Caines mutiny, p.52
Caine's Mutiny, page 52
part #4 of Caine Riordan Series
As the pace of the missile launches began diminishing, the human helicopters began firing their guns. Whereas the smaller helicopters had fired more accurate and deadly rockets, the larger ones now became the hammers that smote vehicle after vehicle. Their chin turrets roved, working along the line of APCs that were struggling to spread out, even run off the ford rather than remain effectively motionless. The heavy projectiles hammered through the flat sides of the APCs, blew out their tires, peppered the Warriors who bailed out of rocket-stricken vehicles into the water.
As swiftly as the attack had commenced, it broke off, the lighter helicopters veering off first, their smaller machine guns being of limited use against the armor of the Hkh’Rkh vehicles. A moment later, the heavier ones followed, lumbering after them at much slower speed.
This was the moment that the second wave’s gunners had been waiting for. As the human helicopters swerved away, they nearly came abreast of the rough line of APCs. Their machine guns and autocannons clattered in an angry, discordant chorus, sending waves of projectiles after the withdrawing craft.
One of the big ones flared twice, then a third time, as autocannon shells tore into it. It struggled to hold a steady course, then its engine emitted what sounded akin to a long groan, and the vehicle heeled over, heading down. Another of the large ones began to trail smoke, faltered, righted, gave its fatally stricken mate a wide berth as that one ploughed into the base of the opposite ridge. A burst of smoke and flame preceded the sound that reached across the river a moment later: a sharp burst of smashing metal, followed by the longer thunder of exploding fuel.
The rockets that reached out for the helicopters from the dismounted launchers would have been far deadlier had they hit, but, designed for engaging ground vehicles and stationary targets, they were lucky to get as close as they did. One burst just near the tail of the rearmost of the lighter rotaries, which wobbled a bit, but then finished its climb up and over the far ridgeline, right behind its twin. The other two craft followed a few moments later.
The moment they were gone, one of the human MULTIs fired a steady stream of rockets, each swerving into a slightly different trajectory. Ezzraamar saw the last of the seven heading almost directly toward them, then watched it jink downward and plunge through the deck armor of one of the second wave APCs that had given away its position by firing at the helicopters. Five others were similarly hit. None exploded, but all of them smoked, caught fire, and began to burn sullenly.
“Second wave: reverse to cover!” howled Jrekhalkar, whose order was taken up along the line by battle horns and hand signals. The remaining vehicles pulled back from the woodline that flanked either side of the northern ford, one last rocket chasing after a late responder. The human weapon exploded a few meters short of the rear-rolling APC, sending up a fountain of dirt.
The engagement was over as abruptly as it had begun. The clearing smokescreen revealed eight APCs disabled or shattered along the ford itself, three more mostly submerged to either side of it. A handful of surviving Warriors struggled to return to the western bank. Unseen, unheard shots from the human side took them in the back. To a one, they flopped forward into the swift current. Only one kicked and splashed before he, too, slipped under the swells and disappeared.
On the far shore, behind the smoke that still partially obscured the head of the north ford, gunfire continued sporadically: the sound of a Hkh’Rkh fifteen-millimeter machine gun was unmistakable as it stubbornly rose above the lighter weapons of the humans. Then, from a more southerly position on the ridge, another MULTI revealed itself: two white fingers of rocket exhausts jutted down into the dissipating mists. A pair of dim flashes appeared to make the remaining smoke waver just before the sound of twin explosions reached across the water. Then silence. The Hkh’Rkh machine gun did not speak again.
“I suspect all the APCs that made it to the other bank have been eliminated,” Ezzraamar observed, trying to make his voice and posture match the circumspection of his words.
Jrekhalkar burbled infuriated phlegm in his nostils, but nodded once, sharply. “You were wise to urge me to listen to my better instincts, to keep from committing the second wave.”
Ezzraamar could not help blinking in surprise. His better instincts? Fifteen minutes before, the Voice’s sole instinct had been to attack with all his Warriors, which would have put them all out on the ford to be slaughtered by the helicopters, had he done so.
