The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“Over to standard radio com,” he said. “Codes. Who have we got contact with?” He punched the first channel button.

“Group Leader ben Bella here.”

“Situation?”

“Codes CORNUCOPIA an’ HEPHAESTUS.” The warehouse and smelter areas. Forces advancing but objectives not secured. “We can’t find the underground Movement liaison.”

“Keep looking, have to evacuate our people.”

“Sure, sure, I’ll keep looking. Bloody god damn hell!”

“Problems?”

“Half my troops are dead in the fucking mines! The mines were supposed to be off!”

“Yes, I know, we took losses too,” Niles said. “What else?”

“They were supposed to be off, damn it!”

“Get hold of yourself. Report.”

“We’ve got sniper fire and infiltrators from the residential districts, and somebody’s spotting for that goddam artillery of theirs, it’s too damned effective, they must have their computers up again!”

Likely, actually. “Follow standing orders.” Those called for blasting down any building from which hostile fire was received. He winced; a little severe . . . but what else could they do?

“Standing orders —” His subordinate broke off with laughter.

“Ben Bella? What the hell?”

“Standing orders, sir? HALF MY FUCKING MORTARS AND ROCKET LAUNCHERS ARE OUT IN THE FUCKING MINEFIELDS! I don’t know where the rest are. I don’t know where the ammunition is. Sir.”

“Sir, sir,” his communications sergeant said. “Group Leader Martins.”

“A moment. All right, ben Bella, link up with the Movement people and do what you can to get back on schedule—”

He heard more laughter from ben Bella. “Schedule! That’s great! Schedule.” More laughter, then silence. Can’t say I like that much. “Go ahead, Martins, Niles here.”

“Sir, Code WHITE GUARD.” Heavy resistance, cannot advance. Martins was supposed to be securing the main smelter complex. Niles looked down at his map; about half a kilometer west of the blimp haven, in a tangle of workers’ bunkhouses and maintenance sheds. “I’ve identified Legion troops, and Brotherhood first-liners, I think they’re from the reserve force.”

Damn, Niles thought. The truck-sabotage was supposed to have knocked them out of the fight entirely. Well, everything couldn’t work. But had anything worked since the mine fields came back on? How many survived, and how much are they worth? His head pounded, and it was hard to think. No way to know the situation. And back up there in central control, they had the computers back on, they knew where everything was. Barton—Barton, what the hell was Barton doing out here anyway, Barton wasn’t supposed to be here, this was supposed to be provincials, amateurs, and now we’re fighting Barton and the Legion and those damned SAS units will be out there waiting for us. He shook off the feeling of hysteria. “Martins, can you get through? Answer in clear.”

“No, sir. Every time we punch a hole, they fire the buildings and fall back, or pinch us off behind the neck of the penetration. I don’t have enough edge in numbers, and these are good troops. Too many civilians running around getting in the way, too.”

Another amateur, has to explain everything. But I’m not much more than an amateur myself, and these Legion types, this is their business, they do this all their lives. “Code STALINGRAD.” Dig in and hold.

“Bullshit.”

“What?”

“I’ll do what I can, but everything’s fucked up,” Martins said. “You better figure something fast, or it’s going to be bugout boogie and there won’t be fuck all I can do about it. Sir.”

“Field Prime,” the communications sergeant said.

This ought to be secure. Ought to be. “Marlborough here.” Stupid code name.

“Report.”

He worked to keep his voice calm, and not to give irrelevant complaints. Like ammunition in one place, and guns in another, troops separated from their commanders— “Heavy losses averaging thirty percent due to unexpected activation of the mine field. Ben Bella’s still advancing but hasn’t secured objectives. Martins is pinned down, unable to advance at all. Part of my troops are with me at Sugar Mike Two, but the rest are still out at the bunkers with the minefield between us, and I don’t have a good estimate of what’s with me and what’s behind. Troops are complaining that the mines weren’t supposed to detonate, and some of them are unhappy about taking friendly fire.”

“Field Prime know that. Our friends don’t have any explanations, they still looking. You ought to be finishing Phase Three, mon!”

