As the barrage lifted, hundreds of men appeared from the ground itself. A near perfect volley of infantry-carried antitank rockets slammed into his tanks. Then the radars showed more incoming artillery-and swam in confusion.
"Ja, that too," von Mellenthin muttered. His counterbattery screens showed a shower of gunk. The defenders were firing chaff, hundreds of thousands of tiny metal chips which drifted slowly to ground. Neither side could now use radar to aim indirect fire-but Mellenthin's armor was under visual observation, while the enemy guns had never been precisely located.
The Brigade was being torn apart on this killing ground. The lead elements ran into more minefields.
Defending infantry crouched in holes and ditches, tiny little groups which his covering infantry could sweep aside in a moment if it could get forward, but the infantry was cut off by the barrages falling behind and around the tanks.
There was no room to maneuver and no infantry support, the classic nightmare of an armor commander. The already rough ground was strewn with pits and ditches. High explosive antitank shells fell all around his force. There were not many hits yet, but any disabled tanks could be pounded to pieces and there was nothing to shoot back at. The lead tanks were under steady fire, and the assault slowed.
The enemy expended shells at a prodigal rate. Could they keep it up? If they ran out of shells it was all over. Von Mellenthin hesitated. Every moment kept his armor in hell.
Doubts undermined his determination. Only the Confederate General Staff told him he faced no more than Falkenberg's Legion, and the Staff was wrong before. Whatever was out there had taken Astoria before the commandant could send a single message. At almost the same moment the observation satellite was killed over Allansport. Every fortress along the Columbia was invested within hours. Surely not even Falkenberg could do that with no more than one regiment!
What was he fighting? If he faced a well-supplied force with transport enough to continue this bombardment for hours, not minutes, the Brigade was lost. His Brigade, the finest armor in the worlds, lost to the faulty intelligence of these damned colonials!
"Recall the force. Consolidate at Station Hildebrand." The orders flashed out, and the tanks fell back, rescuing the pinned infantry and covering their withdrawal. When the Brigade assembled east of the Gap Mellenthin had lost an eighth of his tanks, and he doubted if he would recover any of them.
VII
The honor guard presented arms as the command caravan unbuttoned. Falkenberg acknowledged their salutes and strode briskly into the staff bunker. "Ten-shut!" Sergeant Major Calvin commanded.
"Carry on, gentlemen. Major Savage, you'll be pleased to know I've brought the Regimental artillery. We landed it yesterday. Getting a bit thin, wasn't it?"
"That it was, John Christian," Jeremy Savage answered grimly. "If the battle had lasted another hour we'd have been out of everything. Miss Horton, you can relax now-the colonel said carry on."
"I wasn't sure," Glenda Ruth huffed. She glanced outside where the honor guard was dispersing and scowled in disapproval. "I'd hate to be shot for not bowing properly."
Officers and troopers in the command post tensed, but nothing happened. Falkenberg turned to Major Savage. "What were the casualties, Major?"
"Heavy, sir. We have two hundred and eighty-three effectives remaining in Second Battalion."
Falkenberg's face was impassive. "And how many walking wounded?"
"Sir, that includes the walking wounded."
"I see." Sixty-five percent casualties, not including the walking wounded. "And Third?"
"I couldn't put together a corporal's guard from the two companies. The survivors are assigned to headquarters duties."
"What's holding the line out there, Jerry?" Falkenberg demanded.
"Irregulars and what's left of Second Battalion, Colonel. We are rather glad to see you, don't you know?"
Glenda Ruth Horton had a momentary struggle with herself. Whatever she might think about all the senseless militaristic rituals Falkenberg was addicted to, honesty demanded that she say something. "Colonel, I owe you an apology. I'm sorry I implied that your men wouldn't fight at Astoria."
"The question is, Miss Horton, will yours? I have two batteries of the Forty-second's artillery, but I can add nothing to the line itself. My troops are investing Doak's Ferry, my cavalry and First Battalion are on Ford Heights, and the Regiment will be scattered for three more days. Are you saying your ranchers can't do as well as my mercenaries?"
She nodded unhappily. "Colonel, we could never have stood up to that attack. The Second's senior centurion told me many of his mortars were served by only one man before the battle ended. We'll never have men that steady."
Falkenberg looked relieved. "Centurion Bryant survived, then."
"Why-yes."
"Then the Second still lives. Miss Horton, von Mellenthin won't risk his armor again until the infantry has cleared a hole. Meanwhile, we have the artillery resupplied thanks to your efforts in locating transport. Let's see what we can come up with."
Three hours later the defenses were reorganized. When the final orders were given, Glenda Ruth excused herself. "I have to get my battle armor."
"That seems reasonable, although the bunkers are built well enough."
"I won't be in a bunker, Colonel. I'm going on patrol with my ranchers."
Falkenberg regarded her critically. "I wouldn't think that wise, Miss Horton. Personal courage in a commanding officer is an admirable trait, but-"
"I know." She smiled softly. "But it needn't be demonstrated because it is assumed, right? Not with us. I can't order the ranchers, and I don't have years of traditions to keep them-that's the reason for all the ceremonials, isn't it?" she asked in surprise.
Falkenberg ignored the question. "The point is, the men follow you, and I doubt they'd fight as hard for me if you're killed-"
"Irrelevant, Colonel. Believe me, I don't want to take this patrol out, but if I don't take the first one there may never be another. We're not used to holding lines, and it's taking some doing to keep my troops steady."
"I'll loan you a centurion and some headquarters guards."
"No. Send the same troops you'll send with any other Patriot force. Oh, damn. John Christian Falkenberg, don't you see why it has to be this way?"
He nodded. "I don't have to like it. All right, get your final briefing from the sergeant major in thirty-five minutes. Good luck, Miss Horton."
The patrol moved silently through low scrub brush. Glenda Ruth led a dozen ranchers and one communications maniple of the Forty-second's band. Sergeant Major Calvin had also assigned Sergeant Hruska to assist. The ranchers carried rifles. Three of Falkenberg's men had automatic weapons, two more had communications gear, and Sergeant Hruska had a submachine gun. It seemed a pitifully small force to contest ground with Covenant Highlanders.
They passed through the final outposts of her nervous ranchers and moved into the valleys between the hills. Glenda Ruth felt completely alone in the total silence of the night. She wondered if the others felt it too. Certainly the ranchers did-what of the mercenaries? They were with comrades who shared their meals and bunkers, and as long as one was alive there would be someone to care. Did they think about such things? She tried to imagine the thoughts of a mercenary private, but it was impossible.
They were nearly a kilometer beyond the lines when she found a narrow gully two meters deep. It meandered down the hillside along the approaches to the outposts behind her, and any attacking force assaulting her sector would have to pass it. She motioned the men into the ditch.