PART III
SPIRITUS MUNDI
Chapter 49: Charge of the Light Brigade
Cadet Isoroku Asakawa of the Lunar Naval Academy, Class of 2545, stifled a yawn as he and the other cadets gathered around the holotank. The classroom was designed like an amphitheater, the preferred layout for military academies from the inner to the outer colonies, the surrounding décor the usual sterile and cold military grey.
"Late night studying son?" a voice behind him asked. Asakawa turned to see Lieutenant Commander Jacob Keyes staring back at him, his eyebrow raised in paternal concern.
"Uh, no sir," Asakawa replied meekly.
Keyes nodded. "Well, try to stay awake for the rest of the class. Handing out demerits is not my particularly favorite thing to do."
"Yes sir," Asakawa said. I was easier said than done. He had only gotten a handful of hours of sleep last night, sneaking back into his barracks room at 0'dark thirty. It had been worth it though, the woman he had been out to see making the risk of being caught outside after taps acceptable. Then again, if Lieutenant Commander Keyes had known who he had gone to see demerits might be the last thing Asakawa had to worry about.
Asakawa jockeyed for position around the holotank, and ended up being smooshed uncomfortably between two larger cadets. At a little over six feet Asakawa was not exactly short, but he was one of the more skinny members of his class. His mother had always attributed it to his high metabolism, but Asakawa suspected that it had more to do with his avoidance of any and all meat, fish included, and since the standard Academy diet was not particularly well suited for vegetarians he had consequently dropped several pounds of weight.
Asakawa blinked his eyes heavily as a three dimensional diagram floated above the holotank. He blinked again in confusion as the diagram appeared to take the shape of a bull. Alright, that was interesting.
"The year is 1879," Jacob Keyes began, taking his place at the head of the holotank. "The place is Isandlwana, South Africa. The Zulu nation is one of the greatest empires the African continent has ever seen. Through the military genius of their founding father, Shaka Zulu, the Zulus rose to power from a tribe consisting of only a few hundred people, and became a great nation state strong enough to fight on equal terms with any European power."
Keyes tapped a few buttons, and the bull came apart, separating into three sections. "The strength of the Zulus comes from their military. If the Spartans were the greatest heavy infantry the world has ever seen than the Zulus are the best light infantry the world has ever seen. Your average Zulu soldier has been training for war since he could walk, the entire Zulu culture specifically designed, much like the Spartans, to breed warriors from birth. A Zulu warrior could run, Run, fifty miles in a single day in the South African heat and fight a battle at the end of it. Another source of their military strength are their tactics."
Keyes pointed, in turn, to each section of the hologram. "The head of the bull. The main Zulu fighting force. They would attack the enemy headlong in a frontal assault, drawing them in and even feigning retreat in order to trick their adversaries into pursuing them. Once the enemy was engaged with the head, the horns would move in, moving around to the left and right flank and encircling the enemy. Last, but perhaps most important, are the loins. Critical reserves. They would remain in the rear of the Zulu line, often hidden behind hills and made to sit with their backs to the battle so that none would be tempted to join until the proper signal was given."
More buttons were tapped, and the diagram was replaced by the African Savannah and low rolling hills. In the middle was a British camp, white tents lined up in neat rows, camp fires burning, soldiers milling about without care or worry. Asakawa noticed with some alarm that the British column had failed to put up any fortifications.
Keyes continued. "In December of 1878 the British presented an ultimatum to the Zulu Empire. They demanded that the Zulu's surrender unconditionally, that their military be disbanded, and that the Zulu's warrior culture be completely dismantled. The Zulu's…could not comply with the demands. For them the death of their culture was death. They were born Zulu, and they would die Zulu."
Asakawa began to hear a strange sound, and the miniature holographic British soldiers heard it as well. It was like the sound of a slow moving train, or like the sound of distant thunder. Like torrential rain pounding down on a concrete sidewalk. It took a few seconds for Asakawa to realize that he was hearing the sound of tens of thousands of soldiers moving in unison.
"In January of 1879 the British force of one-thousand men invaded Zulu territory. For over three and a half centuries, ever since Hernan Cortez invaded Mexico, no native force lacking gunpowder weapons has been able to defeat a European army with gunpowder weapons. None until now."
The Zulu Imperial Army, twenty-thousand men armed only with raw hide shields and short spears, swarmed over the hillside like a hive of driver ants. Their battle cries were deafening, their speed more like cavalry than infantry, their resolve absolute.
