Free Company- Red Zone

by D K Williamson

  “What are you grumping about now, Sarge?” a woman’s voice said over the vehicle intercom.

  “Did I leave the intercom open, Bev?” Fell replied irritably.

  “No. I can hear you from up here just fine,” the woman said. “Hell, the grunts in back probably can too.”

  Private, 1st Class Beverly Stein occupied the turret situated just behind and above the driver and co-driver seats. Aft of the turret was the troop bay where Sergeant Knight’s 1st Squad and an attached heavy machine gun team sat.

  Fell reached to his right and tapped Bev’s shin with the back of his hand. “The trees and the sky, that’s what you should be concentrating on. Not eavesdropping on me. I talk to myself because I don’t have a co-driver and we’re in a bad place right now. There are times when a track that tips the scales north of fifty tonnes might as well be made of tissue paper. Being walled in by trees is one of those. It’s worse than urban combat. The trees might have eyes, Bev… eyes looking through the sights on anti-tank missile launchers. The skies got eyes too.”

  “Only if Keen Steel’s vertibird decides to come out and—”

  “Opposing force vertibird, eleven o’clock, one-fifty meters high!” a tense voice shouted over the company com channel. “I repeat, armed opfor flyer at one-five-zero.”

  Fell looked at one of the screens on his control panel and saw the call came from Track-85, Hobo, the lead war-wagon in the convoy trailing Rat-2.

  “This is Hussar-Three. Vertibird behind us! Recon element halt and engage,” sent the lead recon car.

  The channel quickly became unreadable as dozens of voices crowded the airwaves while Fell cursed at the fact no one gave a bearing or location other than altitude as he punched the control to drop the armor panels over the front ballistic transparencies. Knowing Rat-1 was behind 96, Fell was sure the heavily armed track would be engaging as soon as possible and wishing to be clear of the blast the 90mm main gun would generate and the attention it might draw if they missed, he steered left off the road toward the tree line as other vehicles left the road as well.

  Bev fired a long burst as the vehicle slewed off the road, her tracers dancing across the sky nowhere near the vertibird because of the track’s hard movements. From the rear came the deep ripping sound of the quad 11mm heavy machine guns on Rat-1.

  Fell brought Nasty to a halt beside the trees. Even though he knew the bolter defense system was up and active, he looked at the panel to confirm it anyway.

  Blocked by the trees to the left, the vertibird soon came into sight again. Pursued by lines of tracers, the aircraft slid hard across the sky to stay ahead of the trailing rounds. From pods mounted high on the sides, the flash of propellant and the smoke of exhaust signalled trouble.

  “Missiles, missiles, missiles!” Bev shouted.

  The deep, flat, beeping tone of a lock-on alarm sounded in the crew compartment and Fell gritted his teeth. “This is no country for tracks,” he growled as the bolters on the right side of the hull crackled and Bev let loose a long burst from the machine gun.

  . . .

  The troopers aboard Track-82 knew something was happening when the vehicle slewed to the left before coming to an abrupt halt. With machine guns pounding outside and in the turret atop 82, Sergeant Hooton stood from his seat near the rear ramp and looked forward as he reached for the intercom panel. Before his hand touched the switch, the rear ramp dropped with a thud as alarms in the crew compartment and troop bay sounded. The track chief’s tense and unintelligible voice blared from the speaker. Not far away Hooton saw Track-96 sitting next to the tree line, machine gun spitting rounds while its bolters sizzled the air.

  “Missile lock-on! Bail, bail!” 82’s track chief yelled.

  Hooton managed a, “Follow me, we—” before a sharp and deafening sound and shock wave rocked Track-82. Sent rolling down the ramp, Hooton knew they’d been hit, the smoke billowing from the troop bay clear evidence of that. As Hoot tried to regain his feet, a loud bang came from Track-96 behind him.

  . . .

  The hit on Track-82 made Sergeant Fell and his gunner grimace. The sudden impact on the right side of Fell’s track made everyone aboard flinch.

