BtH54

==Chapter 54 - By the Horns==
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TDF Field Headquarters
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 21st, 3025
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“What the hell are we waiting for?” spat Erwin Tyrell—Baron Tyrell—one of the leading Taurian nobles resident on New Vallis. “The FedRats have landed on our soil—now is the time to drive them into their own graves!”
“This threat is no mere bandit raid, Baron Tyrell,” replied Edward. “The Sixth Fusiliers boasts a level of training and experience—actual combat experience—that is unmatched by any formation in the Defense Force . . . excepting Rafael’s soldiers of the Red Hand, of course.”
“Of course,” Rafael Montoya answered with a grim smile. “And may I continue in your stead, my Lord Calderon?”
“Certainly.”
The veteran Brigadier who had come forward in time with battle-hardened troops under his command sighed. “Lord Calderon is quite correct—these are crack troops we are facing on terrain of their choice. A terrain which makes it difficult to use our artillery and air reserves to their fullest extent due to the sheer amount of hard cover that the Wastes provides. A terrain which further will require that we engage in small numbers, each unit isolated from the other; the same applies to our opponent, of course. But unlike our opponent, our forces—as valiant and eager as they may be—most of our forces lack the . . . elan, for want of a better word, to press home the attack in the face of such skilled defenders in this terrain.”
“Bullshit,” sputtered Tyrell. “You aren’t attacking because that boy,” he said pointing to Edward, “appointed to this post because of nepotism—not quality!—doesn’t want to kill any more of his new Davion friends than he has to! Are you a traitor, Edward—or just a gutless coward?”
Rafael began to step forward, his hand reaching for the combat knife in his belt—but Ardan Sortek grabbed his arm and held the furious Taurian back.
“ENOUGH!” bellowed Corey Calderon as the old man stood. “THIS IS STILL MY COMMAND! It was I who appointed Edward Calderon as my second,” his voice dropping from a bellow to a growl as he spoke. “Baron Erwin Tyrell, you will offer apology for those words—or by God’s Hairy Balls, Sir, I will meet you myself on the field of honor and take from you your worthless life!” Corey snarled.
Silence hung over the command center for a moment, and Erwin Tyrell blinked. The Old Man was dead serious—and win or lose, engaging a TDF Corps Marshal in a duel on the eve of battle would see him standing before the Concordat Courts. He lowered his head. “I apologize, Lord Calderon, for my choice of words—you are neither a traitor nor a coward. But I will not apologize for my desire to send these Davion dogs a’running!”
“I accept your apology, Baron Tyrell,” Edward said softly, and Corey nodded before he sat once again. “And I apologize for not having explained to you my reasoning—adequately.”
Edward walked around the conference table and he paused as he looked over the map of the Tabernas Waste, the Salina Diablo, and the Glitterstream River that fed into Lake Ashton from the mountains to the north, cutting a long, deep, crooked canyon into the plateau before it plunged into the waters adjacent to Port Sheridan.
“How would you describe the Tabernas Waste, Lord Tyrell?” he asked.
“It’s a desert wasteland, Lord Calderon,” the noble answered with a snort. “Rocky and barren.”
“And hot?” Edward asked.
“It’s an arid desert, my Lord. Yes, the Wastes are quite hot.”
“Indeed they are, Lord Tyrell—I believe that during this time of the year, the average day-time temperature reaches 48-degrees Centigrade, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And at night it plunges to nearly freezing?”
“Yes—we know this, Lord Calderon.”
“And there is an overall lack of surface water in the Wastes—am I correct?”
“Yes,” the confused Baron answered slowly.
“How much water does a man require—a soldier under combat conditions require—to function each and every day in the wastes?” Edward asked.
Erwin Tyrell blinked and then he began to inhale, his eyes gleaming as he slowly nodded.
Edward continued, “In the conditions of the Wastes, a single trooper requires four gallons of drinking water each and every day, Baron Tyrell. That is straight from the Defense Force Desert Operations Manual, mind you. Four gallons. Per man. Per day. Michael has a little less than ten thousand men under his command . . . that is forty thousand gallons of potable water every single day. In excess of one hundred and fifty tons of water every single day. Water that has to be transported from the DropShips to his troops in the field over an ever-increasing distance. Ardan, how much water does an RCT normally deploy with?"