The British were caught in a panic, and men scrambled for their rifles. Man of them were only half dressed, one sergeant running into formation with half his face shaved and only one boot on. Still, the British soldiers were well disciplined. They formed a thin red line of flesh and steel, loaded their rifles, and took aim at the charging Zulus. Rather than firing immediately they waited. Waited until the Zulu horde drew in close. Waited until they were so close that they could feel the war cries rumble the air like rolling thunder, and their feet shake the ground. They waited until the Zulus were less than a football field away, and then they fired.
A scythe of lead and death cut through the Zulu line, and it looked as if the entire native army had just hit a brick wall. Their bodies began to stack like cord wood, the sheer number of dead and wounded making it difficult for the warriors behind to advance, turning what had been a cavalry charge into a slow crawl. The British kept up their fire. It was methodical, steady, and constant, a slow wave of grey gun smoke rising up into the air like an ominous storm cloud. Lighting cracked through the storm as the British fired their cannons, exploding shells and grape shot ripping the Zulus to pieces.
It was then that the Asakawa realized the futility of the situation. Despite their overwhelming numbers, bravery and tenacity, the Zulus were simply no match for superior technology combined with stalwart British discipline. A few lines from Tennyson's old poem crept into his mind.
Cannon to the left of them
Cannon to the right of them
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well
Into the jaws of Death
Into the mouth of Hell
But then, the Zulus would have known this. Would have already been familiar with what an army equipped with rifles was capable of. Would have known full well than any frontal assault was doomed to failure. More importantly, the average Zulu soldier would have known this. Would have known that such an act was suicide. Would have realized that whether or not their army won or lost, their fate was already sealed. They had known, and they had charged anyway.
Their sacrifice was soon vindicated as the horns of the Zulu army were set into motion. Moving on the left and right they swept over the hillsides, right into the blind spot of the British line, and they turned inward.
Too late the British realized what was going on. They hastily fixed bayonets, but by then the twin columns had already collided with their flanks. The British fought valiantly. With steel and rifle fire they lunged at their enemy. Fighting with a desperation that only a cornered animal knows. But with the attack on the flanks the head was able to close in. The frontal assault collided with the British line, and Asakawa knew that it was all over. The British were surrounded on three sides, men firing their rifles until their bullets ran dry, and then thrusting with their bayonets. The resistance was fierce, but ultimately futile. In one last desperate and heroic effort a few hundred British troops managed to break free of the Zulu encirclement. They rushed towards the river, fighting as they went, the exhausted enemy trailing in their wake.
That was when the ultimate brilliance, and horror, of Zulu strategy unfolded. Behind the rolling hills, their backs turned so that they could not see the battle, five thousand of the Zulu reserve unit, the loins, rose up as one.
They were fresh, eager, and unrelenting.
Like a brigade of cavalry the loins charged into what remained of the British regiment. They cut off their retreat, chasing them into the shallow river, and the water foamed red with blood.
The British were at the end of their fighting strength. Many of them threw up their hands in surrender, but the Zulus cut them down all the same. Within a few moments not a single British soldier that had invaded Zulu territory was left alive.
Asakawa felt a twang of guilt. Up until now he had been rooting for the Zulus. They were the underdogs after all, but the final act had changed what had been black and white into many shades of grey. The average British soldier was not an oppressor, nor was he a conqueror. He was just a person, one who likely had never heard of the Zulus and only had a vague, foreign image of Africa until he had a rifle thrusted into his hands and was packed onto a ship headed south. It was not his fault, just as it was not his fault that his commanders had led him to a trap. Asakawa wondered if the Zulus knew this, and if they did he wondered if they cared.
Keyes turned off the hologram, and the entire class looked up at him expectantly. "The Zulus were able to do what few armies in history have been able to accomplish. The complete and total annihilation of a technologically superior force." Keyes paused as he saw Asakawa's face which was filled with doubt and uncertainty. "Something bothering you Cadet?"
Asakawa looked up, momentarily startled. "No sir," he instinctively said, but after a few moments of thought he added, "Well, the Zulus were able to win, but the cost…" he let the sentence hang. Keyes nodded in understanding.
"The cost of victory was incredibly high. For every British soldier that was killed three Zulu warriors also perished. There is a reason I showed you this battle. The casualty ration of Isandlwana is almost exactly the same as the casualty ratio that they UNSC faces while fighting the Covenant in naval battles." This fact gave the rest of the cadets reason to pause. Their eyes became down cast, their moods becoming just as contemplative as Asakawa's.