  Hearing no alarms and seeing no sign of damage on his instruments, Fell was sure it meant the bolters had done their job and neutered the missile before it struck. Seeing troops scrambling from the already burning 82, Fell knew how close his own track came to sharing the same fate.

  Looking at the vid display that showed the troop bay, he saw tense and scared faces but no sign of damage or injuries.

  “The bird’s gone, headed for the deck,” Bev shouted.

  “Was it hit?” Fell asked.

  “Didn’t look like it.”

  “Stay alert. It might make another try, Bev.”

  “The pilot’d have to be stupid to risk it. They’ve got to be headed for home.”

  “Stupid? Bet on it. Stupid is a requirement for flyers.”

  “What track got tagged?” Bev asked.

  “Eight-Two,” Fell said. “Carrying part of Forrester’s platoon.”

  “That’s my pal Nate’s track,” Bev said in a distressed voice.

  “Stay focused. That vertibird has something left.”

  Bev looked at the smoldering Track-82 and snarled before scanning the skyline through the sights on her machine gun.

  . . .

  Fran Smith and Jim Briggs dragged Paulino’s limp form from Track-82’s troop bay. Still coughing from smoke and fumes inhaled before getting his filtration mask on and with his precision rifle slung on his back, Brennan followed carrying a wounded and moaning field intelligence trooper in his arms.

  Directing two members of the squad into the troop bay as the greeners exited, Sergeant Hooton followed them in.

  “Grab as much gear as you can,” he yelled through his filtration mask. “This thing will burn itself down before too long. The fire suppression system didn’t trigger. Ammo first, rucks second, and the rest after that. Move it.”

  Moving well clear of the dead track, Smith and Briggs stopped in the mowed grass on the other side of the road near a pair of medics who were checking two others who had been wounded in the attack.

  A cry went up just before the thunder of weapons fire erupted again. Rising from behind the trees was the vertibird, spitting automatic fire of its own.

  Briggs bent to grab ‘Lino, but was pushed away roughly just before a jagged line of rounds tore the ground around him. He tumbled, landing roughly on his machine gun just before a sharp pain lanced its way through his left calf muscle. Grimacing in pain, he sought once again to drag his friend to cover, but stopped when he saw Fran Smith draped over a bullet-ridden Carl Paulino, her lifeless eyes staring at him.

  . . .

  A burst from Bev’s machine gun cut off Fell’s warning about the vertibird’s reappearance before he could utter a sound. The response from the Red Light was swift and lethal as several heavy machine guns and dozens of small arms replied, but it was the booming report of Rat-1’s 90mm main gun that sealed the aircraft’s fate. Loaded in anticipation of dealing with infantry, the hefty and numerous projectiles of a grapeshot round had little trouble perforating the thin armor of the vertibird.

  With a dead pilot and two of three ducted lifter fans destroyed by the shot, the aircraft spun and fell from the sky shedding parts along the way as the remaining fan howled at maximum revolutions. Disappearing behind the leaves and needles of the forest, the racket of cracking wood and disintegrating machine sounded the end of the threat.

  Shifting his eyes from the still falling parts of the vertibird to the scramble around Track-82, Fell grimaced. Stupid flyboys thought they could get in another punch. Fuck’em.

  Quickly scrambling out of the turret and onto the co-driver’s seat, Bev said, “I gotta check on Nate,” before she opened the hatch, leapt from the track covers, and ran toward the burning 82.

  Fell grimaced again knowing she was tight with 82’s co-driver and
there was little he could have done to keep her from going even if he wanted to.

  Hitting the intercom to the troop bay, Fell said, “The vertibird is dead. I’m backing up to get clear of a damaged track. Tree line is just to our left. I’ll drop the ramp when I stop.”

  . . .

  “Check them first,” Briggs grunted painfully while gesturing at Smith and Paulino as the medic knelt next to him.

  “They’re past help,” the medic said flatly. “Heavy machine gun rounds tend to do that and frag vests aren’t much good at stopping them. We should’ve put the wounded under cover or… curse it. I can’t bring back the dead, kid, but I can get you patched up. Let me work.”

