The Forlorn Hope by David Drake

straightening abruptly. The eyes of the gun crew and the troopers who had been in the medical station were on him. “They’re going to kill you, trade your lives for an easy deal themselves. Lichtenstein and the rest.”
    Churchie Dwyer whistled a snatch of tune under his breath, but no one interrupted.
    â€œYou’ve got outposts north and south on the ridges?” the Federal officer asked.
    â€œNorth only,” said ben Mehdi. “We’ve loaned your people the gear on the other side.”
    â€œCall them in, back here,” Waldstejn said. “Like the gun, good, but you’ll have to leave it because—”
    â€œWho the hell are you to give orders?” demanded Sergeant Jensen.
    â€œLook,” Albrecht Waldstejn pleaded, “I won’t have the bastards kill you. For God’s sake, take my word for it till Guido gets back. I can maybe find you a way out, but we’ve got to move! ’
    Lieutenant ben Mehdi touched his commo key. “Black One,” he called in a voice even tenser than usual under the circumstances, “this is Red Two. Bring in the Listening Post at once. Disable the gear, just bring them in.”
    â€œSarge,” called one of the gun crewmen. Two more figures were stumbling across the clear area between the Complex and the bunkers surrounding its perimeter.
    Waldstejn stiffened. His goggles were not as efficient as the mercenaries’ visors. “There were some guards,” he began, “but I don’t think they’d— oh! ” The two short figures in Federal cammies could be only Quade and Hodicky, the damned fools. “They’re mine,” Waldstejn said, “it’s all right.”
    The Privates approached the group around their lieutenant. They were in better shape than the run had left Waldstejn. The Cecach officer ignored them. He said to Jensen and ben Mehdi, “You’ve got a path through the mines besides the one along the pylons to the west, right?” The mercenaries nodded. “Right,” continued Lieutenant Waldstejn. “You can create a diversion around the trucks—”
    All the mercenaries stiffened as their helmets popped on the command channel. There were no words over the radio. The night suddenly flashed and crackled with gunfire in front of the battalion headquarters. Troopers spun up the electronic magnification of their gunsights and strained to see why half a dozen assault rifles had fired.
    Del Hoybrin had been watching Headquarters even before the shooting. He flipped his face shield up and out of the way to keep it from interfering with his cheek-weld on his gun stock.
    â€œDel!” Churchie shouted beside him.
    The open door of the building five hundred meters away was a perfect aiming point. Hoybrin fired a three-round burst. His big body rocked back. Leaning into the weapon, he fired again. The yellow rectangle of light down-range smeared ragged as poured concrete shattered under the impact of the osmium missiles. One of the Federal riflemen began spraying the night in nervous flickers. His chances of hitting anything at the range were next to nothing.
    Del Hoybrin fired a third burst before Dwyer wrestled up the muzzle of the gun. None of the other mercenaries had tried to interfere. They had gone flat on their bellies, watching the big man with a caution born of experience. “Del!” Churchie screamed, “don’t shoot now!”
    Albrecht Waldstejn and his men had dropped to the ground a moment after the mercenaries had done so. “God help us,” the Cecach officer said to ben Mehdi. “Let’s get to your Operations Center and try to sort this out fast.”
    â€œBut Churchie,” Del Hoybrin was saying in surprise. “I was watching them. They just killed the Colonel.”
    *   *   *
    â€œThe lights!” shouted Captain Brionca. “Turn out the lights!”
    Strojnowski might have been