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damn big that we wouldn't have seen something."
"Right. Get me Jesus Alana."
"Alana here."
"Jesus, we've been snookered."
"Yes, sir, I'm following it."
"Got anything for me?"
"First cut analysis: your upper limit's blown away. The satellite hasn't been
reporting properly, and we must ignore all its data. The conclusion is that we
do not know what we're facing."
"How truly good," Owensford said. "What else?"
"They're trying for a giant Cannae."
"Hell, we knew that."
"Yes, sir, but they have more in place than you thought. We have been
thoroughly deceived from the beginning. The satellite data were not merely
incomplete, they were corrupted."
"How?"
"Someone is spending money like water," Alana said. "They have imported gear
that we cannot afford, and people who can use it."
"People who didn't come off a BuReloc transport, that's for sure. OK, we have
rich enemies off-planet.
What do I do this morning? What's vulnerable?"
"The force to the south is not well organized," Alana said. "And they cannot
be reliably in communication with their headquarters."
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"Not in communication. But they're moving. So they're following a plan."
"Probably."
"OK. A giant Cannae, and they think it's working. I want to think about that.
You flog hell out of the data and report when you have something. Out."
After the battle he'd have to send a report to Falkenberg. And a letter to
Jerry Lefkowitz. But just now there were other things to worry about.
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"Andy."
"Sir?"
"They want us to move into the jaws. We want them to think we're doing it.
Have all the units out there keep up coded chatter, lots of message traffic."
He typed furiously. "OPERATION RATFINK, VARIATION THREE. GET YOUR STAFF PEOPLE
WORKING ON THAT."
* * *
"Senior Group Leader, we have confirmation, they're talking a lot," the
headquarters comm sergeant said.
"Acknowledged." Niles grinned, and turned to the company commander. "Right on
schedule. The
Brotherhood troopers will be coming down there," Niles said quietly, pointing
west and to his right as his left hand traced the line on the map. "Get as far
upslope as you can, dig in, and hold them. You're going to be heavily
outnumbered. Hold while you can, then pull out; but every minute counts."
"They'll have to come to us," the Company Leader said. "Can do, sir."
"Good man. Go to it."
That's G Company gone, the Englishman thought, as they headed into the trees.
A stiff price, but worth it. They had gambled heavily on Skilly's plan. Niles
had argued that it was too complicated, and was ordered to stop being
negative.
But it's working. It really is.
He had to trot to catch up with his headquarters squad; nobody was stopping
now. The three remaining companies of Icepick were moving at better than a
fast walk, through the thick snow-laded brush of the swale between the two
Royalist forces; you could do that, with a little advance preparation of the
ground and a great deal of training. Already past the skirmish at the
minefield; he could hear the crackle of small-arms fire half a kilometer away
to his left.
God, I hope the rocket batteries are still up. Enough of them, at least; the
Royalist counterbattery fire had been better than expected. At least they
seemed to have run out of whatever they'd used to support the
SAS teams, those horribly accurate rockets. . . .
Violet spheres of light floated across the sky. Six lines of three on the main
First RSI position. Another six on the Brotherhood battalion to his right,
that ought to give them something to think about. Six more on the unit off on
the enemy's western flank. They'll be out in the open. Should be taking heavy
casualties, that will help George company. Then the crump of mortars and the
rattle of small arms; the better part of four companies of Helots putting in
their attack on the flanking unit right on the heels of the bombardment One
hour thirty minutes to the satellite, he thought.
Group Icepick was nearly silent as it moved, only the crunch of feet through
the snow and the hiss of the sleds. There were ten of those, each pulled by
half a platoon, bending into their rope harnesses. The loads were covered by
white sheeting that bid the lumpiness of mortars and heavy machine guns,
recoilless rifles, boxes and crates. The men trotting silently through the
forest undergrowth in platoon columns were heavily burdened as well, with
loads of ammunition and rifle grenades, spare barrels and extra belts for the
machine guns, light one-shot rockets in their fiberglass tubes, loops of det
cord. They
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no confusion, only a hard intent concentration.
Well, Skilly was right, he thought; training to the point just short of
foundering them was the only way.
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