Killing and Dying
Four days had passed, three of them on patrol, since the Battle of the First Days. APFs took platoons to designated map coordinates, and picked them up six or eight hours later, somewhere else. The patrols were to watch for any sign of Wyzhnyny activities, but mainly they were keeping sharp, and getting a better sense of the wilderness fringe that was their stronghold. Meanwhile their platoon leaders checked out uncertainties on the detailed, large-scale maps Division had brought from Terra. Maps from high altitude photographs, made years earlier by Terra's foreign ministry, which on worlds like New Jerusalem had little to do, and cooked up unobtrusive, hopefully useful projects to pass the time.
Patrolling also served to integrate the replacements. There could be no replacements from offworld, of course. So the platoons with the heaviest losses had been deactivated, and their remaining personnel distributed to others to fill the holes. 2nd Platoon's replacements had come from 3rd Platoon, A Company, which had also been airborne qualified.
They were all Jerries, of course, had been trained alike, and their limited combat experience had been similar. But their unit folklores had different characters and stories. Still, a couple of days was all it took to become brothers. The many casualties had made them more conscious of their mortality and brotherhood.
After breakfast on the morning of the fifth day, Ensign Berg mustered 2nd Platoon in a light rain. "Men," he said, "today we're going to do something different. The surveillance buoys report what seem to be four small groups of fugitives hiding out from the Wyzhnyny. You may possibly know some of them. The general's sending us out in four armored personnel floaters, each with a squad, to pick up the fugitives and bring them in." He looked at his men expectantly. "How does that sound?"
Their response was not the enthusiasm he'd anticipated. It was Esau who finally answered. "Sounds fine to me, sir." This brought a circle of nods. "But we may hear some things that won't exactly warm our hearts. A lot of folks that stayed weren't kindly disposed to those of us that decided to leave. Called us deserters; said we lacked faith in God. It turned out they spurned God's offer of escape, instead. Some of them'll hate us for that, too. Hate us for being right."
Berg nodded slowly. "I expect some may at that," he said, then briefed them on policies and procedures.
By the time they took off, the rain had stopped and the sun had come out; steam rose from the forest roof. Esau knelt beside the copilot. He'd called up the regional orientation map in his map book. An X marked the reported location of the group he was to pick up, while the floater's location was a tiny moving icon. But mostly it was the ground he watched, the Milk River Hills. The only good orientation feature was the Milk River, named for its milky tinge. These hills were not rich in streams. Except for the Milk, they tended to be short, appearing from springs as full-grown creeks, then disappearing into the ground. All of them were a milky green.
The forest was heavy. Some of the species he could recognize from the air. Scattered whitewood, with large pale leaves, its wood light in weight, favored for sawing or splitting out boards; dense groves of "cedar," narrow-crowned and with lanceolate leaves, the best of all for building logs; here and there steelwood, some of them towering, its hard and heavy wood slow to decay; and "redwood," with roseate wood and red-tinged leaves, a favorite for cabinets and other dressy things. Jael had had a redwood hutch, crafted by her grampa as a wedding gift.
Esau pulled his mind away from that, and back to the hills they flew over. Hills not fit for farms, he told himself. Best left to God's livestock, not man's.
They were getting close now. The floater icon almost touched the X. Down there were folks who'd stayed behind. He wondered how they'd fared the past year, and how they felt now about those who'd left. Not that it matters greatly, he told himself. Leastways it shouldn't. As Speaker Crosby had said: "God made diversity amongst his people for a reason. They will disagree, but He loves them all." Speaker Crosby had stayed, but he'd wished them well. "I'm too old to go flying off to the stars," he'd said. "And my flock needs me."
Some of that flock had already condemned him for "encouraging desertions."
Esau called up a quadrangle page, its much larger scale showing considerable detail, including a second, smaller X. He guessed the larger was a camp, and the smaller a hunting party, now about a mile west of it. The smaller X moved slightly while he watched, still westward toward a meadow. "Go to the smaller X first," he told the pilot. "Before they get any more separated than they are."
"Right," the pilot said. Esau went aft to the open hatch, hooked his safety line, then knelt, leaning out. He'd already keyed the speech output of his helmet comm to the floater's bullhorn. Below, all he could see was treetops.
"Helloo!" he called. "You down there! An army's come to clean out the Wyzhnyny-the aliens. If you hear me, fire a gun. We can pick you up at that meadow off west."
He heard no gunshot, and the APF's gravdrive produced only a low hum; if there'd been a shot, he'd have heard it. Maybe, he thought, they've run out of powder. There'd always been folks, a few, who preferred a crossbow or longbow for hunting. They'd have an advantage now.
"Fine," he called. "We'll go to your camp and wait there."
The pilot heard, and swinging the floater in an easy curve, headed for the larger X, where the map showed a creek along the foot of a ridge. Trees overhung it, but in places the water was visible from overhead, milky green like the river. Probably, Esau thought, there was a cave there.
He tried the bullhorn again. "Helloo! You down there! An army's come to clean out the aliens. I'm coming down to talk with you. If you want, we can take you to camp with us. Feed you up proper. Fix you up with shoes, and new clothes."
He could imagine what they looked like after hiding out in the wilderness all that time. They'd hardly have a shoe between the lot of them. Maybe moccasins. He disconnected from the bullhorn and spoke to his squad.
"Talbott, I'm leaving you in charge. Turner, you'll come down with me."
Turner nodded, and Esau turned to the pilot. "Sergeant Pindal," he said to the Indi flyer, "find a place close by, where we can let down."
The pilot glanced back, nodding. "Right, Sergeant," he answered, and in a few seconds had parked his aircraft over a small blowdown gap. "Will that do?"
The two Jerries were snapping on letdown harnesses as Esau looked down. "Yup. Good enough." There wasn't much visibility through the gap; branch growth was filling it. But it would do. Two letdown spars had emerged from their housings, one on each side of the floater, above the door. Esau stepped out backward and began his descent, controlling it by voice while signaling with his arms to refine the centering. It was something they'd all done before at Camp Nafziger. Then he was through the gap and into the trunk space. No one was waiting. When his feet touched the ground, he pulled the safety clip and slapped the release. "All clear," he said.
His harness disappeared upward on its cable; meanwhile Turner had landed beside him. They were about a hundred feet upslope of the stream, and seventy or eighty yards downstream from the X. "We'd better take our helmets off," Esau said. "Otherwise no telling what these folks will think we are."