  Briggs leaned back and saw Lee Brennan standing nearby looking at him. The expression on his face said he also knew they’d lost two friends and Briggs wondered if his own expression matched Lee’s.

  “Leg?” Brennan asked.

  “Yeah,” Briggs replied. Breathing a sigh as something the medico did knocked down the pain in his leg, he said, “You hit?”

  “No. I stopped when I saw Fran push you and the medic. I guess she saved four of us,” he said with a gesture at the intel trooper he’d carried from the track. “The rounds crossed right where we would have been.”

  “Look, greeners,” the medic said wearily as he stood. “You lost a pal. It happens in this business and it might be for the best it happened sooner rather than later. Focus on the job.” Pointing at Brennan’s bandaged leg he said, “Your wound is clean. The round went in and out without hitting bone or taking a lot of tissue with it. Next time check your med panel, it would have saved you some pain if you’d pulled the tab it recommended. I put a nano-patch on it and it’ll speed the healing. When the display on the patch goes from green to yellow the docs in the hospital will see to it. Medevac ought to be here soon enough. That patch’ll knock the pain down pretty quick. Good luck to you.”

  The medic made four or five steps before he stopped and turned to face the two greeners.

  “What was her name?” he said with a gesture at the young woman that gave her life for his.

  “Fran Smith,” Brennan said

  The medic grimaced and nodded, but said nothing before he walked away.

  Briggs sat up and saw another medic working on the soldier Brennan had carried from the track. Her leg wound appeared to be burns.

  With a pained expression locking his face, Sergeant Hooton approached. “Let’s get you two clear of this,” he said. Pointing at Briggs, he and Brennan helped the wounded trooper to his feet.

  “I’ll carry Briggsy’s machine gun,” Brennan said.

  “There’s a local forces ambulance en route,” Hooton said as they made their way to the east.

  “What about Fran and ‘Lino, Sarge?” Brennan asked.

  “They’ll be taken care of soon enough. It’s not something you want to do yourselves… trust me. There are provisions for this,” he said in a tired voice.

  The three made their way to a temporary platoon position and they joined the other surviving members of Hooton’s squad. Even the seasoned troopers looked off-kilter at what happened.

  “Rest here, Briggs,” Hooton said. “The meat wagon will be here soon.”

  . . .

  “I never figured you for dumb,” Sergeant Fell said with a glare. “Sharp-tongued and stubborn, yes, but not dumb.”

  Bev grimaced in pain before glaring back at the sergeant while a medic placed white pads over her palms. “What can I say? I screwed up, Sarge. I saw a helmet inside the hatch and…. I know, I know, a burning vehicle and armor alloy make for an oven and me without any pot holders. Nate’s a pal.”

  Fell nodded, angry at the situation, not his gunner. “We all have our moments. And how is Nate?”

  “Right as rain. Eight-Two’s track chief took some flak and he dragged him out. Not a scratch or a dent on Nate though.”

  Fell already knew the answer, but he asked the medic anyway. “Is she serviceable?”

  “Not for anything that requires hands. Give it ten or twelve days and she’ll be fine. There’s an ambulance that ought to be here by now. She’ll be on it.”

  “Hey, Sarge?” Bev said. “How’d you know the vertibird was going to attack?”

  “Know? I didn’t. I assumed it would. Assume the worst will happen and plan accordingly, that’s my philosophy. You’d be surprised how many times you’ll need those plans.”

  “I need to get her to the ambulance, sergeant,” the medic said with a point to the east.

  Fell growled as he looked over the immediate vicinity. “I need a gunner.”

  . . .

  Commander Jack Hawkwood looked at the information that crowded the screens on his command station aboard Red-6, the command and control track.

  The first of many wrinkles in the fight had just emerged and he had to adjust and do so swiftly. With one of the squads headed for the eastern bridge now down a track and multiple troopers, he began scanning the roster for a replacement. Outside, order was being restored.

