That was tempting but . . . maybe there's a better way. I thought it best not to use the mortars on the aircraft. But the enemy to my front couldn't have responded to a mortar attack even if he'd wanted to. He can, on the other hand, respond to a ground attack and he just might.
"How far from our airstrip?" Victorio asked.
"Closer," the woman answered. Victorio thought he recognized the voice as coming from Comandante Ingrid, a fiercely dedicated fighter that he knew slightly from meetings at infrequent conferences. "Maybe fifteen minutes . . . no . . . ten. Ten if we accept some risk."
"If you want to help, go for the airfield," Victorio advised. "The gringos have it. But be warned; there is some kind of aerial platform, a gunship, roaming overhead. It just took out my mortars."
"We saw it," Ingrid spat back, her voice full of fury at the imperialists. "We can spread out to reduce its effectiveness. Unfortunately, we can't retake the airfield if we're spread out too much."
"I don't need you to retake it," Victorio said. "It will be enough if you distract the gunship away from my base and cause them to break off the attack here."
"Done."
If I believed in God, Victorio thought, I'd thank Him for putting Ingrid's band near enough to help. Since I don't, despite Father Castaño's sermonizing, I'll just be grateful to fate.
* * *
The gunner was just tapping in a new targeting command for the villa when the ANA-23 received a frantic call from the airfield, the call punctuated by single shots and longer bursts coming through clear across the airwaves.
"We've got a group of guerrillas," the platoon commander below said. "Strength unknown; they're hitting us from below. We think they're working their way around our flanks—"
The transmission was drowned out by a long burst of fire. The ground commander repeated, "They're working their way around our flanks to get higher. I'm sending out half a section to each flank. Watch out for them. Right now the aircraft are safe enough, but if they get to the lip of the field or, worse still, above us, it's going to be a long damned walk home."
Carrera had apparently been following the conversation. His voice came over the ANA-23's radio. "Concur. Secure the field."
* * *
Carrera, sensibly prone behind a thick trunk, shook his head with admiration as he watched Tribune Chapayev walk the firing line as if unafraid. Carrera couldn't make out one word in fifty of the tribune's running diatribe.
But no matter. The words aren't important; the tone and the heart behind them are.
Of course, the better question is how we ended up this way. Too ambitious? Poor planning? Maybe. On the other hand, what we planned did get a group of first class soldiers to the enemy, while giving him little useful warning that we were coming. It does have the motherfuckers pinned to their compound. And casualty-free perfection is not the goal; destroying the bastards is the goal. If we can still do that, the plan and execution will have been good enough.
If . . .
* * *
"Keep up the fire, boys," Chapayev shouted over the rattle from his soldiers' rifles and machine guns, and the incoming zing of the enemy's fire. "Beat their fucking heads down."
A machine gun nearby went silent suddenly and stayed that way a moment too long for comfort. The Volgan began to trot over when he felt a tremendous blow to the calf of one leg. The force of the hit spun him, twisting his legs around each other and depositing him on the damp ground.
The leg was too close for Chapayev's night vision goggles to focus on. He felt for the wound, wincing as his finger found a long but, as far as he could tell, not terribly deep gash. Blood poured around his questing fingers but at least it didn't gush.
Moments after the tribune was hit, a medic flopped to the ground at his side, asking, "Are you hit, sir?"
"A little," the Volgan answered, voice quavering slightly. "Not bad. Can you bind it up?"
"I can, sir, but if you don't get your head down, or at least behind some cover, I'm not sure what would be the point."
* * *
Carrera saw the Volgan struck down. He began to rise to go to the man's aid when he saw, briefly and faintly in the strobe-like light of the firefight, the red cross of a medic's arm as the medic beat him to it. Moments later, with the medic's help, Chapayev got himself sitting up with his back to a tree that stood between him and the enemy.
Despite the action, a small portion of Carrera's mind continued to calculate, coldly, rationally. We've got to pick up the tempo here, he thought. Telling his little guard detachment, "Follow me," the Duque began to crawl forward.
A few minutes later he heard a now-familiar voice. Chapayev was once more on his feet, limping back and forth along the tree line encouraging his men. Carrera, bodyguards in tow, crawled up to a tree in the rough center of the company line. At what looked to be about two and a half kilometers in the distance, he saw the stream of fire that said the gunship were engaging the enemy below the airfield.
Fuck. Can't pull back with the guerrillas still alive. They'll pursue and eat us for breakfast. Can't send any troops to help the airfield. We've got to hold there, win here, then go back and win there.
As Chapayev limped by, he was hit again and sent spinning. Carrera crawled over and dragged the Volgan behind the cover of a tree. Once Chapayev was close enough that his face could be seen by the light of the muzzle flashes, it was obvious the man couldn't command the company any longer.
Carrera twisted his body to face Menshikov. "Tell him, he's done enough."
As he translated, Menshikov saw what Carrera had seen, that Chapayev's face had gone a ghastly white with loss of blood. We're so fucked, the Volgan translator thought.
Carrera risked a look around the tree. Not too far away, close enough to make with a surprise rush, there was a shallow draw that led past the villa. Further on there looked to be a drainage ditch that also led near to the southeastern bunker. The steady stream of tracers lancing out from it said that was the bunker that was doing the most to keep the Volgans down.
If we could take out that bunker . . .
"Shit. I don't speak Volgan . . . Menshikov, take charge of the company. Keep them firing. I'm going up that ditch."
Still with his bodyguards in tow, Carrera crawled along behind the Volgan firing line until he reached a point he judged to be nearest the ditch he had seen. Bullets smacked the trees over head, sending chips of bark and wood flying.
On the way he crawled over the body of a dead Volgan paratrooper. Next to the corpse was what appeared to be, and on inspection turned out to be, a satchel charge. There is a God, Carrera thought.
Pulling the charge's strap over one shoulder, Carrera made a check of his own Pound sub-machinegun and made ready to rush for the ditch.
Seeing the tensing in his duque's body, one of the Balboan Cazadors grabbed his web gear to hold him back.
Carrera lurched forward only to fall on his face. With a snarl, he turned on the Cazador. "Son, whatever your legate told you, I guarantee he won't do anything worse to you if I'm killed than I will if you don't get your fucking hands off my belt." The Balboan let go.
Now freed of the restraining hand, Carrera rushed for the cover ahead. The Balboan who had grabbed Carrera's belt followed, as did the other three. The last of the group was hit two meters from the edge of the depression, machine gun fire spinning him around and leaving him in the dirt. The man moaned with pain until a second, unnecessary, burst made sure he was dead.