Both men tipped their helmets back, letting them rest on their light field packs. Then they went downslope to the creek. From there they could see a young boy waiting a couple hundred feet upstream on the far bank. Esau started toward him, waving. "Howdy!" he called. "I'm Esau Wesley, from Sycamore Parish. This here's Malachi Turner, from Tanner's Run."
The boy didn't answer, just watched their approach, his eyes feral in a thin face. He wore only a loin cloth; his wide frame all sinew and bone. Too much bone. About ten years old, Esau decided, thinking in New Jerusalem years. Perhaps thirteen in Terran years. Hasn't been eating any too good. Looks like a string of eels hung on a rack.
Esau stopped. "Malachi," he muttered, "get me a couple rations out of my pack." Turner gave them to him, and they went on. When they reached the boy, they could see he was frightened. Esau reached a hand to him. "My name's Esau," he said. "What's yours?"
"Zekial. Zekial Butters."
"That hunting party off west-I talked to them from the, uh, the airboat that brought us. Told them I was coming here. They should be along directly. You're not here alone, are you?"
A quick headshake.
"Is your mamma here? Or your grampa?"
He began to tremble! "My mamma-and my sisters."
Esau frowned. "What's the matter, Zekial?"
"We don't have no hunting party out. Some men came here yesterday. They… " He choked, his face writhing like a nest of snakes. "They… " Abruptly, unexpectedly, he burst into tears and fled up the slope, disappearing behind a laurel brake. Esau had backed off a step, glanced thunderstruck at Turner, then looked around. A footpath angled upslope from the stream toward a bluff, and the two troopers strode up it. Soon Esau saw a wide opening in the rock face. Without slowing he called.
"Helloo! No need to worry! Help's acoming!" From behind him, Malachi could hear what else he said, half under his breath. "This better not be what I'm afraid it is."
The cave began as a sort of open-sided gallery that narrowed inward. A small mound of embers glowed beneath the overhanging rock shelf. There were sleeping furs, and on the ground, a patch of dried blood three feet across. Esau swore again, and gestured toward the narrow gap that led deeper into the limestone. "They must have gone farther back in, scared spitless." If they're still alive. "Go back in there a little ways and see if you can talk them out. I'm going to call Sergeant Pindal, and find out where those others are."
He seated his helmet again. He didn't need it to radio the floater-his throat mike would serve-but he wanted its HUD. "Sergeant Pindal," he said, "this is Sergeant Wesley. We've got a situation here, but I'm not entirely sure what it is. Where's that party I talked to first? What way are they going now? Over."
"They're about a quarter mile west-northwest of where they were before. They're bypassing the meadow, as if they didn't want to be picked up. Over."
"So they're still headed away from here. All right. Jael, do you read? Over."
"I read. Over."
"I may need a woman's help here. I'm not sure, but I'm afraid I do. I want Sergeant Pindal to let you down by the creek, just below the big X. I'll be there to meet you. Pindal, are you still reading? Over."
"Still reading. Over."
"After you put Corporal Wesley down, I want you to follow those sons of bitches that took off. Corporal Talbott, do you read? Over."
"I read. Over."
"When Sergeant Pindal catches up to them that ran off, talk to them with the bullhorn. Tell them if they don't stop and give themselves up, you're going to blow them to bits from the air. Got that?"
"Got it, Sarge." He paused. "Do you really want us to kill them?"
Esau hadn't thought it through. Now he hesitated. "No, but don't let them get away. Tell them twice, and if they keep going, I want Sergeant Pindal to shoot ahead of them. Close as he dares. You still reading, Pindal? Over."
"I read. But I don't like what you're telling me. Over."
"Just shoot ahead of them. And if they veer off, do it again. I'm afraid they may be murderers, and worse. Worse than the Wyzhnyny, because they're doing it to their own people. Over."
"I still don't like it. There's nothing in our orders that covers shooting at locals. Look. I'm just about over the creek. You down there yet? Over."
"I'm on my way. Ten seconds will do it. Turner, keep trying to talk them out of the cave. I'm going after Jael."
It was Jael-her woman's voice-that talked the mother and her two daughters out of the darkness. They pointed out where the renegades had dragged off her husband's body, and her oldest son's. While she talked, the younger son showed up again. He too had seen his father killed, and had fled back into the cave, where his baby sister had gone. The two had spent the night hidden well back in the darkness, but they'd heard the screams and crying. When the renegades had left, their mother and older sister crept back in with them, to huddle there without speaking. But Zekial had heard their attackers say they'd be back when they had meat. Finally he'd crept out, intending to find some other people, and ask for help. He'd barely emerged when Esau had called down on the bullhorn.
Esau radioed the floater again. Yes, they were still following the hunting party. No, Talbott hadn't hailed them. He'd been afraid it might make them scatter. Esau told him that was good thinking. "Pindal, stay after them, but not close. They'll stop somewhere. When they do, I want the squad to let down a ways off, and move in. Surround them if you can, then use your stunners if you can get close enough. I'm going to radio Division about this. I suspect General Pak will want them alive."
The floater dropped back a few hundred yards, following the X on the pilot's HUD. Esau called Division and was referred to the senior sergeant major, who was perturbed by a squad leader bypassing the whole divisional chain of command. But when Esau explained the situation, the sergeant major patched him through to General Pak, who ordered out a platoon, to make sure the renegades didn't escape.
They succeeded in capturing only two. The other two suicided before they could be stunned.
That wasn't the only ugly situation that 2nd Platoon, B Company ran into that day. The other three fugitive groups were all extremely glad to be found, and all three reported seeing or hearing about Wyzhnyny soldiers eating humans. One group had found the remains of a feast by a Wyzhnyny patrol. The victims had been neatly dismembered, and some of the bones were charred. The crania had been opened and the brains removed, maybe as a delicacy. Along with the human remains were plastic packages, apparently from Wyzhnyny ration cases.
Word spread like a grassfire not only through the Jerrie division, but through the Indi armored regiment and air squadrons, and the Burger engineers.
Pak was concerned that his troops might commit atrocities of their own, as retribution, which would harm morale and discipline. So on his closed command channel, he ordered his company commanders to speak to their troops about it.
In camp the troops ate standing up, in company mess tents with high tables. It was in B Company's mess tent that Captain Martin Mulvaney Singh spoke to his four platoons. The rumor was, he was going to brief them on their next action, so there was considerable tension in the mess tent. More than before the battle they'd already fought, because now they knew what to expect. Or thought they did.
