First to Fight (35 page)

Throughout the close combat, Clarke had assisted Neru with the gun as it burned wide swaths through the mass of Siad horsemen still trying to unscramble themselves. Now the other Marines returned to firing at their enemy.

“Cease fire!” Bass bellowed as the last of the Siad disappeared over the rise.

CHAPTER

THIRTY

“Get those bodies out of here,” Bass ordered before the last of the retreating Siad disappeared over the rise. “Make barricades. Don’t bother with the horses, they’re too heavy. Stack the bodies on the east side. And put a few around the rest of the perimeter.”

The Marines immediately set to stacking the Siad corpses on the eastern rim of the shallow basin, where another cavalry charge would come from—if there was to be another cavalry charge. Bass didn’t think there would be, this one had been too costly. He counted five horses and more than a dozen Siad who had fallen inside the basin—and an equal number of Siad an arm’s length or not much farther outside of it.

Bass stood and surveyed the landscape over which the Siad had charged. More than two hundred badly burned Siad had gone to their warrior’s heaven. Here and there to the east, wounded Siad inched their way toward safety. He didn’t try to count the horses, though more than fifty had to have been killed in the second charge. Some of the horses, not yet dead, whinnied or weakly screamed out their pain as they vainly tried to struggle to their feet. For men to go into battle and fight and die was one thing. Nobody had put a gun to Charlie Bass’s head and told him to enlist in the Marines and to fight battles. Any one of the Siad warriors who’d died today could have chosen another path. But the horses had no choice but to ride unknowing into the maelstrom of Marine fire.

He shook his head to rid it of such thoughts. He had more important things to do. The Siad had charged twice and lost badly each time. They would try again. How would they do it next? He looked away.

The carrion-eaters, made almost mad by the sheer size of the feast laid out for them, descended on the horde of dead and dying.

Wad Mohammad surveyed the battlefield from his vantage point in the shade of a rock outcrop several hundred meters to the south. He had lost too many warriors in these futile attacks. No more. No matter the pride of the Badawi warriors or their desire for vengeance. Too many wives would wail tonight, too many children must now seek succor from men who weren’t their fathers. His only consolation was that Wad Kadj, whose idea this mad formation had been, was among the dead. He snapped his fingers and his attendants immediately attended him.

“Go to the subchiefs. Tell them one warrior out of twenty-five is to fire his rifle at the Confederation Marines. That man is to make one magazine last one hour. No warrior is to expose himself to the Confederation Marines. We will keep the off-worlders in place until Shabeli the Magnificent arrives. I will let him lose his men in the next assault. No more Badawi warriors will lose their lives until we can attack and win.” He snapped his fingers again and the attendants sped off on their errand.

Again Wad Mohammad scanned the battlefield. The rocky land to the east, over which his brave horsemen had charged, was almost aglow with heat shimmer. Somehow, carrion-eaters hopped about on that hellish landscape without being cindered by its heat. He shuddered almost imperceptibly. Never had he seen such carnage and destruction. The Marines’ blasters had melted the rock over which his horsemen had attempted to charge. The rock was too hot to charge over even now. The Confederation Marines truly used weapons of hell.

A sniper’s bullet spanged off the rock and thudded into the body of a horse just in front of where Charlie Bass lay, spraying him with flecks of half-congealed blood and bits of horsehair. He should be getting used to it, he thought, but each bullet that zipped overhead, thudded into the barricades, or ricocheted off the rock frayed his nerves more. Mentally, he again took stock. They had plenty of water left from the refill at Tulak Yar the day before. But the men were drinking it too fast for it to last beyond the day.

“Remember your water discipline,” he said again, and thought of how hard it was to not drink under the beating sun. But they would have to drink more; there was no shade and they were active, not sleeping.

Their rations were good for another couple of days. They had used half their batteries. At best, they could withstand two more assaults. He was sure there were more than enough Siad still around for two more assaults. After that it would be hand-to-hand. If the Siad reinforcements didn’t arrive until after dark, then he and his men might be able to slip away. They still had the GPL. He patted the GPL holder on his belt. He froze.