But Ezzraamar had observed and learned well during his time with Yaargraukh. He allowed his silence to be interpreted as consent as he thought, I am now seeing the Old Families—my Families—as Yaargraukh saw them. The instinct toward pride is stronger than the dedication to truth. The need to be right is more powerful than the duty to take responsibility. And the threat of a Challenge is always lurking in the background, ready to overcome reasonable objections with the silence of an untimely death.
Jrekhalkar stood straighter to survey the damage. “By letting the humans believe that they have fooled and crippled us, we have managed to fool them—and lead them into false security as night falls.”
Ssrykh’oon’s eye-covers pinched into wrinkled masses. “We—fooled them?” he echoed.
Jrekhalkar was quick to reply, glancing to Z’gluurhek who nodded in agreement even before his leader’s explanation was uttered. “Of course. It was a clever trick the humans used, admittedly. The helicopters obviously flew north, following behind the ridgeline on their side of the river until they were beyond the reach of both our eyes and ears. Then they came over the crest and down to follow along the river and use the sheltering bend north of us—and the sound of the rapids—to screen their approach. Clever, but predictable.”
“Predictable?” Ssrykh’oon repeated, incredulous. “Voice, did you mean for all our Warriors and vehicles to die on this ford?”
Jrekhalkar turned disapproving eyes on the flabbergasted scion. “Your tone could be mistaken for insolence,” he said quietly. “And of course I did not intend for our forces to be slain as they were. But it was part of the risk we accepted to lay the groundwork for tonight’s attack, in the event that this assault did not succeed. As we feared, it has not.”
He turned to the rest of his staff before Ssrykh’oon’s eyes stopped blinking in shock. “I require a casualty count. Dismount all heavy weapons from the remaining APCs to tripods. Emplace them along the woodline, and establish multiple fall-backs for each. When that is complete, have the rocket launchers commence fire against the positions occupied by the human MULTIs on the opposite ridge. Our gunners are to fire two rockets, then move immediately. The humans will counterfire and they will be more accurate, since we will have marked our position.”
Z’gluurhek sounded pained to raise his point. “We cannot hope to slay many of the s’fet, that way.”
“We are not trying to kill them. We are trying to scare them out of their positions by showing them we know where they are located. They have not had the time to fortify and they do not have ground vehicles; they cannot reposition their heavy weapons easily or very far. We shall keep them moving and off balance, so that when the sun begins to set, they shall be exhausted and in less optimal positions than those in which they started. With any luck, they will not be as well organized, either. Precisely the conditions under which we wish to make our final and decisive attack.” His crest puffed out briefly, putting a period on the end of his declaration, before he turned to consult the rapidly updating battlemap.
Chapter Forty-Seven
KAKAAGSUKH RIVER VALLEY, BD+56 2966 TWO (“TURKH’SAAR”)
Riordan stared at the numbers again.
Gaudet murmured, “Sir, every time you do that—”
Riordan nodded. “I know. I’ll be fine.” But it was a lie. Or, at best, an optimistic hope that even he didn’t believe.
Thirty-four dead. Twelve triaged because they were beyond saving, either due to the severity of their wounds or the certainty that the angel flight wouldn’t get them to the surgeons in time. The wounded hadn’t been tallied yet, but the number was well above fifty. Out beyond the open hatchway of Wedge One, a Jolly scissored its way aloft, heading back to Dante with another load of WIAs.
Hearing the rotorwash batter down at the naked dirt that rimmed the much-mauled ridgeline, Riordan couldn’t keep from looking at the matériel losses that were listed alongside the casualties. They were down to one functional Mi-8, four slicks, one Hind, and two Cobras. He’d been able to keep the heavy lifters—the Chinook and the Jollies—out of the line of fire. But he wouldn’t have that luxury next time.
He had expended all but two MISLS, most of the antiarmor loads for the MULTIs, and two-thirds of the sensors. And the Hkh’Rkh had located and eliminated all but one of the creepers and one of the quadrotors he’d hidden over on their side of the river.
He leaned back, thought about trying to eat his sandwich again, then thought he might throw up.
Gaudet turned around in her couch. “Major Rulaine on secure one, sir. And Major Solsohn, too, it seems.”