The rumor was wrong. "I suppose you've all heard about the Wyzhnyny having eaten people here," Mulvaney said.
The reply wasn't loud, but it was ugly.
"Obviously they're meat eaters, and we look enough different, they may have considered humans to be nothing more than animals. Meat for the larder. I suspect we cured them of that notion the other day, when we killed so many of them."
His soldiers muttered agreement, sounding not quite as ugly as they had.
"In combat," he went on, "a soldier-human or Wyzhnyny-is apt to be too busy, or at too much risk, to eat or mutilate dead enemies. Even if he was inclined to, which you and I aren't. His attention is on destroying live enemies and staying alive himself. But at other times some people might be tempted to mutilate an enemy.
"I can't imagine any of you doing something like that; it's as contrary to your religion as it is to mine." He scanned them again. "So that makes it between you and God. But in this world it's also between you and the army. Because mutilation is strictly against regulations, and the penalties are severe.
"Any questions?"
No hand raised. No one spoke.
"Good. Enough said then. And speaking of eating, Sergeant Ferraro is serving apple pie with brown sugar for dessert at supper. Make sure you save room for it."
Returning to his office, Mulvaney looked back at the event. He could understand Pak's concern. But at the same time, he felt that in bringing the matter up, he'd insulted his Jerries, just a little.
Jael, on the other hand, wondered about the difference between mutilation with a knife, and mutilation with, say, a grenade in combat. Probably, she decided, it was the difference between meanness of spirit and necessity.
Gosthodar Jilchuk scowled at his staff. They'd told him all they knew, and given him their opinions on everything he'd asked about, but he still knew too little for effective planning. There was no real border, no defined front, and he could choose his area of operation. The enemy, on the other hand, knew everything he did above ground as soon as he did it, and responded. They no doubt had reconnaissance buoys, an intelligence staff, and a high-powered AI working up contingency plans twenty-four hours a day.
Abruptly he slammed a fist on his worktable, making his staff flinch. It was that or shoot the map on his wall screen. The cursed thing was dead as a stone. No movement. No life. It didn't even flinch at his temper the way his staff had. It showed things as they'd been when his surveillance buoys had been destroyed, except for changes made by Intelligence, none of them in real time.
Most numerous were the approximate locations where he'd lost recon floaters and their escorts to enemy action. The humans responded quickly to invasion of their airspace. Obviously their buoys picked up and monitored his own aircraft as soon as they emerged, and had interceptors up promptly. As if their duty crews waited in their aircraft.
They seemed willing to lose aircraft, certainly over their own territory, as long as they shot down his. And his scouts were at a disadvantage; their missions required more-or-less predictable flight behavior. He couldn't continue losing aircraft at the rate he had been, and he had no way of knowing what the enemy had left.
His Intelligence chief had pointed out that the humans seemed more interested in shooting down the escorting fighters than they did the scouts-in bleeding his fighting strength than in denying him information. Though they were doing a good job of that too.
Seemingly the human commander was leaving the initiative to him. But they were planning something. They hadn't invaded just to lie around.
He scowled, big jaws chewing on nothing. Back in the forest, his expensive aerial scouting showed a poorly defined "blind area" of something between twelve and twenty square miles. Probably circular. His Tech chief believed the humans had some kind of concealment screen, unlikely as it seemed. At any rate the "blind area" showed nothing at all in the way of humans, or of any mobile life-forms large enough-or in large enough groups-to register. But they were there. Something had to be. Large mobile objects could be detected outside of it, some of it wildlife, some clearly military. And the humans were thinning areas of forest, possibly preparing defensive positions of some sort.
Jilchuk shook his head. He'd have to settle for a ground reconnaissance in force. Meanwhile, one thing seemed definite: the humans had landed in inferior numbers. Perhaps to be supplied from space, for a war of harassment and attrition.
Attrition. He could play that game, he told himself, information or not.
B Company, 2nd Regiment, had set out on foot through the forest. B Company plus a platoon from C Company, because the mission required five platoons. One augmented infantry company to take out a tank battalion. Sergeant Esau Wesley felt proud that B Company had been chosen. He thought of it as the best in the division.
His wife looked at it differently: someone had to get the mission, and B Company was it.
To carry out their mission, they needed to penetrate twelve miles into what the Jerries were calling Wyz Country. Twelve miles through open country with nearly flat terrain. Twelve straight-line miles from the wilderness edge, but by the meandering Mickle's River, it was more like twenty.
The tank battalion was parked in the narrow band of floodplain woods that stretched along the Mickle's banks. Actually at a place where the woods were wider than anywhere else for miles. There, according to the buoys, they'd find not only the battalion's tanks, but its headquarters, trucks, repair and overhaul facilities… all of it.
At each corner of the encampment stood a newly-erected flak tower. The Indi assault pilots knew all they wanted to about those. Enough to guess the specifics: a swivel-based, multi-barreled, look-and-fire trasher on each tower, powerful enough to bring down an armored attack floater with a single burst. Or one pulse suitably placed.
Though B Company didn't know it, surveillance buoys had observed the tower construction in progress, but hadn't reported it. Regionwide, the buoys saw far more than humans could hope to deal with, so back on Terra, programmers had designed perception sets to notify Intelligence of opportunities and dangers. But inevitably the programs overlooked some things.
Thus when four thick concrete slabs were poured in a nondescript stand of trees on a minor river, no relevance was perceived. Then four assembly floaters began assembling four tripod towers on the slabs. The buoys registered and tagged this internally, while awaiting further observations. Then some unrecognizable equipment was installed on the towers, and a pseudo-organic data processor, 360 miles out, notified Division that something was going on.
But it was an Indi scout pilot who said, "Huh! Those are weapons! Gotta be." So he reported it, then left his planned flight path for a closer look. But the Wyzhnyny didn't respond; there was nothing else peculiar about the place, and whatever might be perched atop the towers was concealed in a cab.
And there was nothing else on the site but trees. And only hours later, Intelligence had their attention on something else: a Wyzhnyny tank battalion, with its attendant ground transport, had appeared beside a limestone ridge deep within Wyz Country. Almost certainly it had been concealed in a cave. And they were promptly joined by a floater escort, which along with the antiaircraft armament of the tanks demanded caution.
So Operations decided to let be for the moment. They'd wait and see where the tanks were going. In less than two hours they knew. As for why… for one thing they were a lot closer to prospective battle sites.
