Colonel Mohamed Omar raised himself to his hands and knees. His ears were ringing and he could taste coppery blood in his mouth. He could feel something warm and wet rolling down his shaved head and when he reached up to cuff it away his hand cams away slick and red with blood.
Around him his headquarters staff were doing the same, righting pieces of equipment that had toppled when the salvo landed practically right outside the cave.
"Location - find who the hell just hit us,” he barked. His face was once again impassive, a square chiseled blank.
"Here, ah, here, sir," the plotter said, drawing a black circle on the plastic cover of the map, once the easel was back up. The young insurgent officer was very pale and wide eyed.
There were screams from outside, from men and the worse sounds of wounded mules and horses. They grew louder as wounded were dragged inside and carried over to the improvised aid-station on the other side of the big cavern. Corpsmen with red crescent symbols on their jackets scurried among them, sorting them for triage and slapping on hyposprays of anesthetic. Outside a slow series of rifle-shots gave the pack animals slashed by shrapnel or pulped by blast their own peace.
“Too damn far away,” Omar said. The militia didn’t have much in way of artillery - mostly heavy mortars on par with his own equipment. But the damn mercs had brought heavier gear and it appeared their Regulan paymasters had even loaned them some Arrow IVs. That would explain their devil’s own luck.
That and their damned special forces teams deep in our rear, Omar mused.
Watching aides plot the enemy advance with red marker pens across the liquid display, Omar sighed. It had been easier when it had just been the lick spittle loyalists to fight.
Now, these mercenaries had changed everything. Now, there were just too many of them, and clearly they intended to pound him to bits before advancing.
They'd be inserting those Battle Armour teams across his retreat routes, too. No dangerous subtleties or daring sweeps, just a straight hammerblow, rolling northwest and then veering northeast toward the exact location of his position here in the Nazir Hills. The loyalist columns were coordinating well, with intensive patrolling between.
Mostly they were bypassing or punching through any screen he put into place, the lead element of Mechs and tanks encircling the FSLA blocking forces for the foot-infantry marching up behind to eliminate.
And the whole time, artillery or fighters swooped in on any gathering of his forces. That’s why they were using horses, mules or even those three horned Vtechs off Lopez as pack animals. Apparently ANY vehicle was open season once spotted by the enemy.
It shouldn’t be like this, he thought. When the enemy had started its big push into the valley the FSLA should have dispersed and scattered - striking back in piecemeal. He’d argued hard for not playing the loyalists’ game but he’d been overruled.
He remembered his last communication from Count Askar. The Mullah had remained cloaked in darkness during the audio recording and there’d been a distortion program making his voice and of Omar was being honest, he didn’t appreciate the theatrics while he was on the line getting shelled and dodging gunfire.
The rebel leader had ordered him to delay and hold the loyalist for as long as possible. He’d then dropped the bombshell that he was pulling their remaining lance of Mechs back to his estate as a “critical reserve”. Plus his own household lance, that gave Askar two lances.
Meanwhile, Omar was left with little more than a battalion of infantry and three tanks that had all been earlier knocked out and rushed back to the front with minimal repairs.
Small arms fire crackled outside, followed by the bass roar of a grenade’s explosion. Omar looked up sharply, estimating distances.
“Evacuate," he snapped. "Major Gimbowitz."
The chief of the field-hospital looked up. "You have the enemy wounded here as well?" The doctor nodded, swallowing; he knew as well as the commander what came next.
"We cannot take prisoners or wounded with us," Omar said regretfully. "I must ask for medical volunteers to remain with them until the enemy arrives. They will have permission to contact the loyalist commanders once their troops are in the immediate vicinity. Unofficially, I’d recommend contacting the mercenaries over the militia.”
That made it unlikely the FSLA wounded would be slaughtered. For the most part wounded men and medics in an organized setting were reasonably safe. But who knew how the militia would feel about them. The mercs had already show their willingness to accept surrender.
He turned. "Quickly, please," he said. "Sandina, please see to the demolition charges on the equipment we cannot remove."
Omar buckled on his pistol belt, glancing around at the chaos. Few of his troops would survive the attempt to fall back, he knew that.
We are most certainly winning. We effectively hold the entire Swaa-at Valley and have defeated the majority of the rebel FSLA army in the field. They started strong. - we’ll dug in and determined, but that quickly changed. And it wasn’t until we debriefed those surrendering mercs that we worked it out most of their leadership has bugged out.
The troops left behind were supposed to sell their lives dearly. Some did, but it's beginning to sink in that they're fighting for a lost cause, and leaders who've run away.
When the mercs surrendered, they were bitching that rebel leadership wasn’t supporting them and didn’t seem anywhere near the front. Three days later POWs were furious that most of their leadership had literally done the bug out
and left them.
We are seeing both individuals and organized groups looking for amnesty - whole platoons dropping rifles and surrendering. Others have scattered into the wastelands, but with not much more than they can carry.
The planetary government are dead keen on going after Count Askar, convinced he’s the head of this whole insurgence but the Regulans are dragging their feet. Desperate not to rock the boat and have the whole planet rebel.
So, for now, we are holding position and rounding up die hard insurgents and any left overs.
For the most part, the fight is out of them. Colonel Omar, the leader of the FSLA military wing is dead. We over ran his CP and found him nearby. He’d been shot in the head in what looked like an assisted suicide. Poor bastard couldn’t handle losing, I guess.
But for now, this previous insurgent hot spot is all but pacified.
Taighe Barrett