"Around a thousand tons, give or take," the Davion officer replied. "we—THEY—do have equipment to purify local sources of water, I must add."
Edward nodded and he smiled. "But the wastes lack any significant sources of surface water. And, by and large, the water table is on average forty meters beneath the surface. Lord Tyrell, we are not wasting time or acting the part of cowards by not forcing the Sixth to engage us in battle . . . we are depleting their resources so that when we do engage them, they will perform beneath their expected capabilities. And at the same time, we will be skirmishing with them—with infantry, scout vehicles, recon ‘Mechs, intermittent artillery and air strikes. We will bleed them and make them sweat—force them to consume their water at an even greater rate. Does that answer your question?"
“I think that it does—and I withdraw my objections,” Erwin answered and he stared at the map. “They will make for the Glitterstream—it’s the only source of fresh water sufficient for their needs.”
“Exactly. And it for that reason that I have placed Wylie’s Coyotes, the Jaegers, and the Second Hyades Light Infantry—supported by a dozen regiments of local armor and infantry—in a blocking position between the Sixth and the river. Colonel Jamesen has dug in deep—field fortifications from which our troops can hold even against a force as skilled as the Sixth Fusiliers.”
“That leaves just Port Sheridan—or Lake Ashton, but he has to come close to the city to approach the lake.” Erwin mused.
“Hence the rest of our forces being deployed here—between him and the lake,” Edward answered. “But you were right in one respect, Lord Tyrell—I don’t want to kill any more of these Davions—or former Davions—than I have to. We are civilized human beings, gentlemen and ladies—not animals. We kill because we have to, never because we WANT to. If I have to kill every last soldier in the Sixth . . . I will. But I hope—I pray—that they break and decide to surrender; because the Lord knows I don’t want to have to watch ten thousand legs jerk as they fall through that trap-door of the gallows.” Edward paused. “And I believe, Lord Tyrell, that neither do you—not in your heart of hearts. I will defend the Concordat to the best of my ability—but I will not kill when I do not absolutely have to. If that is treason, Lord Tyrell; if that is cowardice . . . then I am guilty of both.”
“No,” whispered Erwin in the shocked quiet room. “Few men would have the courage to say that, even in private, Lord Calderon. Even fewer in public—and I can respect that. So you aren’t going to hang any we capture?”
Edward winced. “I’m sure we will have to hang a few—their leaders anyway. The ones that are pushing them. But,” he said as he stared at the map, “we’ve already had reports of a number of deserters attempting to make their way north to the coordinates I gave them,” Edward paused. “I want them watched—they might not be after surrendering; they could be retribution from Michael against those that ‘betrayed’ him. But if they don’t start the shooting, neither are we. If they manage to cross two hundred kilometers of the Wastes, we’ll accept their surrender along with theDropShips and personnel who diverted during the landing. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” a chorus of voices answered.
“Then let’s get down to the brass tacks,” Edward said. “Lord Tyrell—I want to send your combined arms regiment down south, to guard their flank against a break for the Misty Vale.”
“Three hundred kilometers,” Erwin whistled. “Their ‘Mech forces might make it—their infantry, armor, and support elements won’t.”
“I agree—it’s a long-shot, but we have to guard against that possibility. Plus, with your regiment on their flank, when the time comes to close the jaws on the Sixth—if the time comes—you will be in position to sever their supply lines to their grounded DropShips.”
“I can do that,” Erwin whispered. “My retainers are all TDF veterans—we can do this.”
“I know that you can, Erwin,” Edward answered—and he extended the Taurian noble his hand. Erwin Tyrell took it and the two men shook.
“Okay. Okay. We can do this,” the noble muttered.
“The Red Hand and the Foxhounds, being our heaviest units, will form the central reserve of our forces . . . deployed here,” Edward said pointing to the map. “Meanwhile . . .,” and he continued with the detailed briefing for his officers and staff as Corey and Ardan both nodded their approval to the lad.
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