave me alone for a while? When everyone gets here we’ll meet in the secure conference room. My aides will let me know when you’re ready.” Berentus nodded and walked to the door. “Marcus? One more thing? Thanks for sticking by me. Stay close by until this is over, would you?”

“Good heavens, Admiral, it’ll take that long to raise an effective force to relieve those poor devils?” Attorney General Huygens Long exclaimed.

“I’m afraid so, AG,” Admiral Porter answered, glancing apologetically at the President. The other members of the Combined Chiefs nodded their assent. “We have to assume that once our force gets there they’ll need to engage the enemy’s fleet before a landing can be attempted and as the CIO has just informed us,” he nodded at Clements Barksdale, the newly appointed Director of the Central Intelligence Organization, “and our own analysts agree, the secessionists’ combined naval strength is potent. We’ll also need time to organize the ground forces necessary to obtain a foothold on Ravenette if Fort Seymour is taken by the time they get there or to relieve the garrison if they’ve managed to hold out that long. That is the best we can do.”