Behind them, the symbology of their pursuers clustered, pulsing and shifting as updates and estimates jumped probable positions in a weird dance. The jerky motion of the enemy symbols always tended their way, though, closing with certainty on the one route through the crater wall ahead.
"Incoming supporting barrage," Stark's suit warned.
Best news I've had in a while.
Stark glanced up, instinctively and unnecessarily, since there was nothing to see and his Tac display was tracking the rounds. The incoming warheads burst and faded from display, too early and too far out.
Hell. We're too damned far inside enemy territory.
With the Platoon still under the enemy's defensive umbrella, their own artillery couldn't reach their pursuers. It was unlikely there'd be any more barrages. Shells cost, and the chances of one making it through were too small.
"Hey, Vic," he called.
"Here."
"Did the Lieutenant call in that artillery?"
"Yeah." Reynolds' reply held a mix of anger and resignation. "She's screaming for support, but that's all we're getting."
Stark checked his own back door into the command circuit, hearing Lieutenant Conroy's desperate calls for cover for the retreating Platoon being met by only occasional noncommittal acknowledgments. "How come headquarters is so quiet, Vic?" Stark wondered. "Why aren't they telling us what to do, like they usually do? The worm's dead, so they can micromanage everybody again."
Vic's laughter held no humor. "Ethan, we're in a lot of trouble right now, and unless a more senior officer tells her what to do, Conroy's the only person directly responsible if we get blown away before we reach safety."
Stark grimaced. "Sure. I forgot nobody high-ranking is ever at fault when something goes wrong. At least if it comes to that, we'll be able to die without some idiots back at headquarters ordering us to choose different targets or run in a different direction."
"That's looking at the bright side."
Stark checked his map again, measuring distances and movement rates, knowing what had to be done but delaying all the same.
Can't put if off much longer.
"Sarge." Gomez called in on the Squad circuit, sounding calm but slightly breathless from the hurried pace.
"Yeah."
Answer the same way. Nice and calm. Don't let the others know how bad this is, how worried you are. Just another drill out here, people, keep your heads and you'll be okay.
He frowned, noticing Gomez's symbol beginning to drop back from its position at the head of the Squad. "You got a problem?"
"We got a problem." Like she was discussing a glitch in the sentry schedule. "Ain't gonna make it across that plain, Sarge. They're too close. They'll get to that big crater rim while we're still out there, and pick us off like roaches caught on the mess hall floor."
Tell me something I don't know.
He'd reached the same conclusion several minutes ago. The Platoon was tired, worn from the long march out here and taking out the objective. They were feeling the effects of those long hours, while the enemy troops were fresh, rested, and mad as hell. Fear, training, and conditioning kept the Platoon ahead but couldn't open the distance. "So?"
"Is there gonna be anybody meeting us this side of the dust plain? Any support?"
"None that I know of."
"So we need a rear guard. I'm it."
"The hell." He should've guessed Gomez would make that move, and shouldn't have waited as long as he had to make his own. "You stay forward, got me? The Squad needs you out front."
"They need me watching their backs."
"No. Makes no damn sense for you to fall back this far. The troops will start to lose it if they see you dropping back.
¿Comprendo?
" Gomez's symbol had steadied, keeping up with the others while she argued with Stark. The other symbols were dragging slightly, trying to maintain their position relative to Gomez. "You're already slowing them down. Get back out front, now!"
A long pause, then Gomez's symbol surged ahead. "Okay, Sarge, but that don't solve the problem." From her tone, she was mad as hell and putting that emotion into her movement.
You had the right answer, Anita. Just the wrong person.
Stark shifted to the command circuit. "Lieutenant? Stark here."
"Yes, Sergeant." Tired and worried. Scared, not that she didn't have every right to be. This wasn't the sort of tactical situation a new Lieutenant wanted to be trapped in.
"Lieutenant, we can't make it across the plain before they occupy the crater edge and blow us away. We'll be sitting ducks as soon as they get in position."
Several seconds ticked off as the pursuing symbology danced madly behind, continuing its slow closure on the Platoon. Finally the Lieutenant replied. "That's very likely, Sergeant. Do you have an idea?" Keeping it short, probably mad and frustrated, not seeing any way out, desperate enough to ask her senior enlisted personnel for advice even though everything officers were taught these days warned against that kind of display of fallibility. As if any enlisted ever believed their officers were infallible to begin with.
