Part 7 (2/2)
”What about auto-destruct?” General Kyle asked quietly. ”I know there's a destruct system incorporated in all your self-directing Bolos.”
Fife fixed him with a cold stare. ”I won't destroy Jason until I'm sure he's a threat to friendly forces, General. Right now I'm not convinced of that. He didn't even return fire on the battery that took a pot-shot at him earlier. Until he does something that endangers our forces directly, he's still the best hope you people have of getting the situation out there under control.”
”He's right,” Durant said unexpectedly. ”He's right. Listen to him, General. Coordinator.”
”Sir!” a technician interrupted the tense moment. ”Message from Second Montana Regiment. Major Reed, acting CO. He says Colonel Chaffee turned traitor and fed bad coordinates to the regimental artillery. Ordered a retreat right on the heels of it. He's trying to sort things out, but he doesn't think he can hold. Colonel Chaffee's been killed in an artillery barrage, and the regiment is falling apart . . . What the h.e.l.l?”
”What is it, Corporal?” Wilson demanded.
The technician hit a switch on his panel, and the speakers in the command center came to life with a crackle of static and an even, level voice Fife recognized instantly.
”Soldiers of New Sierra, this is Unit JSN of the First Robotic Armor Regiment, CANS. The enemy has breached our perimeter and compromised our command structure. Rally in defense of Hot Springs Pa.s.s and the road to Denver Prime. We are not yet defeated, only surprised and pushed back. We can still win the victory. New Sierra expects that every man will do his duty today . . .”
Lieutenant Bill O'Brien was hunkered down behind the wreck of a mobile artillery carrier, watching as Sergeant Jenson tied a crude tourniquet above the b.l.o.o.d.y stump of Private Marlow's left wrist. Days ago, even hours ago the sight would have made him violently sick, but in the past few hours...o...b..ien had seen so much horror that one more such sight hardly effected him.
The soldiers of Alpha Company had fled down the pa.s.s, taking heavy casualties all the way, and now they were reduced to a handful of desperate men, their retreat cut off by the ANM troops who had erupted from the pa.s.s to pour down the main road toward Denver Prime. The only reason any of the defenders still survived was the simple fact that there weren't enough survivors to offer any real threat or draw the enemy's attention. As further enemy forces continued to cross the mountains, though, that situation would surely change.
His headphones crackled: an incoming signal on the command channel. O'Brien was torn between feelings of relief and fury. Since the orders to retreat, there had been no coherent communications from higher authority. Now there was nothing he and his pitiful handful of survivors could do, no matter what orders came in.
”Soldiers of New Sierra, this is Unit JSN . . .”
O'Brien listened to the signal, hardly believing what he was hearing, stirred in spite of himself. New Sierra expects that every man will do his duty. . . .
And in that same moment, explosions blossomed among the enemy APCs around the base of the pa.s.s, a dozen blasts in quick succession, each pinpointed on one of the armored vehicles. In an instant the wave of hostile reinforcements was transformed into the same kind of smoldering wreckage O'Brien had seen among the New Sierran defenders when the friendly fire had ripped through their unprepared ranks.
A low rumble shook the ground, different from the distant crump of explosions, different from the sounds the personnel carriers had made before the attack. It started almost imperceptibly, growing rapidly closer like the approach of a summer thunderstorm echoing among New Sierra's jagged mountains. O'Brien peered cautiously from cover. . . .
He gasped, but he wasn't the only one. He heard Sergeant Jenson's sharp, indrawn breath at the same moment, and knew without looking that the NCO had joined him to survey the scene on the open plain below the mouth of Hot Springs Pa.s.s. And Jenson, experienced or not, was just as awed by what they were seeing now as...o...b..ien himself.
It was like a moving mountain of metal, nearly the size of a small stadium. O'Brien had heard about the Terran supertank often enough, but he had never pictured anything like this. Sheathed in dull, non-reflective armor, it mounted dozens of separate gun emplacements, from the huge h.e.l.lbore a.s.sembly of the main turret to the multiple lasers and machineguns intended for anti-personnel and point defense work. In between were a bewildering array of other weapons systems, kinetic energy guns, missiles, beamers, and things the purposes of which O'Brien could only guess. The Bolo Mark XX sped up the valley on six close-set treads, raising a huge cloud of dust and rolling right over rubble, trees, and the wrecked hulks of shattered vehicles as if they were little more than b.u.mps in a paved highway.
The Bolo repeated the broadcast on the communications system, and someone near O'Brien raised a ragged cheer and started out from cover as if to join the ma.s.sive engine of destruction then and there.
”Hold!” O'Brien barked, flinging out a restraining arm to block the eager soldier's rush.
The lieutenant became aware of the stares focused on him, especially the cold, steady eyes of Sergeant Jenson. He tapped the side of his helmet and tried to keep his voice level as he spoke. ”Check your helmet transponders, boys,” he said. ”If they're not broadcasting, the tank won't be able to tell you from the bad guys. Right?” He waited while they checked their communications links, then waved his hand. ”All right! For JSN and New Sierra! Let's go!”
”Bolo's repeating its message again, Coordinator. It's going out on every channel. Should I jam it?”
”Jam it!” Fife exclaimed as the corporal cut off the speakers in the command center. ”For G.o.d's sake . . . Wilson, you wanted to see patriotism? Fighting spirit? Soul, was it? Well, there it is! Jason's convinced his commanders have let him down, but by G.o.d he's not giving up!”
Wilson was gaping at him, unresponsive.
”Coordinator,” General Kyle said formally. ”I recommend we stop trying to interfere with the Bolo and start trying to figure out how to support him.”
”I . . .” Wilson's mouth worked soundless for a moment. Then he nodded. ”Yes. Yes . . . start pa.s.sing orders to all units to form up and get into action as soon as possible. Let the Bolo fight its battle.” He looked at Fife. ”G.o.d help me, I never thought . . .”