General Pak wondered if they were simply bait, because by then he suspected what those towers were. Though he'd never heard of flak towers.
Then he learned how good the Wyzhnyny ordnance was. He sent two flights of armored attack floaters to rip up the tank park-and lost six of the eight aircraft! Next he sent a flight of rocket-armed standoff floaters, and discovered the potency of Wyzhnyny electronic countermeasures.
So he turned to infantry and inflatable boats.
B Company reached Mickle's River by twilight, in the forest three miles outside Wyz Country. The Mickle's was not very large there: forty to fifty feet wide and four to eight feet deep in the main channel. What made the mission feasible was, even in Wyz Country the Mickel's floodplain was wooded. That was one similarity between Jerrie and Wyzhnyny land-use practices: neither culture farmed floodplains, even along rivers that didn't often flood during the growing season. Here and there the buoys showed a break in the woods, where convergence between some meander and the bordering terrace pinched out the floodplain on one side or the other. But except for those infrequent breaks, the buoys showed woods along both banks for all twenty meandering miles through Wyz Country.
The troops unloaded their boats, demolitions, etc. on the river bank, then Captain Mulvaney ordered the grav sleds back to Division with their Burger crews. He watched the squads inflate their boats and put them in the water. Then troopers held them by the handlines while their gear was loaded. The current would carry them along, and the eight paddles with each boat would speed them. They'd had two training sessions with rubber boats back at Camp Stenders. Not much. But the three wilderness miles before they reached Wyz Country would give them the feel of boats, paddles and river.
The number one boat was smaller, the scout, with only five paddlers and a bow lookout. Mulvaney strode to the number two boat, where seven staff noncoms, including the medics, sat waiting with paddles. Corporal Jensen stood in water over his knees, steadying the boat. Crouching, Mulvaney boarded, settled on his seat in the bow, and looked back while his troopers boarded the other boats. Lieutenant Bremer had settled in the stern, holding the steering oar. Mulvaney raised an arm and gestured. "Let's go, men!" he called. With that, Jensen clambered aboard, took the eighth paddle, and they were on their way.
They suspected what this night might hold for them, but they didn't dwell on it. It wasn't real to them yet.
Isaiah Vernon's camo field was not only black at night, it also obscured his electronic image. Nonetheless, he waited quietly behind a tree trunk. They'd been told to use cover when they could.
He didn't wait alone. The entire regimental bot platoon was there: 22 bots against a Wyzhnyny incursion thought to be of company strength. The Wyzhnyny were getting close. On Isaiah's HUD, their linear icon had almost reached his platoon icon. Even from his east-end position he couldn't see them yet, but he could hear them. He'd maxed his sonic sensitivity. They're trotting, he thought. "Lieutenant," he whispered, "this is Sergeant Vernon. I hear them now."
Koshi answered from the other end of the ambush line. "On my command," he murmured. "Not before. Unless they see us and open fire first."
The Wyzhnyny were skirting a tangled patch of old tornado blowdown, thick with fallen trees, brush and saplings. The platoon waited along its edge, Koshi at the west end. By the time the Wyzhnyny reached him, they should all be exposed, or almost all. There was no cleared field of fire, but by opening fire together, they should be able to take out much of the enemy force in the first seconds. Then they'd rush the rest; take them out while they were shocked and confused. Those that fled, they'd let go; even bots couldn't catch them. Let them tell what had happened to them as best they knew. See what that did for morale back in Wyz Country.
The first Wyzhnyny who trotted into view was the point man, followed by two other scouts. The nearest passed perhaps six feet in front of Isaiah, who'd have held his breath if he'd had lungs. The rest of the Wyzhnyny followed in single file, Isaiah counting them.
He'd gotten to 143 when Koshi said, "NOW!" Then the entire platoon opened fire with both arms-blaster and slammer. There were screams and roars as Wyzhnyny fell, kicking, thrashing, or simply dying. The first return fire was almost immediate, homing on muzzle pulses. Isaiah took a hit; his camouflage field flashing from the energy received. They'd all been shot with hard pulses before, deliberately in training, to prepare them. So he ignored it, looking for more targets. Knocked down another, and another… The Wyzhnyny didn't go prone to fire, but stayed on their feet. After a few seconds, those still standing paused to reload. Isaiah had exhausted the power slugs in his clamp-ons, and jacked in replacements.
"TAKE THEM!" Koshi ordered, and the bots charged, juiced by an electronic analog of adrenaline. The Wyzhnyny hadn't expected this. Those who'd reloaded fired. The others ran. Two slammer pulses jarred Isaiah, his camouflage field flaring strongly, reflecting from the visor of the Wyzhnyny who'd fired. Isaiah grabbed him by the head, jerked, twisted, and threw the Wyzhnyny violently to the side, off his feet, before shooting him.
He paused, and saw no Wyzhnyny standing. The order was to kill the conscious wounded; a safety measure that was also a merciful act, with no Wyzhnyny medics on hand. Unconscious enemy wounded were to be taken prisoner, but no one had told them how to distinguish the unconscious wounded from one playing possum. And at any rate, slammer and blaster wounds were typically fatal.
A few minutes later, when the platoon gathered around Lieutenant Koshi, there were no prisoners. Only a Wyzhnyny body tally: 119. There'd probably be more scattered along the path to Wyz Country, dead of wounds. Courtesy of a buoy, Isaiah's HUD showed icons moving rapidly east-southeastward.
The platoon started back to camp at an easy lope, Isaiah feeling embarrassment along with exhilaration. It had been almost too easy, killing so many with so little injury to themselves. Then he wondered if the Wyzhnyny had felt that way when they'd wiped out the local humans who'd declined evacuation. The thought didn't entirely erase his discomfort, but it allowed him to dismiss it.
It had been Esau who'd suggested it, when Ensign Berg gave the platoon its first briefing on the mission. "We ought to paddle along close to the edge," he'd said. "Trees hang over the water there. Cover, in case some Wyz scout flies over. And generally, the outside of a meander is better than the inside. The current cuts deeper, so we can stay close to the bank, under the trees, and be harder to see. The inside of a meander is likely to be shallow, so we'd have to keep farther to the middle."
Afterward, Ensign Berg ran it past Captain Mulvaney, who mentioned it to General Pak at a planning review. "What's the young man's name again?" the general asked.
"Esau Wesley, sir."
Pak remembered the name now; that was the young sergeant who'd unearthed the renegade fugitives. "Keep an eye on that young man, Captain. He sounds like promotion material: smart, and takes responsibility."
