Pointblank, p.32
Pointblank, page 32
“One of the reaction squads should be near you,” Rollings said. “I’ll ask the boss to divert it to help you.” Then he broke the connection to call Captain Wainwright.
Kare and Quinn found a body slumped in the entry hole to what looked like a root cellar. Quinn grabbed the rifle that had fallen from the body’s hands and tossed it away.
“A civilian!” Kare exclaimed when he looked at the body through his light gatherer.
“How the hell did he see Kassel?” Quinn mused. “That wasn’t just a blind shot.”
Kare put that question aside for a moment in favor of something more immediate. “Is anybody else in there?” he shouted down the hole. He got a moan in reply.
“I’m hurt,” a female voice said.
“Sorry to hear that, ma’am. Anybody else with you?”
“No, just me and Kory, and he’s dead—you kilt him.” The voice ended in a whimper.
“Kory, that’s the man up here?”
“Yes. I’m hurt bad.”
“I’m sorry about that, ma’am, but he shouldn’t have shot at us. We would have left him and you alone if he hadn’t shot at us. Now you wait right where you are, and I’m sure somebody will come and help you in a bit.”
“Can you pull Kory out of the way? Mebbe I can crawl up and find help myself if you do.”
“Can’t do that, ma’am. I don’t know you’re hurt. If I move him, you might come up and shoot us in the back. Can’t have that. Now you just be patient.” Kare signaled Quinn, and they headed toward the group around Kassel.
Kare stopped after a few meters and let Quinn go on ahead. He raised his shields and looked at the corporal in visual light. What he saw made him swear; Quinn showed up as a shadow against the light from the burning barracks. “I should have thought of that,” he muttered: chameleons pick up the color and visual texture of whatever is nearest, not what is behind. Quinn’s chameleons were the color and texture of the ground cover he was walking on and stood out sharply against the fire. When the squad moved on, he’d have to endeavor to keep them from being silhouetted by the fire.
“Down!” Kare shouted; he spun and dropped at a thumping and scrabbling to his rear. There was a loud bang, and he felt something hit his splinted arm and his side at the same time he saw a muzzle flash. He didn’t pause to wonder what hit him or to check it out; he pointed his blaster where the muzzle flash had come from and squeezed the firing lever three times in rapid succession. A voice was cut off in midscream.
“Cover me,” Kare ordered Quinn. He jumped up into a low crouch and ran toward where he’d fired.
It was the root cellar. The man’s body was out of sight. In its place was a woman, her dead face contorted in rage and surprise.
“Dammit, woman, why’d you do that?” Kare shouted. “If you and your husband had stayed in that hole and let us go by, you’d both be alive and well.” He drew back a foot to kick her, but put it back down. She was dead, her stupidity didn’t merit further punishment.
Doc Natron had Kassel in a stasis bag by the time Kare and Quinn reached them. The corpsman quickly checked out Kare’s new wounds. All they needed immediately was a daub of antiseptic and a patch of synthskin.
“You were hit by tiny pellets,” Natron said. “A surgeon can easily pluck them out when we get back aboard the Kiowa.”
“Show us where you are,” Sergeant Hemrich’s voice suddenly came over the radio—third platoon’s fifth squad was on its way to help.
“Here we are,” Kare said. He lifted a bared arm.
“I’ve got you.” In a moment, Hemrich and his three Marines were there. They quickly rigged a litter and lifted Kassel onto it. Quinn and two of Hemrich’s men carried the litter past the sounds of a firefight raging inside Gilbert’s Corners.
Kare made sure they were far enough away from the village that nobody inside it could see them silhouetted against the fire. As they went, he heard voices from their left rear; someone had discovered the two civilians he’d killed.
CHAPTER
* * *
THIRTY-FOUR
Gilbert’s Corners, Ravenette
Colonel Manuel Osper looked at Lieutenant Colonel Jay Scroggins, his executive officer, and his battalion sergeant major, Cliff Talus. Unlike many of the other officers and senior noncoms he’d just sent to organize the locals into a militia, both had managed to pull on full uniforms and pistol belts. Scroggins’s uniform was sloppily pulled together, but Talus looked ready for the parade ground. The sergeant major had also managed to snag a fléchette rifle and pouches of reloads for it. He also had a radio.
