The space between mountainside and cliff, perhaps two hundred meters across at its narrowest, had been cut by a series of trenches, protected in front by dirt-and-sandbag parapets and a few strings of barbed wire. Individual rifle pits were positioned further up the pass. There had been a number of fighting vehicles dug in behind the trench lines, but even O’Brien’s ~unpracticed eye could see that none of them was usable now. The defensive position had been hit hard by the earlier enemy attacks, and shell craters and still-burning hulks that had once been tanks further scarred the battered landscape.
A few ragged figures looked up as the soldiers of the Second Montana dismounted from their carriers, but for the most part the defenders in the trenches showed little interest in the newcomers. One tattered scarecrow of a man, though, crossed from the shelter of a wrecked hoverjeep to meet O’Brien as Jenson took charge of getting the platoon into the trench. It took long seconds for O’Brien to notice the captain’s bars on the other man’s grimy, mud- and blood-caked fatigues, and his salute was belated.
The other officer didn’t even bother to return the gesture. “Thank God you got here when you did,” he said. “The bastards are getting ready for another push, and I don’t see how we could’ve held them again . . .” He trailed off, almost falling over from fatigue. With an effort he went on. “Mount Hope’s screened off most of their arty, so they can’t do much to you until they get their direct fire stuff right up into the pass. Tell your men to use their anti-tank rockets on anything that comes through there.” His finger pointed vaguely to the bend in the pass where Mount Hope and Dark Mountain framed the southern end of the col and the beginning of the descent into occupied Montana.
“Y-yes, sir,” O’Brien said hesitantly, taken aback by the officer and by the all too evident scars of battle all around him. It was one thing to talk about war, quite another to see the reality of a battlefield. “I . . . I ~relieve you, Captain.”
The Mobile Infantry man nodded, gave a sketchy salute, and staggered off toward a cluster of his men loading aboard one of the APCs. They would be pulled back out of the front line, at least for the moment.
Jenson had the men well in hand, and O’Brien knew better than to interfere with the NCO. That left him time, though, to dwell on the uneasiness stirred up by his first view of Hot Springs Pass. Pacing restlessly near the APC, he tried to fight down the fear that was threatening to overwhelm him. He had a ~responsibility to the men under his command, and couldn’t afford to give in to panic.
A hoverjeep’s fans whined behind him, and O’Brien looked up in time to see the vehicle settling down a few meters away, kicking up a cloud of dust. The tall, slender officer in the back of the open-topped vehicle stood up slowly, looking crisp and fresh in his combat fatigues. He tucked a swagger stick under one arm and surveyed the pass with a calm, calculating gaze. His eyes came to rest on O’Brien, and he beckoned the lieutenant closer.
Saluting, O’Brien obeyed the summons. He had never met Colonel Vincent Chaffee in person, but he knew the man by repute. A rich merchant from Montana, Chaffee had been elected to command of the regiment a few years back, before O’Brien had joined the unit. Handsome, popular, caring, Chaffee was something of a legend among his men. The colonel had even contributed some of his own money to the regimental warchest to allow them to buy better uniforms and equipment than other CANS units could generally afford.
“You’re O’Brien, right?” Chaffee asked, returning his salute. His voice was as sharp and penetrating as his cold blue eyes.
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant replied, surprised that the colonel knew him.
“Third Platoon, Alpha,” the officer continued softly. “Top scores in the marksmanship competition last year. You’ve got a good outfit, O’Brien. Look after them.”
“Yes, sir,” he repeated.
Chaffee was silent for a long moment. Finally, he nodded dismissal, sat down, and gestured to his driver, The hoverjeep stirred once again, rising on a cushion of air, pivoting nimbly, and shot away back down the pass toward the regiment’s field headquarters at the mouth of the col.
O’Brien stared after the vehicle, his thoughts a turmoil of pride and determination. The colonel had singled him out, and Third Platoon, for special notice, and William Arthur O’Brien was eager now to show his superior what he could do.
As he walked slowly to the trench where his men had taken up their positions, there was no lingering trace of fear or doubt in his mind.
“Alpha Company reports a column of enemy troops and vehicles is starting to move up the pass, Colonel. They estimate it to be about brigade strength.”
Colonel Vincent Chaffee nodded vaguely at the captain’s report and kept his eyes fixed on the situation map. He had returned from his short tour of the front lines to take his place in his command van near the base of Hot Springs Pass. The mobile headquarters ~vehicle had been stopped down here in order to keep the road clear for combat troops and vehicles heading for the defensive positions near the crest. Batteries of mobile multiple rocket launchers had clustered around the van and were busy checking and counter-checking their powerful armaments in preparation for pouring fire support into the battle. The redeployment had gone like clockwork, though according to the last ~reports out of Wilson’s headquarters it had nearly come too late to make any real difference. The Mobile Infantry had been ground down by prolonged, intensive pressure all morning, and Chaffee’s Second Montana regiment could easily have arrived too late to prevent the breakthrough Wilson was desperate to stop.
He heard the staff officer leave the van when it was clear there would be no reply to the report. Chaffee slumped in his chair, leaning his hands on his forehead. If we had been an hour longer, none of this would have mattered, he thought, discouraged and weary. But he had brought the troops into position in time to make a difference after all.
And his masters . . . his real masters, on the far side of the mountains, demanded action. Vincent Chaffee had no choice but to obey.
His ties to Deseret went back long before the current war. His father’s company had started doing business with the neighboring world in the days before the current wave of expansionism had taken hold in the Archspeaker’s government. Back then there had been nothing of treachery in his contacts, but over the years Chaffee Import-Export had done some questionable business with official representatives of the Archspeaker and his council. It was only after long association that Vincent Chaffee had realized that the business ties were being used to cover long-term espionage activities, and the weight of evidence that had been building up over the years was more than enough to implicate the family in a spy scandal that would rock all of New Sierra.
So Deseret had acquired a club to hold over the Chaffees, to force their active cooperation. In the growing mood of interplanetary tension leading up to the outbreak of the war, the leaking of the Chaffee role in Deseret’s espionage schemes would have been enough to destroy the family, and not just figuratively. There had been several public lynchings of suspected traitors in Montana and Appalachia. Chaffee’s mother was long dead, but his father still lived in Denver Prime, and his sister, who knew nothing about the scandal, was a teacher in Shenandoah.
Short of gathering up the whole family and fleeing the planet, there was little they could have done if Deseret had carried out the threat to reveal them as spies. So Chaffee had played along with it, trying to continue his normal activities even as war loomed closer. That included maintaining his position with the Citizen’s Army. He had wanted to refuse the Colonelcy of the Second Montana when he was elected to the post, but his contact at the Deseret Embassy had ~ordered him to accept the post and carry out his duties.
Now he understood why. He was the linch-pin in the invasion plan. Originally, the pressure on Hot Springs Pass had been intended as a diversion, with the real blow scheduled to go through Alto Blanco ~after Chaffee withdrew his regiment on a signal from the invaders. Now the plan had changed, but the ~intent was the same. Chaffee was supposed to let the ANM through the mountains.
And, God help him, that was what he would do. At least if Deseret won the fight they would give the Chaffees asylum . . . perhaps even more. There had been hints of a role in a collaborationist government. Chaffee had wanted to reject the orders out of hand, but the safety of his family . . . yes, and the possibility of gain, he had to admit reluctantly . . . they were powerful temptations he couldn’t ignore.