In Every Clime and Place (22 page)

GANYMEDE

The first sign of pursuit appeared in the form of low-altitude gunships, flying just above the rocky spires, scouting for a sign of us. They were really rocket-powered hoppers, wings allowing them to glide a little. The atmosphere was too thin for real flight, but the gravity was low enough that they could gain altitude and take a while to come back down. Less maneuverable than a true gunship, but they served the purpose.

“Take them if you get a shot,” ordered the lieutenant. “If they open up on a platoon on the move, they’ll butcher us.”

“I got him,” said Kovanian.

“It’s your shot,” I replied.

A second later the Longbow missile streaked from the launcher.

The pilot of the small craft noticed it and tried to evade, but Terry, as I expected, was waiting. As the gunship banked to port to escape the first rocket, O’Rourke fired. The second missile slammed into the belly of the craft, which disintegrated in a fireball.

“Nice shot—fuck me! Hit the deck!”

As the first ship expired in a brilliant flash of light, his wingman came in strafing. Heavy 20mm rounds tore into the stony columns around us. I put my head down as splinters of rock rained down on me. This is the appropriate response for an infantryman facing strafing or artillery. Standing up and shooting back is insane. The only thing you can do is stay low, get under cover as best you can and pray nothing hits you. Somebody who isn’t being shot at should fire back.

Sabatini’s team did. As the gunship came in at us, her Marines opened up on it. The craft pulled away, smoke billowing from its port engine. An explosion sounded several seconds later.

“Everybody check in!” I shouted.

“Present!” Kovanian yelled into his mic.

“All set,” replied Johnson.

“Still kicking,” said O’Rourke.

“Sergeant! Is the rest of the squad OK?”

“Affirmative, Collins. Your team was the only one in the area.”

What kind of regimental idiot says “affirmative” when you ask if he’s still breathing?
I thought to myself.

I heard the crackle of small-arms fire off to my left. After about twenty seconds, it trailed off to an occasional shot.

“Our front just got probed,” said Sgt LeBlanc. “Keep an eye out in case they try to flank us.”

“Aye aye, Sarge,” said Sabatini.

“You got it, boss,” I replied, just to irk him. Affirmative my ass.

We waited, scanning our front. I could feel nervous perspiration running down my face. I blinked to keep it out of my eyes. That’s an annoying thing about a full helmet. Sneezing is another, but I’ll spare that description.

“I got movement, Mick,” said Johnson. “Ten o’clock.”

“I don’t...OK, I got it.”A figure moved forward in a crouch. This guy was being careful, leaning his weight and pushing with his feet, not bounding and making a big target. He stopped, knelt to look and listen, then waved to those behind him. I hardly dared to breathe, despite the fact that I was fully suited up.

“Fifty meters out. Right beside the big scarred rock. Does everybody see?” I asked.

I got positive responses from the rest of my team, Sabatini and Sgt LeBlanc.

Sgt LeBlanc was slightly behind and to my left, out of my vision. He would start the ambush. I watched as more figures appeared through the maze of stone columns. Three were in my narrow field of vision. I held my sights on one carrying a light machine gun, the bipod legs down and ready to brace the weapon. He would hit the deck and put down suppressing fire for his unit once the shooting started.

I watched him and waited tensely for the signal.

Just let it go, Mick. There’s nothing in the world but you, your rifle and the target.

Sgt LeBlanc’s ACR cracked. I pulled my trigger, feeling the tension disappear as the recoil pushed the weapon against my shoulder. The raider started to drop into a firing position as he heard the first shot, so my round, instead of slamming into his chest, smashed through his facemask.

His body thrashed as it hit the ground, and the automatic weapon flipped end-over-end away from him. He was almost certainly dead, but sometimes they kick around like that when you shoot them in the head.

I switched my aim to the enemy on the left, but he was already down. Whether he dove for cover or got hit by one of my teammates, I don’t know. The third hesitated, unsure if he should take cover or return fire. While he thought about it, I blew him away.

I couldn’t find any more good targets. The dust was swirling among the rocky pillars, and the enemy were quickly-moving shadows or flickers of muzzle flash. I didn’t like spending rounds against shadows, so I held my fire and waited for something substantial.