Mulvaney had grinned. "We've made a project out of him, General, since early on. Especially his platoon sergeant."
Back at B Company, Berg told Hawkins what Pak had said, but the sergeant didn't tell Esau. It seemed to him it might make the Jerrie self-conscious; make him try too hard. What he did tell him was that Mulvaney had told the general, giving him, Esau, the credit.
From the time they started downstream, noise discipline was absolute. The buoys had been ordered to give special attention to the Mickle's and its vicinity, but you couldn't know for sure. There was Wyzhnyny livestock here and there, and probably Wyzhnyny herdsmen, indistinguishable by buoy imagery.
Esau's advice was heeded: They stayed mostly near the riverbank, and on the curves, favored the outside. Once Captain Mulvaney's HUD showed a Wyzhnyny floater pass over, more or less in line with the river where they were, but it didn't react.
They moved rather briskly, without seeing or hearing anything threatening. The major moon-"Elder Hofer's Lamp"-rose at about 2330 hours, so during the last hour of their river trip, the visibility was better than earlier. That increased the tension level, but not drastically except during one interval when there was no woods along the east bank, and direct moonlight reached the water.
For several minutes, Captain Mulvaney had been paying more attention to his HUD than to the river. The icon of his sole scout was nearing the tank park. "Almost there, men," he murmured. "Easy now. Quietly. Quietly." He rounded a bend. Ahead lay a straightaway about a hundred and fifty yards long. "It's just before the next bend," he whispered. Then added, "Kill your HUDs." The lines on the HUDs were hair-thin, but even so, they were a needless risk now.
This was far the most dangerous stage of the operation yet. Mulvaney felt a focus and acuity of senses greater than anything he'd experienced before in his thirty-three years.
As squad leader, Esau rode in the bow of his boat, watching the riverbanks, the woods, and the boats ahead, his senses as focused and acute as his captain's. The inside of the last bend had been on their left, the side they wanted, and they could have run right up on the mudbank there. It would have made for easier unloading. But then they'd have had to approach through the woods, and riding the current was quieter.
He'd glimpsed one of the flak towers, its platform and cab-turret actually-not much above the treetops. He ignored it; he had more immediate things to pay attention to. On the straightaway he saw no good place to land. The east bank was a natural levee about five feet high, about the highest he'd seen. And abrupt; almost impossible to pull the boats up. This hadn't been apparent in the images from the buoys. They'd either have to leave men behind to hold the boats, or struggle them up onto the levee, making a certain amount of noise. Or let them float on unoccupied, which would leave the company stranded.
But it didn't come to that. Just before the next curve, the high bank had been dozed-sloped and smoothed for easy access to the water. As boat by boat they reached the bend, the bow man slipped into the water close to shore, water waist to chest deep, and guided his boat to the sloped-down bank. Their gear on their backs, shoulders, and harness, the rest also slipped over the side, and transferred demolitions and other gear to shore. Then quickly but quietly they raised the boats from the water, carried them ashore, and very quietly stacked them four high. As soon as a squad had landed their boat, they moved up the bank, weapons in hand, and formed a defense line at the brow while others landed behind them.
Captain Mulvaney had been the first. Wet to the hips, he crawled to the top of the bank, and with night vision examined the Wyzhnyny encampment. From time to time he raised his visor and used his night binoculars to pick up details. Trees obscured the view, but he saw enough to put the scene together.
The buoys had given him the basic layout, subject to uncertainties. There were definitely no tanks on the side toward the river. They were lined up along the other three sides, well spaced, forming a box several acres in size. Inside the box lay almost everything else-mainly shedlike prefab buildings that no doubt served as battalion and company headquarters, mess halls, machine shops, and probably officers' quarters. And mounds that had to be bunkers; probably concrete, covered with earth. They couldn't be deep, Mulvaney thought, the water table couldn't be more than six feet below the surface. By each tank was a tent large enough for its crew to live in. Outside the "tank box," at least on the far side, were more tents. Probably squad tents for the battalion's infantry company or companies. Except for them and the flak towers, everything seemed to be inside the box.
The only activity Mulvaney saw was one Wyzhnyny soldier walking to what had to be a latrine. When the Wyzhnyny opened the door, subdued light shone out until it closed again. He saw no sentry, not one, though there had to be some. Even here, miles and miles from known human forces, and no indigenous population that might snoop or steal. Inwardly Mulvaney shook his head. It was hard to conceive of a military installation with no sentries out, especially at night.
Only after several minutes of careful scanning and listening did he give up on spotting the sentries. Keying one of his command switches, he whispered to his platoon leaders, confirming sectors and objectives, and giving orders.
Ensign Berg had led 2nd Platoon through the woods as quietly he could, keeping well outside the three-sided tank box. He'd sent scouts ahead and off his right flank, and they'd reported two sentries. They'd reached the edge of the woods on the east side, the side farthest from the river. Now they lay in pasture grass, facing the woods, waiting for Captain Mulvaney's command.
Not far inside the woods, but outside the tank box, two flak towers rose above the trees, marking the southeast and northeast corners. If the towers opened fire on them, the platoon's orders were to run for the woods as hard as they could, firing as they went, regardless of what awaited them there. Though hopefully the flak gunners couldn't depress their guns enough to target them. Nearby, livestock grazed, mostly "calves." Remarkably placid, they hardly reacted to the strange bipeds. The long row of squad tents-almost surely the battalion's infantry bivouac-lay just within the edge of the trees.
The platoon lay in a line, ten or fifteen feet apart. Behind it, Elder Hofer's Lamp rode the sky. Hopefully, Esau thought, if some Wyzhnyny infantryman left his tent to take a leak, and looked to the east, his eyes would lift skyward, rather than studying the pasture.
2nd Platoon had had the farthest to move, and it seemed to Esau that everyone else should already have been in position. But Berg had radioed their readiness three minutes earlier, and nothing had happened yet. When the captain was ready, he'd let them know. Then 2nd Platoon was to pour heavy fire into the tents, drawing Wyzhnyny attention for a critical half minute or so, hopefully starting an eastward reaction.
Apparently things were hung up somewhere.
Esau didn't fidget, physically or mentally. Back on Luneburger's World, he'd become good at waiting, despite his sometimes impatient disposition. Especially during the maneuvers at Camp Nafziger, he'd developed an absolute focus in ambush situations, like a tiger waiting to rush a heifer. For him, time became little more than sequence, its durations known but muted. Now his implacable gaze was on his personal sector of fire. Irrelevant thoughts did not visit his mind.