"Make no mistake," Keyes continued. "In this Human Covenant War we are the Zulu. We are the primitive culture fighting aback against a technologically superior foe. The difference is that instead of fighting for the survival of our culture, we are instead fighting for the very survival of our species. We are fighting against extinction." Keyes drew a long slow breath. "There is a line I use every semester, though I think few of my students take it to heart, but if we are going to win this war then all of you must take it to heart."
"To be a good soldier you must love the Navy, but to be a good commander you must be willing to order the death of the thing you love." He looked each of the cadets in the yes. "And there is the great trap. When you go into battle you must hold nothing back. You must commit yourself totally. As an officer you will love your men. You must love them more than you love yourself, but if you wish to be great officers then the question is this."
He looked straight into Asakawa's eyes. "Can you sacrifice them to complete your mission? Can you watch them die?"
…
Commander Isoroku Asakawa of the United Nations Space Command stood with his arms behind his back on the bridge of the Thucydides. He had been daydreaming. There was little else he could do besides daydream, the past several hours of the battle having been passed in tense silence, broken up only by the occasional report from the front lines. Reflexively he looked at his monitors, the Thucydides' sister frigates, Herodotus and Plutarch, floating a kilometer above Alesia's surface. Right where he had left them.
The Plutarch was a last minute addition to what Romanov called his Light Brigade. Usually the Frigates rested safely inside Infinity's belly, Romanov deploying them at crucial moments in any given battle, utilizing their superior speed and maneuverability to harass and outflank an enemy. The Plutarch, however, had been severely damaged in an engagement just prior to the discovery of Alesia, wounded by one of the orbital defense platforms guarding the Unggoy home world of Balaho. It had been repaired just in time to participate in the battle.
Or rather, not participate at all, Asakawa thought with a slight twang of bitterness. He turned his attention to the thing he and the rest of the frigates were supposed to be defending. The massive Forerunner access tunnel leading to the heart of Alesia large enough to fit even the bulkiest of Covenant Cruisers. Their mission was to prevent Jul Mdama from sallying forth from the dark recesses of the planet and linking up with the last of the Covenant fleet, less the Master Chief should fail in his mission.
But Mdama had not come, and there had been no word from the Master Chief, and now a battle that had started out as a textbook ambush was now turning into a desperate struggle for survival.
And all he could do was sit here and watch.
Was that why he had thought of Keyes? Was this Isandlwana all over again?
Asakawa could feel the eyes of his junior officers on him. He knew that they wanted him to do something, but he had his orders.
No, what was that one quote from Sun Tzu? A general must know that there are some orders with must not be obeyed.
An ensign at communications leaned back in his chair, headphones hanging from one ear, brown framed glasses cling onto his freckled face. "Sir, we're getting reports of space/time distortions off the bow of Infinity. She's preparing to jump."
A murmur ran through the bridge crew, and Asakawa could understand why. He forced his face to remain as emotionless as possible. "Bring up the respective camera feeds," he said calmly. "And broadcast them to the Herodotus and Plutarch."
There was an "Aye sire," and in a few moments the feed was up, a comm. link established between the two other frigates. He saw the faces of Lieutenant Commanders Susan Delgado and Robert Smith appear on the right side monitor. He nodded at them both curtly. "Are you two seeing what I'm seeing?"
"You can set your watch and warrant on it," Delgado said. She was the youngest senior officer in the Battle Group, with pale white skin, fair features, and dark curly blonde hair that flowed slightly longer than regulation length. Asakawa felt the painful pull of memory when he realized that Susan was the same age as Miranda Keyes when she died. "What the hell does he think he's doing?" Susan asked.
Commander Asakawa allowed himself to look at the feed. It was not the best quality, the footage being shot from the nose of a Broadsword as it was being harassed by Covenant seraphs. The pilot ducked and dodged, fired his main gun, and an enemy fighter burst into flames. The Broadsword pilot managed to straighten out, and for a few short moments Asakawa could see an image of Infinity far off in the distance slowly slipping into a slipspace portal.
"He's leaving us," Lieutenant Commander Smith said with alarm. Another murmur ran through the bridge, and Asakawa frowned disapprovingly.
Romanov Doesn't run," Susan said, thought even in her voice there was a hint of doubt.