A burst of fire splintered stone a few centimeters over my head. The enemy probably didn’t account for the gravity when they zeroed their weapons. That was a good thing. It meant most of their shots would be high.

It also meant they were shitbirds. You don’t set up a base on a low-G moon and then fail to train your people how to move and shoot in low G.

No excuse not to be cautious, though. I pushed back from my position with elbows, knees and toes, shifting to the other side of the rocky projection. I could see a sustained flash of an automatic weapon back among the rocks, but couldn’t make out the gunner. I selected the 20mm grenade option on my ACR and sighted in on the burst. That’s the nice thing about grenades. You can afford to be a little imprecise.

I sent two grenades out in quick succession and the firing stopped. I waited for it to resume, but it didn’t. A figure bounded across a gap between two rocks, but dropped out of sight before I could draw a bead on him.

The enemy must have brought up reinforcements at that point, because the firing increased, even though I still couldn’t see any of them.

“Listen up, Marines,” came Lt Mitchell’s voice over our headsets. “The enemy have deployed. I’m calling for an arty strike. When the shit comes down, disengage on your squad leaders’ command.”

He was right. We’d sprung our ambush, that was our best advantage. Now their numbers would let them envelop our flanks and overwhelm us. The right thing to do now was to pin them down with artillery and disengage. Third Platoon would have another ambush ready for them a few hundred meters along.

I scanned the area for targets and waited for the artillery. Even in combat, there’s a hell of a lot of waiting in the Corps. I snapped off three rounds at a very convincing shadow, which dropped out of sight.

The shells from our Heavy Weapons Platoon’s big mortars smashed down among the rocks of the enemy’s position. In the thin atmosphere, we couldn’t hear the whistle as they approached. As the high explosive rounds landed on their position, the pirates’ firing slacked off.

“Move it out, Marines!” shouted Sgt LeBlanc. “Fall back by teams. Collins’ first.”

We beat feet toward the trail. Sabatini’s team followed shortly.

As her team passed through us, Sgt LeBlanc stopped to say something to me. He suddenly dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

I gaped for a second, then dropped to his side. A round had hit him in the back of the head. There was nothing I could do.

“Corpsman!” I shouted, and then “Johnson! Hose down that area!”

I doubted either command would do any good, but I needed to do something. As the corpsman reached Sgt LeBlanc’s body, I stooped to help carry.

“Let the new guy do that,” O’Rourke advised.

“Why?”

“Cause you got command of the squad now, shit-for-brains,” he explained.

He had a point. I had Kovanian help get LeBlanc out of there and continued leapfrogging the teams back up the road. The enemy fire was sporadic now, a few rounds passing overhead. The artillery had them occupied. Apart from the shot that hit our sergeant, nothing else came even close to a Marine.

On the trail, Lt Evers stood and counted off Marines as we passed. Hernandez’s squad was already moving up the trail as we came by. The lieutenant cursed under his breath when he saw LeBlanc’s body.

“Anybody else hit, Corporal Collins?”

“No, sir.”

“You got the squad. Carry on. Get up the trail, pass through Third Platoon and set up beyond them,” he ordered.

“Aye aye, sir!” I replied.

He acknowledged with a sharp nod. Every other Marine I could see was moving in the standard half-crouch of troops under fire, shoulders hunched, knees bent, leaning forward. It was subconscious. Lt Evers stood ramrod straight, clutching the pistol grip of his weapon in his right hand and waving us up the trail with his left. Like Armistead at Gettysburg with his hat on his sword. I felt ashamed to flinch at a near miss with a man like that leading me.

Oh, I still did it. I just learned to live with the shame. My bog-trotting immigrant ancestors had been crouched behind a stone wall, sniping at those gallant Virginians as they advanced up Cemetery Ridge.

I got the squad up the trail. It didn’t take much leadership; they all knew their job.

“Are they comin’?” a young Marine asked us as we passed through the defensive position of Third Platoon.

“What’s left of ’em!” Sabatini shot back.

“Don’t worry, lad,” Terry called. “We made her save you some.”

Wow. Joking with each other instead of at each other. I hadn’t expected to live to see that.

I ran into Sergeant Hernandez a few minutes later. “Collins, you take the center. Ski had it last, and I have three men hit.”