Finally Berg whispered in their helmets. "Fire on my command. Five. Four… " From somewhere in the woods came a premature burst of blaster fire. "Fire!" Berg snapped.
Each 2nd Platoon trooper began spraying long bursts through the tents in his sector of fire. The Wyzhnyny response was prompt, survivors spilling out, blasters in hand, running for the nearest sizeable tree. No foxholes or breastworks, Esau realized, offended by the lack. Danged Wyz took too much for granted.
2nd Platoon's muzzle pulses and visible trajectories guided the Wyzhnyny return fire. But they weren't used to the low target profile of prone humans, and the platoon's lack of cover wasn't as costly as it might have been. The firefight settled to a more measured exchange, the Jerries firing short bursts now, rolling sideways for target disruption, seating fresh slugs as needed.
Their job was not to suppress the Wyzhnyny infantry-they lacked the necessary firepower-but to inflict maximum casualties, while distracting it from the defense of the tanks and flak towers. Meanwhile the whole base was in uproar. Firing seemed everywhere. Magnesium charges flashed brilliantly, and armor petards roared, as 3rd Platoon's Jerries worked and fought, destroying and dying along the rows of tanks.
It was Sergeant Hawkins' voice that spoke next in 2nd Platoon's helmets. "1st and 4th Squads, move into the woods and support 3rd Platoon. 2nd and 3rd Squads spread out and continue firing."
"Let's go, 4th Squad!" Esau said, and springing to his feet, darted to his left in a series of sprints and dives, his people following. They'd already been at the south end of 2nd Platoon's skirmish line, and despite Wyzhnyny night vision, they quickly ceased drawing fire. Wyzhnyny attention seemed focused on those humans still shooting at them.
So Esau shifted from sprint-and-dive to a crouching run, swerving more and more westward, guiding on firefights in the woods. At the same time he clicked his helmet comm to the command channel. 4th Squad was to suppress Wyzhnyny tankers protecting their vehicles from 3rd Platoon demolitionists.
As he ran, he glanced back at his squad. Their spacing discipline was good, and remarkably, most of them seemed to be there. "Work with your fire team," he warned. "Teamwork!" Then they were in the woods. In the eruptive, roaring flashing chaos, teamwork tended to dissolve, troopers responding to the moment, firing, taking cover, throwing grenades, even bayoneting. The blaster racket was punctuated by the sharper sounds of gunfire. The Wyzhnyny tankers carried only projectile weapons-pistols and carbines. Tankers who climbed into still intact tanks, initiated their AG engines. Demolitionists darted up to tanks and clambered onto them: slammed petards against access panels, or magnesium charges into shaper muzzles or air intakes, triggered charges and time fuses, then moved on if they could.
Esau and Jael kept aware of one another, less by conscious intent than by something deeper. Captain Mulvaney's voice spoke on the command channel. "4th Squad, 2nd Platoon, are you near the southeast tower?"
Esau crouched beside a tree. His answer was a rush of words. "Sir, this is Esau. I'm not far from it, and Jael's with me. The rest of the squad's close by, but I don't know how many's left. There's fighting all around, like things were stirred with a spoon."
"The southeast tower demolition team can't get up the tower," Mulvaney said. "They're under heavy fire. Take your squad and suppress it. We must take out that tower!"
"Yessir." Esau changed channels. "4th Squad, 2nd Platoon, move to the southeast tower. We need to take out enemy fire that's holding down the demolition team there. Otherwise we may not have a ride home. And give me your names while you're on your way, so I know how many of us there are."
Then he started, his stocky body darting from tree to tree. Behind one he stumbled on a trooper with his head blown half off. Behind another stood a wounded Wyzhnyny, guts dangling, looking the other way and firing a carbine. They're tough! Esau thought. With superb night accuracy, he snapped off a single pulse that blew out the Wyzhnyny's brain. He could die himself in the next second, but his warrior muse wasn't entertaining thoughts like that.
Now he saw the tower, a thick-legged tripod in a clearing some eighty or ninety feet across. Jerries lay on its slab, at least two still alive, returning fire from behind tripod legs. He could see several sources of the Wyzhnyny fire that kept them on the ground. Pointing, he growled. "Jael, that one's yours." Then he moved toward another, whose attention was on its target. Someone else loosed a short burst, putting that one down. Esau found a third almost hidden from view, threw a grenade behind the Wyzhnyny and dropped to the ground.
After it blew, he took stock, then opened the command channel again. "Captain," he said, "this is Esau, 2nd Platoon, 4th Squad. We seem to have cleaned out the folks shooting at the southeast tower team, but no one's going up the tower. I don't think they know it's cleared yet."
"Good work, Esau. I'll tell them. They're hung up at the southwest tower, too. Go help."
Esau ordered 4th Squad, then started himself, glancing at the southeast tower as he left. They'd gotten lines up earlier. Now two people were climbing them.
Intense fighting continued around the parked tanks. Bolts passed within feet of him, and he dove for the ground behind a tree. Jael's voice spoke in his helmet. "I got him!" she said, and Esau was back on his feet, running again for the southwest tower. He approached the Wyzhnyny harassers from behind, shot one, then came under fire from another. Hit the dirt behind a tree, legs protruding on one side, head on the other. Fragments of bark and wood flew, and he scrabbled on his belly to better conceal himself. No further pulses struck, and cautiously he looked around the base. Saw a Jerrie kneeling behind a fallen Wyzhnyny, peering toward the southwest tower, blaster ready.
Gathering himself, Esau darted to the man and knelt beside him. One of 4th Squad, a replacement, Tom Clark. "You know if any of the others are around?" Esau asked.
"I've seen Joash Steele and a couple others. That's all. I've been keeping track of you, best I could, you and Jael. Helps she's so small."
Jael trotted toward them, then something heavy, a slammer, cut loose at them, and she scrambled for shelter while Clark and Esau hit the dirt in opposite directions. Esau belly flopped, and kicked around into a prone firing position. The enemy weapon fired another burst, and Esau fired back. The enemy fire stopped, and they saw a large powerful body thrashing on the ground.
"Clark," Esau said, "I'm going to see if anyone's still alive over there." He thumbed toward the tower. "You folks keep anyone from plugging me."
"Right, Sarge."
Esau got to his feet and ran to the tower, briskly but not sprinting. Five Jerries lay dead there. Now Jael sprinted across to him and flopped prone. "I wish you'd get down," she said. "You're too good a target, standing like that."