"We need a rear guard," Stark stated calmly. "Someone has to hold them long enough for the rest to get under our perimeter."
"No." The Lieutenant's answer came back immediately this time. "I'm not leaving your Squad behind. They'd be wiped out."
Good for you, Lieutenant,
Stark thought with some surprise.
You care enough to reject that option, even though it'd guarantee you getting out safe.
"I agree, sir. But we don't need a whole Squad. One good soldier can hold them long enough." Say it professional, like it was a tactical problem during a simulation. "It's the only answer, Lieutenant. One casualty, maybe, and the rest of the Platoon gains time to get across the open area." Stark figured Vic Reynolds was still listening in to Conroy's command circuit. It wasn't too hard to imagine how she had to be feeling right now, because she'd surely already figured out who that one soldier had to be.
Lieutenant Conroy spoke slowly and reluctantly. "I can't order anyone to stay back alone."
"You don't have to, Lieutenant. I'm volunteering. Only logical choice. I'm farthest back, and I'm one of your most experienced soldiers."
Sell the Lieutenant on it, and sell myself. Make it make sense to both of us.
"I've got the combat experience to hold them long enough, and to get away clear after."
Hopefully, pray to God.
"I have no intention of buying any territory out here, Lieutenant, but the only way to save the rest of the Platoon is for me to hold off the pursuit for a little while."
Several more seconds. Odds were the Lieutenant was talking to Reynolds on the private conference switch, but for once Stark refrained from eavesdropping, even though he could easily imagine the conversation.
Is there any other way?
the Lieutenant would ask her, and
Can he get out?
The answers were easy enough,
no
and
maybe.
They wouldn't be easy for Vic to give, but she'd give them.
"Okay, Sergeant," Conroy finally agreed, relief warring with the shame of abandonment in her voice. "You . . . are to hold as long as . . . you feel necessary. Use your discretion on when to withdraw."
"Yes, sir."
"Sergeant Stark, once you move, the rest of the Platoon should be in position to cover your retreat. We'll cover you the minute you start to move. Don't try to hold too long. Okay?"
"Yes, sir."
By the time I start to move, you'll be too far out to cover me. You're too inexperienced and probably don't realize that yet, but I knew it when I volunteered. No other choice.
"I'm not bucking for a medal, Lieutenant. I'll be right behind you as soon as you're clear."
Maybe if I keep repeating that, I'll believe it.
"Roger, Sergeant. We'll cover you, Stark. We'll cover you."
"Yes, sir." You could tell the Lieutenant was feeling guilty as sin. Good for her, again. It wasn't her fault, though, not her fault the war's vid ratings went low and her Platoon got picked to jack them back up. Not her fault the enemy had been faster and better than the officers in the rear had assumed. Not her fault the plan headquarters had dreamed up hadn't been quite as perfect as they'd hoped. "You did a pretty good job out here, Lieutenant."
Maybe Conroy can turn into a good officer, someday, if such things still exist.
That brought another pause. "Thanks, Sergeant Stark. We'll see you on the other side."
"Yes, sir." Stark switched over to answer an incoming on the Sergeants' personal comm net. He knew it'd be Vic even before she spoke.
"Ethan, you be careful." No hysterics and no anger, not from her. She knew as well as he that he hadn't any real choice.
"Don't worry. I'm no hero, remember? See you back at R&R."
" 'Don't worry,' he says.
Don't
be a hero, Ethan. Don't let the demon win this one. Don't hold too long. We'll be back." Reynolds' voice finally betrayed some of the concern she had been trying to hide.
"Never doubted it. But I won't let you or my Squad down, Vic. Whatever it takes. You make sure the Platoon gets back safe."
"I'll get them back safe. Don't you dare die for me, Ethan Stark."
"I've no intention of doing so. Take it easy, Vic."
"Yeah. You, too."
"Stark." That was Sanchez, calm even when breathing pretty heavily from the long retreat. "Good luck."
"Thanks. Look out for my Squad, okay?"
"Of course."
One more call, to Corporal Gomez. "Anita, I'm the rear guard." She tried to break into his call, but he overrode her signal. "Lieutenant's orders," he added, avoiding mention of his volunteering for those orders. "I'm farthest back and most experienced." He released the override.