“Aye, Sarge,” I answered. “Third squad, deploy for hasty defense. Sabatini, take the left flank.”

“Aye aye, Mick.”

My Marines quickly found defensive positions. I checked their disposition and field of fire before I found myself a nice spot, just off the right side of the trail. I had a good view down the enemy’s suspected approach.

The trail itself was our responsibility. If the enemy tried to flank us, Hernandez’s or Ski’s squads would meet them. A cautious enemy would try the flanks, but the raiders were pressed for time. They had to take us before our ships could evacuate the company. My money was on a thrust right up the middle.

While I was setting up, Kovanian made his way back to us. I set him up near me where I could keep an eye on him. He was a good kid. If he lived, he’d be a good Marine.

Ski’s squad came through shortly after we set up. They didn’t seem to have lost anybody. Lieutenants Mitchell and Evers and Gunny Taylor brought up the rear.

“Collins.” Lt Mitchell nodded. “You have the center?”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked at my Marines. “Where would you like us?”

Holy shit! That was praise. He was saying he couldn’t improve on my deployment, and just offered his services as a rifleman.

“I’m honored, sir, but I think Sgt Hernandez needs hands more than I do.”

The command element of Second Platoon, F Co, 2nd Bn, 7th Marines deployed. On the advice of a Corporal.

Lt Evers hung back for a moment. “Corporal Collins.”

“Sir?”

“You’re doing OK for a Yankee.”

“Thank you, sir.” I smiled. I couldn’t resist adding, “We won, you know.”

“Last time.”

There was no arguing with that Virginia drawl.

It seemed like a long time before the enemy moved on Third Platoon. Our ambush and mortar fire must have jolted them bad.

Eventually we heard firing to our front. As before, it started in the center, along the trail, then spread outward to both sides. After the initial crash of the ambush, the sound trailed off to a crackle, then to sporadic shots. I waited for the bombardment and the pullback.

And waited.

Firing gradually increased along the whole front, and went on for far too long. Something was wrong. Along with the 5mm and 20mm rounds, we heard the low boom of hand grenades. If a fight gets to that range, it’s too close.

Third Platoon was in trouble.

“Get ready,” I told my squad. “Any minute now the Old Man is gonna order a counterattack.”

Terry exploded into an unbroken stream of profanity.

“I thought this was a retreat,” said Kovanian.

“There’s Marines in trouble back there,” I growled. “Get ready to go.”

Lt Mitchell’s voice came over the com. “Second Platoon, hold your positions. First Platoon will attack through us and relieve Third. Weapons Platoon will provide covering barrage. We will guard the retreat.”

He sounded disappointed. I was relieved. I wouldn’t want my brothers left back there, but I wasn’t looking forward to leading the assault. First Platoon hadn’t fought yet anyway.

The arty crashed down ahead of us, and the Marines of First Platoon passed through.

The firing intensified briefly, then slackened. Soon after, First and Third Platoons fell back through our line. One of the retreating squads of Marines fell back through my position. Two were carried, and a third was limping. I hoped the enemy paid heavily.

We waited for the enemy pursuit, but it was long in coming. I strained my eyes into the dusty depths of the stone forest.

“Movement,” said Li.

“OK, Marines,” I said, “hold your fire. Let ’em get nice and close. Bauer, Johnson, you ready with those TARs?”

I got confirmation. I strained for a glimpse of the enemy.

I saw a shadowy figure.

“Eleven o’clock!” I lined up my sights.

Something wasn’t right. Something...

“Hold fire!” I switched to Third Platoon’s frequency. “Smedley!”

The figure froze. “Butler!”

This was our password, Smedley Butler, the name of a Marine General who won two Medals of Honor in the early nineteen hundreds, fighting little, forgotten wars in little, shithole countries. It seemed appropriate.

“Who goes?”

“Lance Corporal Davis and PFCs Garcia and Reynolds.”

“Advance and be recognized.”

Three Marines cautiously emerged from the mist. When I was sure they were ours, I waved them in.

“How far behind are the enemy?”

“Maybe a minute, Sarge,” Lance Corporal Davis promoted me. “Our lieutenant got hit. Our sergeant took over, and our corporal got wounded. We never got the order to fall back.” He sounded scared.