"Unfortunately, the position was too strongly garrisoned, and you were forced to withdraw to this hilltop. You are far in advance of artillery support, and, for operational reasons, normal air or satellite support is nonexistent.
"You medvacked your casualties, so you have no wounded to worry about. The problem is quite simple. Very, very soon, the enemy will counterattack in strength. You probably will not be able to hold this position.
"Your regimental commander has given you local option command. Friendly positions are"—He pointed behind him and touched the panel. At the top of the ridge-crest simulators set up a strong, not particularly well blacked-out position—"there. Between your company and friendly lines are an esimated two-brigade strength of bandits, operating with light armor and in small strike-patrol elements. All the options are yours. Are there any questions?"
Sten whistled silently.
"Recruit captain, take charge of your men. You have two minutes until the problem commences."
Lanzotta slid away into darkness.
Sten motioned to Morghhan, his recruit first sergeant They slithered away from the CP area. Sten dropped a UV filter over his eyes and flicked on a shielded maplight.
"Sauve qui peut and all that crud," Morghhan whispered. "You wanna surrender right now and avoid the morning rush?"
"Us killer guards never surrender."
"You think he's setting you up?"
"Damfino. Prog—no. Retrograde movement's supposed to be a bitch, they told us."
"You figure it, Sten. I'm gonna go practice up speaking fluent Enemy." Morghhan low-crawled back to the CP and waiting runners.
"Four and three and two and one," Lanzotta said, somewhere in the darkness. "Begin."
He must've started the simulator program. High whining. . ."Incoming!" somebody shouted, and the ground rocked under him. Violet light lasered just overhead. Sten hoped the sweep-track automatic weapons which provided the "enemy fire" weren't set too low or with random-center fire or with a movement homer.
Sten tapped the channel selector on his chest to ALL CHANNELS, and briefly outlined the plan to the listening troops.
"Six. . .this is two-one. We have movement on our front." That was Tomika, acting-jack platoon leader of Second Platoon.
Sten overrode onto the command net.
"Estimation, two-one?"
"Probe attack. Possible feint. Approximate strength two platoons. One hundred meters out, on line."
"Two-one. . .this is six. Hold fire. One-one? Any activity on your front?"
"Not—hang on. That's affirm. Got infiltrators working up the hill—will—aw clot!"
Lanzotta's voice broke in. "Unfortunately the First Platoon leader exposed himself and was hit. Fatal."
Sten ignored Lanzotta. "One-two. Assume command. Estimation?"
"Affirm. Infiltrators. Company size. Prog—first prong attack. Shall we open fire?"
Sten thought quickly. "Negative. When they cross fifty-meter line, they'll probably open fire. Prog—artillery support. First and third squads will withdraw twenty-five meters noisily. Second and fourth squads engage when they reach your positions and first and third counterattack. Prog—another feint. Top! Get weapons platoon to blanket their rear and break up the second wave. Take the CP, I'm shifting to Third Platoon."
Clicked the mike off. "Runner! Let's go."
They went off into darkness, Sten navigating by treetop shadows. Fire intensified, and the ground under them quivered.
Sten jumped as what sounded like a thousand sirens went off. "Psych," he told the runner. "Just noise. Let's move it!"
Sten dropped into the Third Platoon leader's dugout.
"What's out there?"
Sten held his breath and closed his eyes again. Listening. Sweeping his head from side to side. He swore. "Clot hell! Armor!"
"I don't hear anything!"
"You will. Sounds like two units. Scrunchies pigback for support."
Tagged the radio, "Weapons. . .I want illumination. Stand by. . ."
The air hummed.
"Weapons, this is six. Do you receive?"
A runner materialized out of the night and slid into the hole.
"All units. Stand by. Scramble R-Seven." The communicator selected a simple code and keyed the company's transmitters to it. The code would be broken in a few seconds if the enemy had analyzers. But by then Sten would've finished the plan.
"Two-one. Sequence your troops past the CP, and reinforce one-two. Move! Two. On command, you will begin a frontal assault straight forward."
Sten took a deep breath. This training was just real enough to make even simulated suicide work creepy.
"Three-one. Your men will hold the armor below your position. Your orders are to hold regardless. If we break out, you and your men are to exfiltrate solo.
"All units. The company will make a frontal assault against the feint in Second Platoon's sector. We will break out, and each man is on his own. You have the correct bearing on friendly lines. You will evade capture and join the regiment by dawn.
"That is all. Keep only water, basic weapon, and two tubes. Dump everything, including radios. Good luck. Move!"
Sten cut the radio. Lanzotta appeared beside him. "Administrative note, Recruit Captain Sten. With dead radios, maneuver control can't inflict casualties."
Sten found time for a grin, "Sergeant, that never crossed my mind." He was being honest. Sten turned to his CP unit "You heard it. Drop 'em and let's chogie."
"Lanzotta just wiped out weapons platoon. Sez it was counterbattery off your fire mission." Sten groaned. "Lenden."
"Go, Sten."
"Honk down about five meters and gimme a hand-held."
"Then I'm gonna be dead?"
"Then you're gonna be dead."
"Maybe they'll give us corpses a ride back." The runner hunched out of the hole, pulling a launcher from his weapons belt. He touched the fire key, and the flare hissed upward. A scanner caught him, and pulled the plug. Simulator-transponder went red, and Lenden swore and started back for the assembly area.
The flare bloomed, and Sten saw two. . .five. . .seven assault tracks grinding up the base of the hill. "Flash "em."
The platoon leader keyed his central weapons board, and high-pressure tanks, emplaced at the hill's base, sprayed into life. The gas mixed with the atmosphere, and the acting lieutenant fired the mixture.
A fireball roared across the hill's base, and three of the tracks caught and exploded.
"Leapfrog back. About sixty meters and set up an interior perimeter."
Sten rolled out of the hole and skittered back toward the CP.
By the time he flattened beside Morghhan, he had a plan.
Shadows went across his front toward Second Platoon's area. Firing suddenly redoubled in volume from the Third's last-stand perimeter.
Sten gratefully shed his pack and command net, port-armed his weapon and went after them.
There was dead silence in the office.
Sten stared straight ahead.
"Four survivors, recruit company commander. You were wiped out."
"Yes, Sergeant Lanzotta."
"I would be interested in your prognosis of the effects of such an action in real combat. On the rest of the regiment."
"I. . .guess very bad."
"I guess very obvious. But you don't know why. Troops will take massive casualties and maintain full combat efficiency under two circumstances only: First, those casualties must be taken in a short period of time. Slow decimation destroys any unit, no matter how elite.
"Secondly, those casualties must be taken with an accomplishment. Do you understand, Sten?"
"Not exactly, sergeant."
"I will be more explicit. Using last night's debacle. If you had held on that hilltop, and died to the last man, the regiment would have been proud. That would have been a battle honor and probably a drinking song. The men would have felt uplifted that there were such heroes among them. Even though they'd be clotting glad they weren't there to be with them."