”It took me a while to accept what they could do, too, sir,” Fife said softly. He was looking at Elaine Durant, though. ”Sometimes I forget what it's like, being on the outside . . . accepting something like Jason. Dealing with what a Bolo can do isn't a measure of intelligence or education or even sophistication. It's all a matter of what you've seen, in person . . .” He trailed off, feeling inadequate.
It was all too easy for the conquering Terrans to grow complacent in their superiority. They built technological wonders like the Bolo, and scoffed at the parochial att.i.tudes of men like Wilson who still believed in the basic virtues of courage, duty and honor. But the Bolo itself prized those same attributes just as much as these men and women of the far frontier.
That was a lesson the whole Concordiat would have to learn some day if they intended to take a permanent place on the Galactic stage. . . .
I begin to meet active resistance as I move over open ground toward the entrance to Hot Springs Pa.s.s. Several battalions of the enemy have already broken through, and there are more crossing the mountains even as I engage my first opponents.
So far, I have seen nothing in the enemy a.r.s.enal capable of offering any serious opposition to me, at least not on a one-to-one basis. But the numbers arrayed against me are formidable, and even low-yield HE warheads will eventually wear down my ablative armor protection. I project that I can sustain action for a period in excess of eight hours without relief--a detailed breakdown is beyond even my calculating abilities, given the number of variables in the overall equation. That should provide my comrades of the Citizen's Army ample time to rally to the defense of Denver Prime, while slowing the enemy advance. The key is to take up a position in the pa.s.s itself, astride the sole line of supply and communications available to the enemy. A cla.s.sic manoeuvre sur les derrieres, in the style of Napoleon . . .
I fire a series of secondary guns to break up a concentration of twenty-two enemy tanks approaching from the northwest, and push through heavy wreckage to enter the mouth of the pa.s.s. All now depends upon my ability to maintain myself against whatever the enemy may choose to send against me. I am determined to continue this fight until the army is able to mount a successful counterthrust. The sight of a small cl.u.s.ter of infantry whose personal transponders identify them as friends moving out to join me as I pa.s.s fills my pleasure center with joy, though I must not allow them to gain entrance to my hull in case they prove to be more enemy infiltrators. But somehow I know these are honest soldiers, not agents of the foe, and I am heartened to know that I am not fighting this battle alone.
My new regiment will have one battle credit to its name by the time this engagement is over. Nothing to rival the long history of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards, perhaps, but a badge of honor for the fighting units to follow me . . .
”Jesus Christ . . . Jesus Christ Almighty . . .” Hyman Smith-Wentworth wasn't even conscious of his blasphemy as he muttered the holy name over and over. The Bolo had appeared almost from out of nowhere and brushed past the heavy armor of the Elijah Regiment with hardly a pause. Now it was climbing the pa.s.s, guns blazing in every direction, ma.s.sive treads rolling over anything in its path.
He had been right the first time, after all. This was more like some unstoppable, supernatural force than the product of human technology.
”Father Hand . . .” Bickerton-Phelps was at his elbow, looking as worried as his shaky voice sounded. ”Father Hand, don't you have orders for us . . . ?”
”Orders . . .” he said, almost under his breath. Then, more firmly, ”Orders. Concentrate everything we've got on that . . . that Satan-sp.a.w.ned thing. Whatever it takes, blast it out of the way. Before we lose our momentum.”
As long as the Bolo stood in the pa.s.s, the units that had already penetrated the mountain line would be unsupported. Some of them would be running out of ammunition already. They had been fighting since the first clashes, early in the morning. Without an open route across the pa.s.s, the ANM would be helpless to resupply or reinforce them. And the drive on Denver Prime wouldn't be possible until those units could be supported properly.
That single tank threatened the entire invasion plan. It had to be knocked out. . . .
”Good G.o.d in Heaven,” someone was muttering. ”How much more punishment can that d.a.m.ned thing take?”
Sitting at the useless communications station, Fife knew exactly how the technician felt. For hours, now, the Bolo Mark XX had stood fast at the top of Hot Springs Pa.s.s, taking everything the enemy could throw at it. The real-time satellite footage on the wall screen didn't show much now, only a rugged saddle between two mountains partly obscured by dust and smoke kicked up by the almost constant artillery and rocket bombardment being directed at the tank.
JSN had run out of missiles and sh.e.l.ls for counterbattery fire long since, putting well over half of the ANM's artillery out of action before his magazines had finally run dry. His anti-personnel charges had also been exhausted, during a wild infantry attack on his position two hours earlier. The enemy infantry was keeping its distance now, cowed by the memory of the men who had been cut down and by the pair of heavy machine guns the Bolo could still bring to bear.
His ablative armor was all but gone now, and gleaming metel showed through in more places than the captain cared to think about. It was the worst beating Fife had ever seen a Bolo take in ten standard years in the field. One tread was ruined, the legacy of a lucky hit by a pair of MMRL warheads. And a diagnostic run over the communications link showed that most of the on-board electronics were nearing the overload point. The Bolo's pain center was red-lining, and that was something Fife had never expected to see.
Jason was dying.
But his secondaries still had a small stock of ammo, and his h.e.l.lbore was fully functional even yet. There was still some fight left in the battered machine, and Jason showed no intention of ending the fight now, no matter how badly he had suffered.
Fife glanced around the room. Wilson and Kyle, side by side near the front of the room right under the monitor, hadn't moved or spoken in a long time. The General had finally managed to coordinate the scattered defenders to make a start at a counterattack, but it would take time to materialize. All New Sierra's senior military leaders could do now was watch. Watch and admire the last stand of Unit JSN of the Line.
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