Riordan nodded. “Go ahead.”
The line was quiet for a moment. Then Bannor’s voice, as careful as a dog approaching a moody cat: “That’s a hell of a glum tone after winning a battle.”
“You call this winning?” Riordan tried to keep the disgust and anger out of his voice; he knew he had failed.
“Yeah, that’s exactly what we call it,” Dora’s voice retorted.
Riordan didn’t care enough to be tactful. “Ms. Veriden, you’re a trained killer—and a damned good one—but you’ve made it perfectly clear that you’ve always worked solo, like it that way, and don’t want the responsibility of command. So you will kindly shut up and butt out. Solsohn, what the hell is she doing on the line anyway?”
“I asked her. Just like I asked Karam and Tina. This may be the only chance we have to compare notes, get new orders.”
“Very well. Then remain in the loop, Ms. Veriden.”
Dora managed to sound annoyed, surprised, and hurt all at once. “All right. Commodore.”
Okay, so she was trying to be encouraging in her own irascible fashion. And maybe I’ll thank her for that later on. Much later. If we live. And if she stops being such a pain. “Tina, you’re keeping track of repair and refit, right?”
“Yes, sir. Best news: we’ll get that big Russian helicopter airworthy again, but with reduced speed. I’ve got mechanics down at MULTI Two: it got pranged a few minutes ago, trading shots with the heavy weapons across the river. I don’t think it’s a write-off, but I’m not sure it’s going to be combat ready before this dust-up is over.”
“Okay, let’s assume it’s not. We redress the battery placement so we’ve still got equal coverage across the line.”
“That’s a lot of moving, sir.”
“I know. That’s why we’re going to get the Chinook on the job. It’s bringing up the last reserves—flight line techs at Dante—and will drop them off as it moves along the ridge line, shifting the MULTIs.”
“Commodore,” Bannor said cautiously, “the Chinook is big and slow and the Hkh’Rkh gunners across the river are competent and eager.”
“True. And what rounds do we have in abundance for the MULTIs, Major?”
“Uh…” A crooked grin crept into Rulaine’s voice. “Smoke.”
“Exactly, which we were saving to cover our movement. Up until now, we were worried about losing sight of the opposite bank, of giving them the opportunity to reposition or mass without our having eyes on them. But if all of you are correct, they are now licking their wounds even more than we are. So this seems like the moment to screen our line with heavy smoke and shift assets using the Chinook and the Jollies. We’ve got weapons and people to move into new positions. Speaking of which, can we make any use of the machine guns on the Hkh’Rkh APCs?”
Bannor sounded surprised. “Well, I—I don’t know, sir, but the Lost Soldiers don’t have experience with anything that heavy.”
“Well, this will be the time for them to learn. Find any remaining submariner who was trained to crew their their deck AA guns. Give them a helmet and a crash course on operating Hkh’Rkh gear with human hands. We’ll either dismount the weapons to tripods—there should be one in every enemy vehicle—or our gunners will have to man it from the commander’s hatch of the dead APC. We’ll build up what cover we can for them. Which reminds me: do the APCs have pioneer tools?”
“Uh, not sure, sir.”
“Well, find out. And if they do, get the Dugout teams started on digging in deeper and improving their positions. From what I’ve seen, those fighting holes didn’t do the job, not when the APCs got close to them. We lost more people that way than any other, even the shelling.”
Duncan’s caveat was quiet, reflective. “We would have lost even more if we hadn’t given all the armor liners to the Cold Guard that were assigned to the Dugout positions. It did a fair job against the shrapnel.”
“Except we didn’t lose anyone down at the south ford,” Karam muttered. “They didn’t even probe us there, much less attack.”
Rulaine sighed. “Yeah, that was odd. And it worries me.”
Riordan frowned. “You think they were doing something other than massing forces to have better odds at the two fords?”
“I don’t know. Could be. But they didn’t even test us. Not a single shot, other than the general shelling. They’re not even trying to duel with our MULTIs there.”
Riordan frowned. “Those exchanges are still going on?”
