“We have two salvos left, nothing more,” the mortar section commander said.
“Then fire two salvos.” To Sergeant Turk, Jonah said, “I’ll suppress the infantry. You take out the tank. I’m almost out of ammunition.”
The first of the mortar bombs arrived, landing in a flash and a flurry of earth mixed with broken trees. Jonah brought the Stinger striding forward, breaking the field phone connection again, and brought his ’Mech’s lone remaining missile pack to bear on the target.
Enhanced visual, he thought. There they are.
He launched the missiles.
One missile pack, fifteen missiles—that was all that he had, but he’d made the Ma-Tzu Kai infantry keep their heads down for long enough. Now the SM1 was on fire, its main gun pointing crookedly skyward, and the troopers who had been guarding it were scattered and running back, away from the Republic lines.
“Good job, sir,” Sergeant Turk said, plugging Jonah back into the field phone net. The jury-rigged comms were better than nothing, but just barely.
“Better job if we could do it again,” Jonah said. “Stick with me. I want you to be my eyes and ears.”
“On you.”
The scout he’d sent off earlier to main HQ returned. “Sir. HQ responds: Ammo resupply impossible. Hold the line.”
Jonah clicked off the exterior communications link, isolating himself for a moment in the ’Mech’s cockpit.
“We’re dead,” he observed to the unresponsive silence, and switched the link back on. “All units. Report!”
“First squad, running on empty, sir. Request permission to fall back.”
“Denied. Hold fast.”
“Understand hold fast. First squad out.”
“Second squad. We took it in the shorts, sir. What can you give us?”
“Encouraging words, sergeant.”
“Roger, understand encouragement. Second squad out.”
The report from Third squad was just as bleak, Fourth still hadn’t reappeared, and Jonah could see for himself how badly Fifth squad was faring. Everywhere in his field of view were medics working on the wounded, sergeants checking fighting positions, supplies being doled out, boxes turning up empty, men scrambling among the fallen to find unused energy packs.
“One more assault and we’re going to be overrun,” Sergeant Turk said.
“Then we won’t give them time to regroup,” Jonah replied. The idea had come to him as he watched the Fifth through the cockpit window—not a plan, really, so much as an acknowledgment of the only thing left that could be done. He felt as if he were holding the entire Republic on his line, and he’d be dead or damned if it would break.
Over the field phone net, he said: “All squads, listen up. On my command, on your feet and charge forward. The Ma-Tzu Kai have a supply dump just behind their lines at the foot of this hill. We’re going to go get it. Take man-portable weapons only. Go bare-handed if you have to. Acknowledge.”
“First squad. Aye.”
“Second squad. Aye.”
“Third squad. Aye.”
Silence again from Fourth squad.
“Fifth squad. Aye.”
“On my signal,” Jonah said, “forward at the double. Stand by. Execute.”
Jonah throttled forward, taking the Stinger downhill at a lumbering stride, deliberately holding back the ’Mech’s speed so as not to outpace the soldiers of his company running along with him. Trees and underbrush splintered and crunched around him; then the ground opened up and he knew he had reached the antivehicle minefield. If he didn’t cripple himself with an unlucky step, he was through.
He saw Ma-Tzu Kai troops to the right, left, ahead… a wash of red light dazzled in his ’Mech’s ferroglass viewscreen… enemy laser? A flamer? He couldn’t be sure with his instrumentation so messed up. But it didn’t matter. Whatever it was had scored a crippling hit on the Stinger’s light armor. Only the safety webbing that kept him strapped into the ’Mech’s command couch kept him from being tossed about the cockpit as the Stinger swayed, toppled and fell.
The impact when the ’Mech hit the ground was bone-jarring, and his body slammed against the safety webbing with bruising force. His head rang and his vision blurred, but he knew that he had to get out of the ’Mech and keep on going.
He couldn’t afford to stay with the ’Mech and wait for field repairs and medical assistance—not now, when all that mattered was keeping the troops moving forward. He had to keep up with them, ’Mech or no ’Mech, and make sure that they didn’t lose the advantage of their charge.
Working frantically, he unstrapped himself from the command seat with clumsy fingers and unhooked the neurohelmet and the cooling vest. Then he pulled open the rear hatch of the cockpit and half-climbed, half-fell to the ground. Sergeant Turk came up out of nowhere to drape a field jacket over Jonah’s sweating shoulders and hand him a Gauss pistol. The indicator on the pistol showed fewer than a dozen shots remaining.
“Here you go, sir.”
“Right,” said Jonah. He raised his voice to a shout—he had to remember now that he didn’t have the ’Mech’s speakers to carry the sound for him. “Forward!”
The militia broke into a downhill run, and Jonah ran forward with them, conscious of Sergeant Turk’s presence a few meters away, keeping pace. I wonder if my family will be told what happened here? he wondered. Then a Ma-Tzu Kai trooper popped up in front of him, and he abandoned thought for reflex in time to snap a shot at the man.
The trooper fell; his companion sprang to his feet and turned to run. Jonah watched him go, not wanting to waste a shot on a fleeing soldier. He pushed on downhill.
He could hear shooting from his right and left. It sounded scattered and unguided. Then a sudden pain hit his leg and he collapsed. It felt like he’d been kicked. He looked down. Blood was running from his left thigh in a dark red flood.
Sergeant Turk was beside him, tying on a field dressing.
“Help me up,” Jonah said
“You’re hurt, sir.”
“I’m aware of that, Sergeant. Help me up.”
The sergeant grasped Jonah’s wrists and pulled. Jonah came to his feet, swayed, tested his leg. “It’ll do. Forward!”
The sergeant put his shoulder under Jonah’s left arm. “I’ll help you, sir.”
The sergeant had a knife, Jonah noted. No rifle, no grenades. Just that knife, and his knife hand was red up to the elbow.
This is bad, Jonah thought. This is getting very bad.
“We’re going to do this, right?” Sergeant Turk asked. Jonah realized suddenly that for all his prior service, the man was no older than he himself, and possibly younger.
“Right,” Jonah replied. “Let’s go.”
The two of them hobbled forward like contestants in some bizarre three-legged race, stumbling downhill at a clumsy run.
Jonah heard a falling hiss, followed by an explosion from the right. Someone nearby—the sergeant, maybe, he couldn’t tell—shouted out, “Incoming!”
“Never mind that,” Jonah said. He thought he shouted it himself, so everyone could hear him, but he couldn’t be sure. “We’re close now. Keep going!”
The ground underfoot was leveling off. They could run faster now, and not stagger as much. Jonah was surprised he had gotten this far.
“Up ahead!” he shouted. He was certain he shouted, this time. “The ammo dump! Go!”
A voice, he didn’t know who, yelled “Republic! Republic troops breaking through!” Someone else yelled, “They’re running! The bastards are running!” and the air filled with hoarse and breathless cheers.
Then Jonah heard an explosion, closer than any of the others, and knew nothing more.
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