“What do you hear from the troops?” Osper asked Talus.
“Not a damn thing,” Talus said sourly. “Nobody thunk to get on the horn and report.”
“Did you try all the frequencies?”
Talus gave him the kind of look a question that stupid deserved.
“I had to ask,” Osper apologized. “What about the patrols?”
“I been in contact with all of ’em. They didn’t see nuttin’. I tole ’em to sit tight where they was.”
Osper nodded, that was really all the patrols could do without running the risk of being wiped out in detail. He looked toward the burning barracks, now visible mostly as brightness in the sky; the buildings and houses of Gilbert’s Corners, the officer and senior-noncom housing area, and the intervening trees blocked most of his direct view of the barracks area. He wondered how the Coalition forces who’d attacked had managed to get there undetected by the patrols or any of the security devices he’d had installed. Perhaps General Lyons had been right, that it was a small raiding party, not a major assault force, and they had infiltrated in small groups.
Where was General Lyons for that matter?
If this was a raiding party rather than a full-scale assault…
They attacked the barracks from this side. That meant that they could still be between Gilbert’s Corners and the burning barracks area! We can still beat them!
Osper looked around to see if the locals were yet being organized. Yes, a few small groups were being led by his own people. “Over here,” he yelled. “On me!”
Quickly, a group of about a hundred soldiers and armed civilians were gathered in front of the colonel.
“I want you to divide into five twenty-man platoons.” Colonel Osper pointed at a major. “You’re in command of first platoon. Take them down Center Street. You”—he pointed at another major—“are second platoon. Take them down East Street.” He gave command of the other platoons to three captains and sent one down West Street and the other two along the edges of the village—Gilbert’s Corners three streets along its main axis were unimaginatively named. “Kill anybody you see in a Confederation military uniform.”
“Wait jist a minute there, Colonel!”
Osper looked and saw Heb Cawman, the chairman of the Committee on the Conduct of the War, the very man who’d just a few minutes earlier been whining and crying about how the Confederation forces had just whupped the Coalition defenders.
“Mr. Cawman,” Osper said, “what do you want?”
“Ya can’t kill ’em all. Ya gotta take a pris’ner.”
“All right then, you go with first platoon. Your job will be to pick out a prisoner and take charge of him. Now everybody get moving!”
Cawman blanched and took a step back when Osper told him to go with first platoon, but a sergeant grabbed his arm and pulled him along with the platoon.
Entering the Village of Gilbert’s Corners
Through his infra screen, Captain Wainwright saw that Sergeant Bingh was favoring his right leg, but the limp wasn’t pronounced and he didn’t think it would hold the squad leader back. Bingh had said as much when the captain had asked him about it. But Wainwright didn’t linger on Bingh’s injury, he mostly watched ahead, looking for some indication that a member of the Committee on the Conduct of the War might be in his way. He really wanted to capture one if he could without jeopardizing any of his people.
But what he saw was a mass of men coming down the middle of the street. From their dress, most of the men were armed civilians, but three men who were herding them along and trying to instill some order and discipline were definitely soldiers.
Before Captain Wainwright could alert the other squads, Sergeant Kindy reported a group of armed civilians led by four soldiers coming along the street toward him.
“First and third squads,” Wainwright ordered, “get between the houses and let them pass. We don’t need to leave a lot of dead civilians behind us.”
Bingh and Kindy acknowledged the order; Wainwright and Staff Sergeant Fryman followed first squad into the side yard of a house. They had barely settled in before they heard the shot of a projectile rifle, followed by several blaster shots, to the north, where second squad was bypassing Gilbert’s Corners. Then silence. It sounded as if someone had taken a shot at the Marines, and the Marines had responded with greater violence than whoever had shot at them wanted to deal with. Wainwright decided to wait for a report.
