His heart beat faster at the sight. He remembered his casual dismissal of the Bolo as a threat when his aide had brought the subject up the night before . . . he had even suggested that he wanted to see the Terran super-tank deployed on the front lines when the battle started. Now Smith-Wentworth’s confidence faltered. It was one thing to discuss an abstraction, quite another to see the solid reality of a Bolo.
Smith-Wentworth outwardly professed the religion of the New Messiah, but the practical man within had been guardedly skeptical of many of the beliefs the faith promoted, superstitions like the notion that angels and demons took an active part in the affairs of Mankind. He had never openly proclaimed any sort of doubt, of course, but in his innermost heart he had always rejected such notions. Until now, that is. The sight of the Bolo speeding up the road toward the crest of the pass shook his cherished rationality to the core. That, surely, was a demon, a steel-shod devil come forth to war against the Faithful of Deseret.
He swallowed and tried to fight back the instinctive, superstitious fear. The Bolo was no demon incarnate. It was a fighting machine, a construct of Man . . . a weapon, no more and no less. And a weapon was only as good as the mind and spirit that employed it.
Smith-Wentworth had studied his opposite number in the Sierran camp long before the invasion had been authorized. Coordinator Wilson had surprised him by even allowing the Bolo onto the front lines, but the Third Commander of the Lord’s Host still felt he had the measure of the man. The Sierrans had a powerful weapon in the Bolo, but lacked the will to use it properly. Of that Smith-Wentworth was sure.
Long seconds passed, and slowly his turmoil subsided. There was nothing supernatural about the Bolo, and he could return to the business at hand without the burden of doubt and dread that had threatened to overwhelm him.
Nonetheless, the tank complicated the immediate situation tremendously. The Hand had planned this campaign down to the last detail, but in an instant everything had been changed by the decision to place the Bolo in the Alto Blanco Pass. He would have to change his own strategy accordingly . . . and quickly, before the Lord’s Host lost the initiative. That was crucial to victory, to force the pace of events rather than allow the infidels to control the flow of battle.
There were only three reasons the Sierrans would have chosen to send the Bolo to Alto Blanco. If they knew the significance of the pass to Smith-Wentworth’s battle plans, he would surely have seen other signs. He doubted they could have discovered his secret weapon, and even if they had, the deployment of the Bolo would surely not have been Wilson’s first response to the threat. That left only two possibilities. Either they planned to use the tank to spearhead a counteroffensive to try to relieve the pressure on Hot Springs Pass, or the Bolo was intended to replace troops defending Alto Blanco so that they could shift to relieve their hard-pressed comrades of the Mobile Infantry.
The preparations he had seen among the human troops at Alto Blanco suggested that it was the latter option Wilson was following, and that certainly fit everything Smith-Wentworth knew about the man. But either alternative offered unexpected opportunities for the ANM, if only they could exploit the right opening at the right time . . .
“Orders!” he snapped. “First echelon to increase pressure on Sector One. Force the infidels to concentrate their attention on Hot Springs Pass. . . .” He paused, considering the satellite map again. “Second Echelon to remain in position until further notice. Maintain maximum alert posture. When I order them to move out, I want fast action. Make sure that Colonel Roberts-Moreau understands the importance of this.” He stabbed a finger toward Bickerton-Phelps. “And get me our tame infidel on the secure net. It’s time to set our new ally in motion on the Lord’s ~behalf. . . .”
I feel a thrill of anticipation as I roll up the road toward the Forward Edge of Battle Area. Sheer exhilaration flows from my pleasure center as I contemplate the prospect active combat. I am no longer of the ~Dinochrome Brigade, but I can make my new regiment’s name shine by successfully completing the mission my Commander has outlined for me.
