“Lieutenant Fritz, Warren here.” Kyle shouted into the comlink – the shooting was loud around him.
“Yes Colonel. Fritz here.” The lieutenant was young, but he was one of the most promising junior officers Warren had ever seen. Not a Marine veteran, Fritz had won his lieutenant’s commission during the battle at Arcadia. He’d kept his cool when all the officers in his company panicked, and he took charge, getting over half the troops out alive.
When Will Thompson found out, he immediately cancelled a pending promotion to sergeant, making the kid an officer instead. “We don’t have time for things to take their natural course,” he declared. “Revolution is like fertilizer, and talent must grow at an unnatural pace if we are to prevail.”
“They’re bogged down on the line, lieutenant. I want you to move out and keep an eye on our flank. If they look like they’re even thinking about trying to come around, I want to know immediately. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Fritz was calm, impressively so for such a young officer. “Understood.”
Warren was about to sign off, but then he added, “And Doug…be careful. I need information, not a casualty.” Fritz was brave, almost recklessly so. But this was not the time or place for heroics. Dead scouts don’t provide any information.
“Yes, sir. Understood.”
“General Sanders, I need a report. Any activity in the center?” Will hadn’t been happy when Gregory Sanders insisted on taking an active role in the new army, but the old man was simply too influential to refuse. It wasn’t cronyism like in the Alliance on Earth; it was respect. Greg Sanders was one of half a dozen people who had virtually built Arcadia from the ground up. If he thought his place was in this fight, no one – not Will, not Kara, not any of the other officers – felt they had a right to refuse him.
In spite of Thompson’s reservations, Sanders had proven to be a gifted commander, and now Will was glad to have him in the field. In fact, he’d made him second in command and put him in charge of the center.
“They’re shelling us, Will, but that’s about it.” Sanders sounded solid as a rock. “We’ve had some long range sniping, but even that’s calmed down.”
Fuck, Will thought, they’re not taking the bait. “Greg, they’re being cautious, not falling into the trap.” Thompson was thinking as he spoke, trying to decide what he wanted Sanders to do. “They are hitting us hard on the flanks, but we’re holding for the moment.” He took a deep breath, still thinking. “They are going to try to clear the ridges before they hit you…unless we force the issue.”
“You want us to attack?” Even Sander’s voice had been stone cold, but now he sounded surprised. There were 7,000 troops in the center, deployed in four supporting trench lines and protected by a mine belt. The entire formation was designed to hold out against superior enemy forces, inflicting enormous losses…as long as those forces were attacking. Once the enemy was heavily engaged and softened up, the flanking forces would sweep down and rout the exhausted federals, or at least that was the plan. But an attack by the rebels in the center would be suicide.
“Of course not.” Will was tentative, trying to put his thoughts into words. “But I do want you to make them think you’re attacking. Do you think you can mount a spoiling attack without committing too deeply?” Thompson paused. “They’re sitting on their asses, and we need to do something to get them moving.”
Sanders was silent…a bad sign. Usually the old man was quick with a response to any question. Finally, he said, “I don’t know, Will. We can attack, but I don’t know how easy it will be to pull back. We might get caught up in something we can’t get out of too easily.” He paused again, and Will could hear his heavy breathing. “And if those tanks catch us out in the open…”
“I know.” Will was frustrated. Damn Merrick, he thought…we have to get the one good general in the whole fucking Alliance army. His comlink buzzed with an incoming message flashing urgent. “Ok, stand by, Greg. I’ve got Kyle Warren calling in.”
He flipped the switch on his headpiece. “Thompson here.”
“General, we’ve got a firestorm here.” Warren was out of breath, clearly under considerable stress. “They’ve got us pinned down in a firefight to the front, and now they’re coming around the end of my line.” He paused, and Will could hear him shouting orders to someone before he continued. “I lost Doug Fritz. I sent him to scout past the end of our line, and he ran right into an enemy attack. He and two of his troops held the enemy off for at least ten minutes before they got hit. Gave me just enough time to get my reserves down there. If we ever come up with any Arcadian medals, that kid should be first on the list.” He coughed and took another breath. “I’ve got nothing left, Will. If they hit us anywhere with anything else, we’re done. They’ll roll up the entire line.”
“Fuck.” Will hadn’t meant to say it audibly but it came out louder than he thought. “Alright, Kyle. I’ll send you whatever I can spare, but you’ve got to hold out…no matter what.”
“I’ll do what I can, Will.” He sounded a little shaky, but just a little. “You can count on us.”
“I know I can.” Will was thinking about what reinforcements he could send to Warren. If he pulled off too much, his flank attack would be too weak to succeed. If he sent too little, there would never be an attack; the Feds would sweep down the ridge and rout his entire left. “Keep me posted. Thompson out.”
He switched channels again. “Greg? Will again.”
“Go ahead, Will.” Sanders could tell what Thompson was going to say from his tone. “What’s the word?”
“I need you to raise hell down there.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.” Sanders’ voice was stronger than before. He was no happier about having to attack, but he was resigned to it now. “Give me ten minutes, and we’ll hit them hard right in the center.” Then, a few seconds later: “Make good use of this, Will. It’s going to cost.”
Sanders hadn’t meant anything by the remark, but it Will felt it cut through him. His Marine service had been as a sergeant. He’d ordered troops into tough spots, no question, but this was something completely different. As a non-com he was always with the troops he commanded. Now he was sending thousands of men and women into a hopeless attack, one he knew couldn’t succeed…and he wasn’t going with them. They would die executing his orders while he sat in the command post.
“Good luck, Greg.” His voice was strong and clear, though it was a major effort to keep it that way. Thompson felt sick to his stomach, but the last thing Sanders and his troops needed was for the army commander to go weak at the knees. “And Greg…be careful.”
“You know me, Will. Sanders out.”
Yes, I know you, Greg, Thompson thought nervously. That’s what I’m worried about.
Merrick’s command post was humming with activity. The army had been at a dead stop for three hours while he threw one battalion after another into the bloody stalemate on the right flank. No matter how much force he pushed onto that ridge, the damned rebels managed to hang on. Just as his forces finally started to push the defenders off the crest, they got reinforcements and counter-attacked. The federals had 2,000 casualties and nothing to show for it. The rebels had suffered too, but not as heavily.
Merrick’s commanders wanted to push through and assault the rebel center. That was after all, they insisted, where the battle would be decided. But Merrick was cautious, wary of this rebel general who had kept him at bay all year. He was sitting with four of his generals having the same argument when his aide came rushing in.