He knelt. "And I wish you'd have stayed over there," he answered.
Ignoring the comment, she pointed toward the trees. "Someone over there's firing at the top of the tower," she said. "I think he's one of ours."
Esau peered where she'd pointed. At the moment there wasn't much blaster fire close by, though someone was banging away with a pistol. Slowly and deliberately, probably short on ammunition. "You stay here and cover me," Esau said. "I'll check it out."
Part of a large tree lay on the ground, cut to make room for the tower, and not cleaned up. He ran over to it, and finding two Jerries kneeling in a large fork, joined them.
"What are you men doing here?"
The one who answered never took his gaze from the top of the tower. "We were sent to give covering fire to the tower team, but they all got shot. Now he's covering me, and I'm covering the grapples."
"Grapples?"
"The team fired two grapples at the tower platform, and they both caught on the railing. Then two guys tried to climb it, on those little seats that ratchet up when you pull on the rope. They both got shot. They're hanging up there in their harness."
Esau hadn't noticed them before, one almost to the top, the other some ten feet lower. The blasterman raised his weapon and fired another burst at the top of the tower. "One of the Wyz just came out," the man said. "The way he dropped, I think I got him. They can crawl along the platform without us seeing, but they have to get up to free the grapple. I'm hoping I can kill enough of them, they can't man their guns."
They're probably worried about that themselves, Esau thought.
"The team had three grapple throwers," the blasterman said, looking at Esau for the first time, a quick glance. "There should be another one out there among the bodies. With a climbing seat," he added suggestively.
Esau squinted, then decided, and ran back to the tower in a crouch. Among the bodies, he saw what he needed: a satchel charge with shoulder straps, and a sort of drum with handles. On top of the drum lay something resembling a grenade launcher. A three-hooked grapple was seated in it, and from a slot below the muzzle, rope led to a hole in the top of the drum. Beside it lay a harness, with a little seat, and an attachment. He knew how it worked; 2nd Platoon had been introduced to them, though they hadn't tried them out.
The heaviest fighting was near the center of the woods now, as if the demolitions teams had finished their work or been killed. No one seemed to be shooting at him for the moment, but that couldn't last. And there was more gunfire than blaster fire now-a bad sign. He dismissed it; he still had work to do. The satchel charge had a detonator in place, with a short length of fuse taped on the side, and an igniter. Taking off his combat pack, he removed a phosphorus grenade and hooked it on his harness next to his remaining fragmentation grenades. Finally he lay his blaster by his pack and slipped his arms through the straps on the satchel charge.
Picking up the grapple gun, he handed it to Jael. "Bring this," he said. Then he carried the drum to the edge of the slab, took the grapple gun from Jael, and eyed the platform atop the tower. "Well," he muttered, "here goes nothing." Raising the gun, he pulled the trigger. The recoil almost separated his shoulder, and the blast hurt his right ear like a knife thrust. The grapple flew upward while the launch shank flew free. Rope sped from the drum; the grapple struck the turret, then clattered to the platform.
Jerking on the rope, he felt no resistance. The grapple popped from the platform and caught on the pipe atop the bulwark.
He turned to Jael. "This is an order," he said, pointing. "Go back there and shoot at any movement on top that's not me. I don't want some sonofabitch unhooking this, or shooting down at me. Then, if our folks start getting pushed out of the woods, I want you with them. I'll get out all right."
She nodded soberly and ran toward the trees. As she did, Esau saw the blasterman in the fallen tree fire another burst at the top of the tower. The clatter of the third grapple had stirred them up overhead.
Carrying the now-depleted drum, he went to where the seat lay, and attached the ratchet to the rope. Then he buckled himself into the harnesslike seat, located himself beneath the grapple, and after a deep breath began to climb hand over hand, the ratchet securing every gain. He got the rhythm of it at once, climbing as rapidly as his short arms allowed. Thinking that if an energy pulse hit the satchel charge on his back, there'd be nothing left of him for a Wyzhnyny to eat.
Just below the platform he paused, removed a fragmentation grenade, pulled the safety clip, thumbed the plunger, then lobbed the grenade over the railing. It roared. With quick strong movements he reached the railing and bellied over it, releasing his seat harness almost before hitting the platform. A Wyzhnyny body lay there. Rising to a crouch, he moved to his right, came to the open gunport, and removed the phosphorous grenade from his harness. As he activated it, he realized the gunport shield was sliding shut, but he had only one phosphorous grenade, so he tossed it anyway. If it had struck the shield, he'd have died horribly.
Ignoring the screams from inside, he scuttled to the door, shrugged out of the satchel charge, then tried the latch. Unlocked! Bullets smacked the turret near him. He depressed the igniter, stepped behind the edge of the armorsteel door, and opened it. Someone inside fired blindly, bullets spanging on the bulwark behind him. He slung the thirty-pound charge in by a shoulder strap, slammed the door and fled in a crouch, around the curve of the turret to the grapple and over the railing, not bothering with the seat. He started down hand over hand. I should have thrown a fragmentation grenade in ahead of the charge, he thought. Someone in there's still alive and fighting. If he brings the charge out and throws it over the railing, I'm a goner.
He heard the roar, and knew he'd pulled it off, but had no time to exult. Still thirty feet up, a burst of blaster fire passed too near. He slid-would have let go and free-fallen if it weren't for the concrete slab beneath him. Almost at the bottom, he gripped the rope hard again, braking, felt searing pain in his palms, and hit the slab hard enough his knees buckled, aware that another burst of blaster fire had missed him as he'd dropped. He sprinted for the trees.
"Here!" Jael almost screamed it as she stepped into sight, and he veered toward her. "Folks are pulling back!" He realized he'd heard that on his helmet comm, and ignored it. Together they ran, Jael leading. Not northward toward where the company had landed, but westward, toward the curving river. Northward would take them into a no-man's-land.
Ensign Kemau Zenawi Singh arrived in a staggering run, carrying a man who weighed more than he did. Wyzhnyny weapons racketed behind him. Crossing the break of the bulldozed bank, Zenawi hit the sandy slope on his butt, sliding feetfirst. Company medics were working on wounded. He rolled the body off his shoulder. "It's Captain Mulvaney!" he gasped, then lay back heaving for breath. "Somebody get Lieutenant Bremer!"
He'd passed Bremer and hadn't noticed. Now the lieutenant appeared beside him. "What? Captain Mulvaney?"