But despite these positive sensations, I am still conscious of underlying concerns. My mission has been carefully explained, my crucial role in the battle outlined in the Mission Briefing my Commander has transmitted to me. Yet I still feel that I am not being used to fullest capacity. I have noted in years of association with humans that their military decisions are often far from optimum solutions to relatively simple problems of tactics, and my background in military history suggests this is by no means a new phenomena. If Marshal Ney failed to properly utilize combined arms tactics throughout the engagement at Waterloo, and Montrose failed to anticipate the movement of Leslie’s army prior to Philiphaugh, can I truly expect a human Commander to understand the proper employment of a Bolo Combat Unit given the current situation?
Thoughts of this sort trouble me despite the joy I derive from the prospect of a role in the battle. There was a time, once, when I would merely have noted discrepancies of this sort without allowing them to cast doubt on my Commander’s abilities. Is this a result of my reprogramming, or simply a natural outgrowth of experience and observation?
I take 0.003 seconds to create a subroutine to abort such speculations for the duration of the battle ahead. I cannot afford to be caught up in introspection when I find myself in combat at last.
Hyman Smith-Wentworth smiled as he turned away from his communications console and contemplated the battle map once again. The traitor in the Sierran army had confirmed his suspicions. Now he had the information he needed. The Second Montana was ~being withdrawn from Alto Blanco, leaving only the Bolo on duty there while they moved in to support the beleaguered Mobile Infantry in the adjacent pass.
It was better than he had dared hope when he framed his original plan. Wilson’s defenses were wide open to a decisive stroke. And it would be a stroke that would fall completely without warning, once the traitor started to carry out the orders Smith-Wentworth had framed so carefully. . . .
“All right, you bastards, I want a smooth D and D this time. Not like that sorry job you did in practice. You got me?”
Lieutenant Bill O’Brien hid a smile as he listened to the platoon NCO growling his orders to the men in the cramped APC as it lurched up the road toward the crest of Hot Springs Pass. Sergeant Jenson was a long-service noncom in the CANS, unlike most of the ordinary soldiers in the Reserve platoon called to ~active duty for the duration of the crisis. Unlike O’Brien himself, when it came to that. Ordinarily New Sierra’s army was a skeleton force, a mere framework, and probably ninety percent of the men facing combat today had never before heard shots fired outside a practice range. The handful of experienced men like Jenson could draw on long training, and some of them, at least, had seen real combat ten years back during the sharp engagement with those renegade Legura who had destroyed a farming town in ~Appalachia before the army had mobilized against them. . . .
But for most of them, this was the first time. Some of the men were afraid, others were high on visions of valor and glory. And as for O’Brien himself, he was neither excited nor afraid, only painfully aware of the fact that his militia commission had put him in the ~position of being leader of Third Platoon, Alpha Company, Second Montana Mechanized Regiment, and as platoon leader he was responsible for the lives of the thirty-three men in his command. The knowledge weighed heavy in his mind.
“This is it, Lieutenant,” the corporal driving the aged personnel carrier reported over the vehicle’s ~intercom system. “Major says Third Platoon’s got the trench line to the left.”
The tracked vehicle lurched one last time and came to a halt with gears clashing, and the rear hatch ground slowly open. “Right!” Jenson shouted over the noise of the hatch mechanism. “Dismount and Disperse! By the numbers! Go! Go! Go!”
Soldiers piled out of the rear of the APC, weapons clutched tight against their chests, faces set and grim. When all four squads had dismounted, O’Brien followed them out, with Jenson close behind him.
The scene made him stop and gape. Hot Springs Pass had been a favorite among tourists and nature lovers from all over New Sierra, a serpentine col running through the highest chain of mountains on the planet. Here, at the very crest of the pass, the road skirted along the edge of Mount Hope, with the high shoulder of the mountain looming to the south and a sheer drop down into the valleys around Denver Prime to the north. It was one of the most breathtaking views on a planet of spectacular scenery, but today O’Brien hardly noticed the natural beauty. His attention was riveted to man-made vistas, none of which could be described as beautiful.