"Dirty trick, Sarge. It was my idea."
"Nah, I'd already realized the same. Only option. You've got the Squad. Get them back safe."
"How long you staying?"
"As long as it takes and not one second longer. Don't worry about me. Worry about the Squad. I took care of them this far. Now it's your job."
After a long wait, her reply finally came. "Roger,
Sargento. Comprendo. Vaya con Dios"
"Same." Nothing else seemed right at the moment. "Stark out."
He started carefully checking out the terrain ahead. First, good sites for the two mini-claymore mines he carried. They needed to be emplaced near where the pursuit would pass, ready to hurl their loads of shot horizontally into moving targets. Then, a good location for himself. That location had to have a decent field of fire that would allow Stark to see and shoot at enemy soldiers coming at him from almost any angle. It also needed some protection out front, and solid rock behind. He didn't want to be silhouetted against the horizon every time he moved. Overhead cover would be nice, too, but probably impossible. Usually, natural overhead meant a cave of some sort in a rock face, which meant you might be covered for a while, but you had no way out once the enemy zeroed in on the entrance. Not that he expected to find a cave here anyway, not on this airless, waterless wreck of a world.
Stark spotted a place that looked promising, up ahead just before the pass leading out onto the dust plain. The last of his Squad members were entering the pass as he placed his first claymore, covering the path along the direct route to the pass, then the second mine a hundred meters farther along. The way up to the position he'd chosen was a little steep, but that was good: He'd want to go back down fast when the time came.
The firing point proved to be a good one, with a fine field of fire out to where the enemy would come, a few meters of rock rearing up behind and a rock rim forming a low natural entrenchment out front. Stark settled, making sure he liked just where he was. On his display, the riotous movement of the pursuers' symbology was rapidly necking down toward the pass and toward Stark's position. Out on the plain, the Platoon's symbols headed outward, steadily opening the distance, still way too far from safety. Stark placed his grenades in front, ready to fire, rested his rifle beside himself, and waited, amid the rocks and stars, solid shadows and brilliant light. He couldn't recall ever having felt quite so lonely.
"You idiot." His father had been mad as hell. "You want to be a hero? Join the police, f'God's sake! At least then you could die in your hometown!"
Dad was still in his coveralls, wet and smelling of fish feed. Stark had stood before him, two months out of community college with a degree in inventory maintenance that qualified him to be a stock clerk in some big discount store owned and run by people who didn't really care about people like him. Twenty years old, unemployed-looking-for-a-job-that-didn't-doom-every-dream-once-dreamed, still dressing like the high-school kid he felt like inside. Nowhere to go, after wasting what educational chances he'd once had, until he ran across the recruiting spiel on vid during a break between old war movies. It had been a pretty forlorn recruiting spiel, as if even the actors used in it couldn't quite believe anyone would actually join the military. To Stark's own surprise, it hadn't taken much to convince him to join; no matter how bad it would be, it was somewhere else, one last chance to break away.
Stark, facing his father, fought to speak calmly, but his words had come out sounding like a kid caught coming in after curfew. "I thought you'd be proud." The hell he had. Like most of the people he knew, Dad had never hidden his contempt for the military, but it had sounded like a good potential reply when Stark had rehearsed the conversation beforehand.
"How could you have believed that?" Dad took a deep breath, looked around as if lost, then back directly at Stark. "Look, there're laws. You get to change your mind. You've got, what, seventy-two hours? Tell them you're not joining."
"Enlisting." Just knowing the term had somehow set him apart already. "And I'm not changing my mind." He had gotten mad, too, playing out another in the long series of fights for control, for independence. "I'm an adult. I can enlist if I want."
"You don't know what you're doing." His father looked half frantically toward the living room, hoping to see Stark's mother there, hoping for an ally, but she wasn't due off her shift at the store for another four hours. Stark had planned that, knowing he couldn't have faced both parents' pleas. "For once, just this once, listen to me. I don't know what they tell you, I don't know if they wave a slick uniform in your face, all I know is nobody cares about the military. Do you know anyone in the military? Of course not. They're not like us. They get sent to places no one wants to go, to kill people, and usually end up getting killed themselves. Is that what you want, for your mother and me to get a letter saying you died doing something worthless, fighting a war someplace no one cares about?"