The pouch was shredded. He twisted and looked toward his side where the pouch was. He yanked out the GPL. Its casing was cracked, its screen was dark, blank. The GPL was dead.

Well, Staff Sergeant Charlie Bass had been in tighter spots. At least that’s what he told himself. Maybe not tighter, but just as desperate. They knew the general direction of New Obbia from where they were. They could make it there using dead reckoning if they got away—when they got away, he corrected himself.

He thought back to the incident on Fiesta de Santiago, when they had been pinned down by bandits and he’d joked with Lieutenant Procescu about fixing bayonets. Now that possibility was no longer a joke, except that the blasters didn’t have bayonets, which was why they used their knives when the horsemen broke through. Next time they had lunch, he’d discuss that with the commandant, he thought wryly. He gazed for a moment at the ground-cloth bundle at the bottom of the basin which was McNeal’s corpse. He would never let these men come to an end like that, he vowed. If it came to that, he would kill each one himself. He drew the ancient K-Bar from its special pocket and examined it in the late-morning light.

The K-Bar was lucky, and with it there riding on his thigh, Bass imagined he carried a living link with the spirits of the long-dead Marines of the ancient Corps; that when he fought, they fought again beside him. He smiled. The fantasy had always made him feel better when things got tough. He slid the K-Bar back into its pocket and patted it affectionately. “We’ll get through this, Jarhead,” he whispered.

Time for business. Charlie Bass looked into the sky. It was another clear, hot day in the Martac Waste. The Siad wouldn’t come again from the direction of the rising sun, not the way the rock was slagged and still almost smoldering. They’d find another way to come. And then another way after that. Two more assaults and the Marines would be overrun. Loss of power in their batteries would see to that.

Briefly, Bass surveyed the men around him. Some of them were sleeping, sprawled in the awkward poses of men suddenly overcome by sheer physical exhaustion. Doyle lay with his mouth wide open, snoring. That young corporal acquitted himself well when the horsemen overrode them, he thought. Surprisingly well. He might have made a good Marine one day. Claypoole, now a hardened combat veteran—would he still be a goof-off if he survived this action?—lay on his back, breathing quietly. A joker and a wise-ass in garrison, Claypoole had proved himself a good man when the chips were down. Clarke had gone to sleep, head folded over his knees, and now a long line of saliva dribbled down his chin onto his utilities. Dean reposed with his face against the rock. Now, there was a young lad with something in him. Bass regretted nobody might ever see how far he could go.

Shabeli the Magnificent alighted from his horse in one fluid motion and embraced Wad Mohammad. Several hundred of the surviving Badawi warriors were behind the rise, about three hundred meters from the Marines’ position, quieting their horses. They stood ready for whatever commands they were given.

“Wad Mohammad, may God smile upon you always,” Shabeli uttered in perfunctory greeting.

“And you, my lord,” Wad Mohammad answered.

“Our enemies?” Shabeli asked.

Wad Mohammad gestured beyond the rise before them. “They have not exposed themselves or returned fire since our last assault.”

“They cannot escape?”

“We have them surrounded on all sides. They do not dare expose themselves. I have many snipers firing into their position, and for one of them to stand is for that man to die. They cannot possibly escape.”

Shabeli grunted. “You have attacked?”

“Twice. One time a hundred men on foot, to test the Confederation Marines. That was from the west. The off-worlders used their hell-weapons to kill all of them. The second time was horsemen from the east. The assault was broken with heavy casualties.”

“At what price to the off-worlders?”

Wad Mohammad’s jaws locked. This was a question he didn’t want to consider. “None. All of them survived.”

“All eight of them,” Shabeli said scornfully. This weak-kneed fool would have to be eliminated, he thought. One last, determined rush this morning would have overrun the Confederation Marines. Now the Badawi were crouching here—beyond the rise like old women—and hidden in other places around the off-world Marines. Well, the balance of power had just changed.