“Yep. They hammer a few rounds at us. Our MULTI takes a shot at them. They fire at the launch bloom. Repeat, ad nauseam.”
“Pass the word to our MULTIs: don’t take the return shots.”
“Sir, that really rattles troops, taking incoming without firing back.”
“I’d rather have them a little rattled by highly inaccurate long range fire than us launching HE rockets across the river on the off chance that we tag them before they move their weapon to a new position. Anyhow, a few minutes after we finish here, there’s going to be a big wall of smoke between our side of the river and theirs: that should give our troops a much-needed break. Besides, we can’t risk losing any MULTIs. They’re going to be our backbone in the next fight.”
“What do you mean?” asked Dora.
“I mean that we’ve expended almost all of our other purpose-built antiarmor missiles and munitions. All we have left are the MULTIs and the dual-purpose RAPs from the underslung CoBro launchers.”
“The helicopters—” began Karam.
“They’re almost entirely out of antiarmor rockets and they aren’t modern vehicles,” Caine interrupted. “And if the Hkh’Rkh come across at night, the helicopters are useless: they were created before night vision was a built-in feature.”
“The Lost Soldiers still use flares, I’m told.” Tsaami sounded stubborn, but less than fully convinced in the efficacy of his assertion.
“They do, and it might come to that, but in a ground fight, that will help the Hkh’Rkh more than it will us. In darkness, their vision is about the same as a dog’s, which means if you give them a little light, their vision will improve more than ours will.”
“Sounds like the next attack is shaping up to be low-tech night fight,” Solsohn said slowly.
“I’m betting on it,” Riordan affirmed, “although I’m wishing for anything else. Between their vision, their armor, and the power of their individual weapons, the Hkh’Rkh will tear our people up at night. Except for the Cold Guard, but they can’t be everywhere. Dora, has Know-It-All given us recommendations on optimal unit reconfiguration for a close infantry engagement?”
“Yeah,” she answered glumly. “You want the short version or the long version?”
“Short, please.”
“Okay, here it is: the difference in night vision screws us. Know-It-All keeps trying to compensate by shifting our positions into the trees, to hide until the enemy is so close that our weapons and difference in night vision no longer really matters. But then if you add in the variable that the Dugout positions cannot be abandoned, it starts making what seem like random choices and ‘advises the operator’ to expect eighty percent casualties. Or more.”
Karam’s snicker was decidedly sardonic. “So much for the genius of assistive automation. Sounds like we just need to put everyone we can on the line.”
Riordan exhaled slowly. “We have. Flight line support is down to four men. I’ve even agreed to allow two of our doctors, Lieutenants Baruch and Franklin, to come forward. Everyone who can fight is going to be fighting.”
Susan Phillips turned around from her comms board. “Is that an absolute directive, sir?”
Riordan nodded grimly. “I’m afraid it is, Ms. Phillips.”
“Well, then,” she said standing swiftly and smoothing her clothes. “I will leave the communications in Chief Warrant Officer Gaudet’s capable hands, for now. I think one of the recently wounded radio operators from Scorpion would do nicely as a full-time replacement.”
“Ms. Phillips, what are you talking about?”
She was halfway to the exterior hatch. “I am following your directive, Commodore. That everyone who can fight must fight. That includes me.”
“Ms. Phillips, we need you here.”
“Sir, I would never think of showing disrespect for your rank. But if you were not my superior, my reply would be, ‘what nonsense!’ I will have you know that I was hiding in cellars, bombed-out buildings, and concealed dugouts with the French Resistance for the better part of two years while evading and killing Nazis. I am rated an expert marksman with both rifle and pistol and it is high time I put those skills to use again. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll need to report to Wedge Two for equipment. I believe that’s our ad hoc armory, yes?”
That was the moment that Riordan discovered that he’d adopted an archaic form of chivalry toward the women among the Lost Soldiers. It was as if he had, as a matter of cultural courtesy, changed his interactions with them to mirror the expectations and standards of their own epoch. With an effort, he forced himself to reconceive Susan Phillips through a contemporary lens, to simply see her as a soldier—hell, a commando. He nodded. “Then, godspeed to you, Ms. Phillips.”