"Then what the hell is he doing?" Smith asked.
"I don't know," Susan said, her doubt increasing.
"I think I know," Asakawa said firmly. "I've seen it once before."
"Where?" Smith asked.
"Reach," Asakawa said simply. The junior officers behind him shifted nervously, as if their commander was about to have a flashback right then and there. Asakawa ignored them. "Romanov isn't retreating, he's charging."
It all suddenly became clear to him. Everything happened for a reason. Everything determined by fate. Asakawa was a firm believer in this. There was a reason why he had been thinking of his old teacher. Reach had been the last time he had ever spoken to Keyes. Reach, where he had witnessed a Spartan give his life in order to destroy a Covenant super carrier. He also remembered what had happened next. How the entire Covenant Armada had appeared right when victory was assured.
Fate was a circle. An unending wheel which always turned, and now Asakawa was sure that the wheel had come full circle. More Covenant were coming, and the Light Brigade was the only ones who could stop them, even if such a charge was suicide. They were still the Zulu, and more importantly they were the loins. The critical reserve.
"Navigation," Asakawa barked. "Plot me a course. I want you to send us into the thickest part of the fighting. Comms let the word out. We're going into combat. I want all teams prepped and ready."
There was a moment's hesitation then a series of "Yes, sirs."
Asakawa glanced at Susan and Smith. "I won't ask you two to come with me."
Susan seemed incredulous. "Sir, I don't know about you but I already got my ship moving five minutes ago."
Asakawa glanced out the front view port, and sure enough the Herodotus came streaming by. In his mind's eyes Asakawa imagined Susan giving him a wave as she flew past. He was unable to suppress a smile.
"God damnit," Smith muttered. "She'll get herself killed if I let her go alone. Give us a minute sir. Plutarch is on her way."
"Thank you," Asakawa said. Despite the banter he was sure they were all going to their deaths. So be it. If the Zulus were capable of such bravery, then so could they.
"Engineering, I want you to give everything you got into the engines."
"Yes sir," came the quick response.
Asakawa felt the rumble of Thucydides' engines, and took a moment to steady himself as inertia grabbed hold of him.
"Half a league, half a league, half a league onward," Asakawa muttered as they drew in close to the roar of battle, the brute fleet still unaware of their impending approach. "All in the Valley of Death rode the six hundred."
The three frigates closed ranks, MAC guns charging and Archer missile pods at the ready.
"Forward, the Light Brigade."
The frigates roared through Alesia's skies faster than any other ship in the battle. There was a bump as they past he speed of sound, a devastating sonic boom following in their wake. Even if the brutes did see them they had no time to react, the frigates pointing long sharp bayonets into their unprotected flanks. Stabbing like a Zulu spear. Like the horns of a bull.
Asakawa bellowed his order.
"Fire the guns!"
…
Infinity jerked as it entered back into real space, and the full brilliance, and madness, of Romanov's plan came into full view.
They had exited outside the planet. The emptiness of space behind them, Alesia's opening in front. The entrance to Alesia burned brightly, and already the gravity well took hold of the ship. Infinity groaned as it started its decent back into the planet, and the bridge crew quickly strapped into their seats.
"I would just like to remind you," Durendel said as his holographic form scribbled madly on a piece of parchment paper, dark curling words forming out of the mouth of his oversized and flamboyant quill pen. "That this is a warship, not an HEV."
"Noted," Romanov said, his stomach going into his throat as Infinity picked up speed, bright orange flame surrounding the massive ship.
Marcus began laughing. An uncontrollable giggle that was so unbefitting his friend that Romanov had to wander if the blood rushing to his head was causing him to have auditory hallucinations. Marcus leaned over and shouted over the roar of Infinity's reentry into Romanov's ear.
"Face first into hell!"
What an ungodly stupid joke. Romanov laughed as well. Why the hell not? They were all going to die anyway.
"Christ in heaven," Durendel bemoaned, his scribbling becoming more frantic as they entered Alesia's stratosphere. "I'm going to die surrounded by a bunch of cackling morons."
"What are you writing anyway?" Marcus shouted.
"A goodbye note to Joyeuse."
"Put in a good word for me," Romanov said.
"A good word? I'm telling her that you two are the ones that killed me."
"In that case she might thank us," Marcus said, and Romanov felt another wave of laughter hit him. If he had known dying would feel this good he would have tried it a long time ago. Right now death seemed like a wonderful adventure.