"Yessir. Hit by a bullet. It exited through his face, his mouth. We were heading back here and suddenly he went down. I think he was hit again, while I was carrying him."
"Blessed Gopal!"
"You're in charge now, sir."
Bremer turned to look at Mulvaney, but a kneeling medic was in the way. "Sir," the medic said without looking back, "the captain is dead. Bullet through the brain."
Bremer sounded unbelieving. "Don't just… " He groped for an appropriate word. "Just kneel there! Give him something!"
"I have, sir. Stasis 1. But it's too late, believe me." He rose to a crouch and started back to the wounded.
Bremer turned again to Zenawi. "Kemau," he said, "what do I do?" His eyes looked large, desperate.
"Sir, you know the situation better than I do. But I presume we have a defense perimeter covering the beach."
Bremer's head bobbed rapidly. "Yes. Of course. Of course."
"I'd hole up here on the beach and give the rest of the men time to get here. Then take to the boats and go downstream."
"Downstream? Good lord, man! Downstream is the wrong direction." Bremer sounded close to panic.
"Downstream," Zenawi repeated calmly. "It's in the plan. That's where they're supposed to pick us up. Unload on the other side, far enough away that hopefully the evacuation floaters can get in safely and land. The last I knew, the enemy still held the southwest tower."
Bremer was breathing hard now, hyperventilating. "We have men in the park here. We can't leave them. We'll simply have to charge! Clear the Wyzhnyny from the park and bring out the casualties."
Zenawi's hand gripped his wrist. "Don't order it, sir. Every man in your company will die. You'll carry the weight of it on your soul forever."
Forever was how long Bremer's stricken expression would stay with Zenawi; the XO was over the edge. "Let me take care of it for you, sir," Zenawi said, and clicked his all-personnel channel. "B Company, this is Zenawi for the company commander. Perimeter, hold fast. The rest of you retreat to the beach in an orderly manner!" He repeated it. "In three minutes we begin evacuation. In three minutes we begin evacuation. Perimeter, don't shoot anything on two legs!"
Jael and Esau reached the river downstream from where the Wyzhnyny had bulldozed the riverbank. Going over the levee top, they picked their way along the steep sideslope, gripping brush on the levee brow to keep from sliding into the water. Esau wasn't even aware now of his torn palms. In two or three minutes they were within the Jerrie perimeter undetected. Overhead, bullets popped, ricochets sang, blaster pulses hissed. It was then they heard Zenawi's order. Ahead they saw men kneeling on the smoothed-down beach. A moment later they reached it, and crouching, trotted to the officers they could see.
"I need to report to Captain Mulvaney," Esau said.
Lieutenant Bremer, the tallest man in the company, rose abruptly, as if there were no hostile fire. His face twisted. "Wesley!" he snapped, "where's your rifle? And your pack?"
"Sir, they're back under the southwest tower. I… "
"GO GET IT, SOLDIER! RIGHT NOW!" His face swelled with sudden rage. "GET THAT SONOFABITCH OR I'LL SHOOT YOU FOR COWARDICE!"
Esau stepped backward as if slapped.
A black hand gripped Bremer by a sleeve, pulling him down, and the XO went suddenly slack. "Sir," Zenawi said, "Captain Mulvaney ordered Wesley to the southwest tower. Let's hear what he has to report." Zenawi's black face turned to Esau. "Captain Mulvaney is dead, soldier. Is the southwest tower disabled?"
Esau was still in shock at Bremer's outburst. It was Jael who answered. "Yessir. Esau disabled it, sir. That's why he doesn't have his blaster. The tower team was all dead, but there was a grapple gun laying there, and a satchel charge, so he went up alone, all that way. Threw a phosporous grenade in the window where the guns shoot out; I could hear them screaming up there, clear from where I was. Then he threw the satchel charge in and came back over the railing, and slid down the rope. And the turret blew up! The steel door flew off the hinges, off into the trees, and Wyz on the ground were shooting at Esau, so's he fell the last ways. And lit on his feet! Then we ran!" She paused. "And now here we are."
Zenawi peered at her, then looked at Esau again. "Good work, Wesley!" he said. "Now you better get your head down. Be a shame to get killed before you even get your medal." Still stunned, Esau squatted, and Zenawi reached out. They shook hands. The officer felt the wet stickiness, different than the feel of blood, and retrieving his own hand, glanced at it before turning to Bremer again. "What Wesley did was worth a medal, wouldn't you say so, sir?"
Bremer's nods were like twitches, the sight penetrating Esau's shock. The XO had lost his mind!
While they'd talked, the Wyzhnyny fire had slackened. Now it stopped entirely. The silence was eerie. The only voice Esau could hear was Lieutenant Zenawi reporting to Division: "The flak towers have been taken out. Send medivacs, APFs and fighter cover."
The group on the beach looked at each other, then at the woods. Along the Jerrie perimeter, men lay or knelt, holding their breath. Those who hadn't already fixed bayonets, did so. Surely the enemy was about to charge. It seemed to Esau that if they tried to evacuate, they'd be overrun while loading the wounded on the boats.
An interminable minute passed. Two. Abruptly the woods in front of them erupted with crashes of exploding antipersonnel rockets, and the formless roar of multibarrelled slammers sounding from the sky. Zenawi reacted at once, his words broadcast wide band. "Everyone to the boats! Head downstream! That's downstream. Fighter command, we're under air attack. APFs, pick us up at rendezvous, half a mile downstream, on the west bank where the woods pinch out!"
Torn palms still ignored, Esau had already run to the nearest pile of boats, Jael with him. Alone they manhandled a top boat into the water, where he stood holding it. Others grabbed a second. Soldiers were spilling onto the beach, a small flood. More boats were launched, and wounded were loaded into them. For some reason the Wyzhnyny air attack was focused on the woods instead of the beach. Zenawi helped Bremer into a boat, the XO like a doddering old man, then jumped in with him.
The escape hardly used half the boats, and some of them weren't full. Some had still not gotten under way when Indi fighters hit the Wyzhnyny attack floaters.
The rendezvous beach had no place to land, so the troops went over the side, towing or carrying casualties, then boosting and pulling them and each other up the bank. Floaters were waiting, with medics, who helped first at the cutbank, then at the floaters.
By that time a group of antiarmor floaters hovered over the tank park. These too were Indis, and their fire was not antipersonnel. They wanted to make sure no tanks remained fit for renovation.