The people on the street froze and listened, looking to their left. When nothing more happened for a moment, the soldiers began moving them forward again. Kindy reported the people in the street ahead of him had stopped but were moving again.
There was another single projectile shot and multiple blaster shots from the same direction, and the people in the street scattered for cover; some of them ran away.
“They’s whuppin’ us!” a civilian shrilled. “We’s gotta git out of here while we kin!” He tried to run, but one of the soldiers had a firm grip on his arm and he couldn’t get away.
That looked odd, so Wainwright turned up his ears in case someone said something that would explain it. Someone did.
“Now, now, Mistah Cawman, you heard the colonel. It’s up to you to capture one a them Confederations. You cain’t do thet if’n you runs away.”
Cawman! Was that really the chairman of the Committee on the Conduct of the War? Wainwright used both his magnifier and light-gatherer screens to get a better look at the man’s face. Yes, except for the panicky expression, he looked just like the images of the chairman that Wainwright had seen.
Captain Wainwright suddenly felt less reluctant about civilian casualties; Heb Cawman was too valuable a prize to let a few civilians stand in the way of his capture.
“Three-two,” Wainwright radioed. “Move through the yards toward my position. Stay across the street from me. We have a chance to catch a big fish. Over.”
“Roger,” Kindy came back. “I have your position. We are moving now.”
The soldiers in Wainwright’s view pulled their remaining civilians together and resumed their advance down the street.
Advancing down Center Street
The major that Colonel Osper had turned into a platoon commander was named Belvadeer. He muttered subvocally as he led his makeshift platoon of—of civilians—along Center Street. He had great respect for Colonel Osper, but what was the man thinking? There was no possible way an undisciplined rabble could take on a regular military force the size that must have struck the reinforced battalion and do anything but get slaughtered. And then to send that nincompoop Cawman along! It would be bad enough if Cawman were willing and gung ho about capturing a Confederation soldier, but the man was whining and crying the whole way and would have run off long ago if someone weren’t physically dragging him along. This was purely insane!
But maybe the colonel had a sound reason for what he was doing. If so, Belvadeer wished he’d have told at least his “platoon” commanders what it was. Belvadeer was certain the other officers leading the rabble felt the same as he did. But, dammit, a colonel was a colonel, and a major was a major, and when a colonel said do, a major did. He just hoped he could spot the Confederation forces that were probably—most likely, almost positively—in front of him before they spotted him. If he did, he might just survive the battle.
Major Belvadeer’s “platoon” was just crossing Fifth Street when something happened behind him that nearly made him lose control of his bowels.
The Snatch, Gilbert’s Corners
Captain Wainwright touched helmets with Staff Sergeant Fryman and Sergeant Bingh and told them what he was going to do. He finished with “Watch my UV marker. Bingh, when it looks like I’m close enough, take out the soldier holding him. Fryman, have both squads give me covering fire if the civilians decide to fight.”
Wainwright lay low while the gaggle of armed civilians shuffled past, then silently rose to his feet and padded into the street behind them. Moving as fast as he could without making noise, he shuffled up behind the still-complaining Cawman. He was only a meter behind him when a blaster bolt flamed past and struck the soldier holding Cawman’s arm between the shoulder blades. Wainwright lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Cawman, flung the man over his hip, and spun about to run back to first squad.
Gunfire erupted behind him and was immediately answered by blaster fire from the two Marine squads. He felt the impact of a bullet that hit Cawman; Cawman’s shocked scream came half a second later. Wainwright was almost back at the squad when he felt the impact of the bullet that hit him high on the left side of his back. He collapsed next to Bingh, dropping Cawman. Cawman screamed in agony.
The civilians were firing in all directions, including over the nearby houses. The two remaining soldiers were yelling at them, trying to get them to concentrate their fire on the Marines’ fire, but they were panicked by the plasma bolts tearing through their mass and wouldn’t pay attention. When a bolt hit one of the soldiers, some of the civilians dropped their weapons and began crawling, scrabbling to get out of the killing zone. A couple threw away their rifles and screamed, “Don’t shoot me! Don’t shoot!”