“Field Prime, that timetable cannot be kept. It doesn’t even make sense any more. The surprise is over, they’re organizing, their computers are up, their artillery counterfire programs are starting up, and our whole force is exposed!”

There was a pause. “You sayin’ you want to run now?”

“Field Prime, I am suggesting that it is impossible to complete the mission.”

“Field Prime will consider that, but not time to give up. Perimeter Ten to Fourteen pulled out when we jimmied the comm, and we overran they bunkers, now we using them.” The outer defense positions had all-round fields of fire. “Swing a couple of companies up they ass, see if we can nutcracker them. We rendevous at Objective A-7, eh?”

“I will comply, but my advice is to get out before we take more losses. We’ve hurt them, and so far we still have an effective force, but—”

“Field Prime will consider recommendation. Now do nutcracker.”

“Roger wilco.”

Niles looked up. “Sutchukil, you will take A and C companies and swing east against those garrison johnnies,” he said. What’s left of them. Between them there’s not a full strength company, and I have no idea of what they’re facing. “Da Silva, you’re in charge here. Remainder of the reserve, follow me.”

He led the way, at a steady wolf-trot rather than a sprint; they had better than a klick and a half to go. The troops followed by platoon columns, spaced out along the verges of the road on alternate sides. The composition soles of their boots rutched steadily on the light snow-covering of the roads and sidewalks. Noise was increasing from either side, small arms fire and explosions. Mortar shells went overhead, making everyone hunch their shoulders involuntarily. They landed to the east, fire support against Royalist militia probing at the Helots. Return fire went shoomp-whirrrr overhead in the opposite direction. The garrison was getting its heavy weapons into use.

They ran through a section of park, where pine-trees were blazing like torches, with an overwhelming stink of tar.

“Mines!” someone screamed. A butterfly mine popped up, and half a squad flopped. A leg lay improbably in the center of the path they’d been running on.

“Keep moving,” Niles ordered. “Come on, we’re going home!”

The men moved ahead, but cautiously now. Niles tried to hurry them.

“Fuck off,” someone shouted. “You want to run through mines, you come up here in front and do it.” There were shouts of agreement. “Damn right.” “This de revolution! Officers to the front!”

“Incoming!”

A box pattern of high explosive fell around them, and several mines detonated. One man screamed, but no one else seemed to be hit. “They clearing the mine field for us!” someone shouted. Others laughed and the units began to move forward again. Another round of artillery, this time behind them.

There’s luck, Niles thought. “Move out, move out.” He wondered how many were following him. Not as many as started. There were gaps in the ranks. Damn fools, don’t they understand, they can’t stay here. He ran on.

Finally they were through the park and into a business district. Artillery flashed in the distance, but nothing was falling on them at the moment. Buildings were burning on either side; larger ones now as they came closer to the center of the dispersed settlement, flames licking up from the windows to soot-stain the white stucco. Heat drove out the day’s chill, turned the uniforms under the armor sodden-wet; the smoke was thick and choking, billowing just over head-high. Bodies lay crumpled; he saw one half-out of the driver’s door of a scorched van, pistol still in its hand. A woman dangled from a shattered shop-window, lying on her back with spears of glass through her chest, long blond hair falling a full meter to the sidewalk to rest in a pool of blood.

A bullet went overhead with a nasty krak. More, and a man dropped.

“Take cover!” the platoon commanders were shouting. Two men sprinted out to retrieve the wounded man. “Crew weapons, set up weapons,” Niles shouted.

A machine gun crew got into action, then another crew opened up with suppressing fire against the sniper. A noncom ran from one clump of troopers to the next, assigning target sectors. Good man. I need to get his name.

Niles put himself behind a bullet-riddled electrocar; the Company Leader in charge of the area came sprinting across the open street with his radiotech and a squad at his heels. They dashed into the cover of the car body and crouched beside the Englishman, panting.

Nobody spared a glance for the two dead militia fighters sprawled beneath the body of the car; a man in his fifties, and a boy who probably had never shaved, both in bits and pieces of uniform and armor. The bullets that killed them had probably been a mercy after the burning fuel drained out and down.