BtH55

==Chapter 55 - By the Horns==
------
3rd Platoon, E Troop, Cavalry-Scout Recon Battalion, Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers RCT
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22nd, 3025
----
Leftenant Henry Barksdale scanned the horizon with a pair of binoculars as he stood in the open hatch of his Packrat recon vehicle. He swayed slightly and he lowered the glasses to wipe away the sweat from his salt-crusted forehead.
“You see it, LT?” asked Sergeant Bobby Gordon who manned the sensors in the steaming interior—the powerful climate control system of the recon vehicle was having difficulties of its own in coping with the oppressive heat. “Those are trees over in that ravine—and where there are trees, there’s water.”
“Maybe,” Henry answered. “Maybe not. The water could be deep underground, Sergeant; some trees have roots that run for quite a ways.”
“But there might be, LT—right?”
Henry licked his parched lips and he slowly nodded. “Right,” he whispered. “Any word from HQ on when we can expect resupply?”
“Yes, sir,” answered one of the recon infantry housed in the rear compartment. “We’ve outpaced the support brigade—they say that it’ll be tomorrow afternoon before the dromedaries catch up.”
“Damn,” Henry muttered under his breath. The Taurians were proving quite a bit more elusive than he had imagined they would be—his lip twitched as he remembered the old stories his grand-father told of fanatical defenders . . . stories handed down from his grand-father, who learned them from his. So far, he had only caught brief glimpses of the enemy—scouts like him, not the heavy combat troops. And the little fire exchanged had mostly come from snipers who shot once and then hauled ass.
Bastards. The snipers hadn’t shot at him or the other vehicle commanders; no, they had targeted the canisters of fresh water his vehicle carried on the external bustle racks. ALL of them now had a pair of holes in them . . . and the water he had expected to last three days was gone. Only the dregs left in their personal canteens and camelbaks remained.
Henry placed one hand (rather gingerly) on the Federated-Barrett M42B Auto-Rifle one of his troopers had mounted up here on a pintle; it wasn’t a proper machine-gun by any means, but it would serve in a pinch against light vehicles or infantry—not such much against tanks or ‘Mechs. The weapon was hot enough to scald bare flesh, and the young Leftenant just four months past graduation from the small Numenor Academy of Military Sciences made sure that he didn’t grab it; he just swiveled it out of the way and looked at the green foliage in the distance once again. One of the less prestigious schools in the Federated Suns, it had been the only one which had accepted Henry as a MechWarrior candidate—after all, his family wasn’t rich, nor had they been MechWarriors.
Despite that, he had graduated seventeenth in his class and won his spurs . . . and was then promptly assigned to the Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers where he had been told that they didn’t need another MechWarrior and didn’t have a ‘Mech for him if they did. No, those slots (and ‘Mechs) went to graduates from the Warrior’s Hall on New Syrtis—and Henry Barksdale found himself reassigned to the RCT Cavalry-Scout Recon Battalion. To the Packrat scout vehicles of the CSR Battalion, Henry sighed to himself over the injustice of it all.
Sure, he was still an officer—still a platoon leader—but instead of a ‘Mech lance, he had four Packrats, the eleven NCOs and enlisted men who manned the vehicles, and a short platoon of twenty-four recon infantry . . . a six-man squad in each vehicle, divided into three two-man recon/scout/sniper teams.
“Fuck it,” Henry said in an exhausted voice. “Corporal Alexander,” he called out to the driver. “You think you can navigate us a way down into that ravine? Or should we dismount the infantry?”
“Hell, yes, LT,” came the answer. “There’s a slope about half a klick back that we can descend no problem.”
“Okay,” Henry answered and he keyed his helmet microphone. “Easy Three One to Easy Three Two,” he broadcast.
“Go ahead, Three One,” the veteran gunnery sergeant who served as his executive officer answered.
“Converge on my vehicle—we are going to laager for the night down in the ravine. There might be water down there and we’ve got shelter from the wind.”
“Permission to speak freely, Three One?”
“Go ahead,” Henry replied after checking to make certain he was on the private frequency between him and the gunny.
“Not a good idea, Sir. That ravine is tight—if the Taurians manage to ambush us in there . . . ,” his voice trailed off.
“Understood—but we need water and we are fifteen kilometers ahead of the combat formations. And it is going to get cold out here as soon as that sun dips below the horizon—very cold.” He sighed. “And half my boys seem to left their cold weather clothing back on the DropShips.”
Henry heard an answering sigh from the far end. “Understood—and I’ve ripped Alvarez a new asshole for doing the same. Moron is going to freeze his balls off tonight if we don’t break out the survival blankets for him.”
“Tell you what, Gunny, Alvarez can walk perimeter on two watches to keep warm, along with my band of idiots.”
A chuckle came over the radio at that. “Like the way you think, LT. Be there in five.”
“Roger that; Three One out,” Henry answered and he switched the radio back to the vehicle net. “Get us rolling, Alexander—Larson,” he ordered the senior of the recon infantry, “I want the entire ravine swept for surprises once we get down there.”
“On it, boss,” the recon grunt answered, just as the eight-wheeled Packrat began to accelerate towards the ravine’s distant entrance.
----
Previous Chapter - Return to Story Index - Next Chapter
Category:By the Horns Chapters