In a moment it was over; Fryman was able to turn his attention to the two casualties lying next to him. “Bingh, check out Cawman,” he ordered as he began to examine Wainwright. The captain’s wound was bad, so maybe it was fortunate that he was unconscious. The bullet that had hit him wasn’t powerful enough to go all the way through and was still in there someplace. At least he was only bleeding from one place—at least only one place on the outside; Fryman had no way of knowing whether he also had serious internal bleeding.
Fryman contacted Doc Natron. Natron told him to pack the wound and said he’d try to infiltrate to their position with a stasis bag. Fryman had talked to Natron on the command circuit so Lieutenant Rollings could hear—that was faster than making a separate report.
Lieutenant Rollings radioed to stand tight, he was on his way with fourth squad.
Only after he’d packed Wainwright’s wound and talked to Rollings did Fryman turn his attention to Cawman.
“He just got winged,” Bingh said, and lashed Cawman’s hands behind his back.
“The way he’s crying, it sounds like his guts have been ripped out.”
Bingh grunted.
East Street, Gilbert’s Corners
“Wha’ the hell is thet!” someone shouted when the firing broke out on Center Street.
“Damfino,” someone else shouted.
The major commanding the East Street “platoon” swore out loud. He didn’t have any communications, so he couldn’t talk to Major Belvadeer to find out if he needed help. He stood in indecision about what to do. If Confederation troops were on Center Street and had attacked Belvadeer’s group, they might also be coming along East Street—even though no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t see anybody down the length of the street.
Some of the civilians made the decision for him.
“We gotta git over there, give ’em some hep!” someone yelled. That started the whole mob running toward Center Street.
When they got there, they were shocked by the number of bodies lying in the street. The hunters among them were surprised there wasn’t any blood on the street; they didn’t know that the plasma bolts fired by the Marines cauterized wounds as they made them so there was usually no bleeding.
Lieutenant Rollings and fourth squad reached East Street right after the “platoon” of locals moved off it; they heard the locals running along the cross street to their right.
“Let’s go!” Rollings ordered, and ran faster between the houses. He spotted the UV markers on the backs of the Marines of third squad and alerted them to his approach. When he got there, he dropped to one knee next to Sergeant Kindy.
“Where are they?” Rollings asked.
“First squad’s directly across from us,” Sergeant Kindy answered.
Using his infra screen, Rollings was able to make out the faint heat signatures of Staff Sergeant Fryman and first squad. He looked to his right, where the group from East Street was milling about, and sprinted across to first squad after telling fourth squad to stay with third. Gunny Lytle went with him.
“How is he?” he asked as soon as he got there.
“Pretty bad, I think,” Fryman said. He described the wound again.
Rollings radioed Doc Natron and asked where he was.
“I’m only about a hundred meters from you. But there are armed people between us, and they’re moving in your direction.”
“Is anybody with you?”
“Corporal Quinn.”
“Get out of the line of fire. If they’re coming toward us, we’re probably going to have to fight.”
“Will do. We’ll swing around to your left, try to bypass those civilians.”
“Roger.” Rollings looked back to the civilians who were now checking the bodies in the street and heard someone out of sight on the side street yelling at them to move, telling them the street was a killing zone. The civilians looked up and around uncertainly, but four soldiers who were among them took the voice at its word and sprinted toward it. That set off the others, and they ran after the soldiers and out of sight. Rollings then looked west and saw a group of armed men led by two soldiers less than thirty meters away—easing toward the Marines’ position. He looked toward Captain Wainwright and thought quickly. The captain was in no condition to be moved; he’d likely die if he was. That meant they had to stay in place until Doc Natron arrived and was able to put him in a stasis bag. Which meant they were going to have to fight. He estimated there were twenty men, close to it anyway, coming toward them. He had six Marines with him here. Gunny Lytle, Staff Sergeant Morgan, and two squads were across the street. If these seventeen Marines couldn’t break twenty men, mostly civilians, they needed to turn in their Eagle, Globe, and Starstreams.