Shabeli gave a curt command to the captain of the small company he had led here. The sixty men dismounted. They all carried plasma weapons and knew how to use them. “Deploy your men behind the crest of this ridge. Let no one fire or expose himself until I personally give the order.”

“What do you propose, my lord?” Wad Mohammad asked.

Shabeli smiled. “I propose a small demonstration. Those off-worlders down there must almost be out of firepower. When they see what I have brought, they will surrender. Or they will die. Either way, it is of no consequence. We have dealt the Confederation a powerful blow. I’ll have their Marines alive, or I’ll have their bodies dead.”

A plasma bolt lanced out from the rise and seared its way into the rock just short of the man-barricade, where it exploded in a brilliant flash, spattering molten globules of magma into the corpses. The stench of burned flesh washed over the Marines.

“That got my attention,” Claypoole said as he casually shook a small chunk of charred flesh off the stock of his blaster.

“The balance of power has just shifted,” Bass commented quietly. This changed everything. He was not surprised at what followed.

“Confederation Marines!” a booming voice echoed over the waste. “Listen to me. I am Shabeli the Magnificent, leader of all the Siad. I am here with overpowering force. Surrender! Surrender and I will spare your lives.” Shabeli stood on top of the rise, clearly visible to the Marines. In his right hand was a portable voice projector.

“Surrender, hell,” Schultz muttered.

“Belay the chatter,” Bass commanded. “That’s Shabeli himself. He’s got a very high opinion of himself.” Old Mas Fardeed had schooled Bass well in the ways of the Siad, and Bass had filed the information away for possible future use. Bass had long thought that it was very good to know as much about your enemy as possible, even his curse words. Bass smiled. There might yet be a chance.

Quickly, Bass stripped off his body armor and utility Shirt.

“you doing?” What are Doyle exclaimed.

“Going for a little walk,” Bass answered. Chest bare, he looked at his men. “If this doesn’t work, you’re in charge, Domhofer. You know what to do.”

Dornhofer nodded wordlessly.

“Don’t surrender if you don’t want to wind up like McNeal. If they take you alive, these bastards’ll use you as hostages and then torture you to death. Take as many of them with you as you can. Save a bolt for yourself. Do not wait until they get in among you.

“Do not, I say again,
do not
attempt to support me out there, no matter what happens.” He looked each man in the eyes until each indicated he would obey.

Without a further word, Staff Sergeant Charlie Bass stood erect on the lip of the basin and waved his arms at Shabeli the Magnificent.

“Come forward!” Shabeli commanded. Bass wended his way cautiously among the corpses, walked the still-steaming area his men had slagged, and headed toward Shabeli. It was a long walk.

Shabeli watched the lone figure approaching. A negotiator. He smiled. This would be easy.

When Bass at last reached a spot about thirty meters from the top of the rise, within good speaking distance, Shabeli ordered him to stop.

“I demand the immediate surrender of you and your men,” Shabeli shouted.

“That’s interesting,” Bass replied. “I came to accept yours.” He kept his face expressionless, despite the way his heart thudded in his chest.

Shabeli blinked in disbelief. Then he realized his men could see how calmly the off-worlder stood and knew he had to make the man quail or risk losing respect. “All who Shabeli the Magnificent does not kill surrender to him,” he roared. “All whose surrender Shabeli the Magnificent does not accept, he kills!”

Bass remained motionless for a moment and then drew his issue knife and raised it above his head. “I do not surrender. You must try to kill me,” he roared back.

At the sight of the drawn knife, clearly a challenge to individual combat, the Siad gasped in wonder. Shabeli regarded the lone man through narrowed eyelids. What an idiot! But a brave man still. The man was not as tall as he, but he was thick through the chest, and the muscles in his arms looked powerful. White teeth glinted through the fierce smile on his sun-darkened face.

“You are women, not men!” Bass shouted. Only Shabeli could understand the English words. They were meant only for Shabeli. Bass motioned for a prone blaster man to join him where he stood.

“That’s right, you mewling coward! Cut me down! Otherwise, I’m coming up there to spill your stinking guts allover the ground!”