  “Commander Hawkwood,” called Corporal Nancy Yonke, Red-6’s com specialist. “Commander, Keen Steel is hailing via treaty channel.”

  Hawkwood looked toward Nancy with distaste. “Put her through.”

  A moment later, Nancy said, “On your handset, commander.”

  With Holden and Winger standing near, Hawkwood sneered and picked up the handset while toggling the control to allow the two to listen in.

  “Hawkwood here,” he sent.

  “Commander Kristine Gifford here. First off, let me congratulate you on your first command.”

  “I assume you contacted me for a reason other than chit-chat.”

  “I did, though my salute was genuine. I feel for you considering the poor position you’re in, but I guess the first round goes to you, Jack. A vertibird for a track? That’s a good trade for you. I’ll offer you an even better deal. Surrender and we’ll take just fifty percent of our victor’s due. You get paid and keep your company intact. Otherwise… we’ll roll over you. You know the other free companies with you won’t go nose-to-nose with us. That leaves the Red Light effectively alone. Fearsome reputation aside, one company against us? Do the smart thing, commander.”

  Hawkwood glared at the handset in his grip before bringing it to his ear again. “I’ll consider it. Give me some time to scrape up the wounded and talk it over with my staff?” he sent.

  “Sure, Jack. Just don’t take all day.”

  “You’ll hear from us soon. I promise.”

  “Fine. Comply and we’ll both make out okay. I’ll stay on treaty channel.”

  Jack looked to Corporal Yonke on the comset. “Tell me you have a bearing.”

  “I do, sir.” Tapping her display she said, “On your board, commander. Overlay on the map shows likely location.”

  “She’s coming up the middle,” Holden said looking over Hawkwood’s shoulder.

  “She calls eight of my troopers wounded or killed a good trade for four of hers? No. We’re going to cut her unit’s legs off at the knees and bleed them dry.” Looking at Top Sergeant Holden he said, “You have any suggestions?”

  Holden nodded. “We stick to the plan, but we need to roll and do it fast because she’s doing that very thing as we speak. Take out the middle bridge and chew their infantry down if they can get it across and hope we keep the heavy armor on the other side. Nothing has changed. They’ll try to throw a bridge across or make a ford somewhere as soon as they can.”

  “Terry’s right. The situation is the same. Gifford’s stealing time, that’s all,” Winger said. “You know they’re pushing to keep the bridges intact.”

  Nodding Hawkwood pointed out of the open rear hatch. “Winger, get a unit rolling to take down the eastern bridge. Terry and I will cover the center.” Looking to Yonke he said, “Confirm Sergeant Mitchell’s force in still en route to their objective.”

  “Already done, sir. They are.”

  Without saying a word,
Winger departed at the run.

  “Terry, take what you need and get to the center bridge first. Bring it down as planned.”

  “On it, sir.”

  “Corporal Yonke, get Gifford on the horn.”

  . . .

  Just seconds after exiting the command track, Senior Sergeant Winger spotted the trooper he was looking for, Sergeant William Knight.

  “Bill, change of plans,” he called as he ran toward the platoon leader. “Take two squads and Rat-One to the eastern bridge. The demo team is on the RAT already. This needs doing soonest.”

  Knight nodded. “Niner-Six, Niner-Two, warm’em up,” he bellowed. “First and third squads mount up.”

  Sergeant Fell cursed when he heard the call. Still seeking a gunner, he ran toward Nasty 96.

  . . .

  Top Sergeant Holden rode in Rat-2 along with Captain Posey and part of his demolition team. The center bridge was far more substantial than the other two crossings, well able to support heavy armor and far more difficult to bring down.

  Holden felt Rat-2 slow just before the intercom buzzed.

  “Coming up on the crest of the ridge, Top. Looks like we should be able to have the crossing in view from a hull down position,” the track chief Warrant Officer John Lodge said from his place in the right side of the turret. “The tracks are in echelon formation in case we find trouble.”

  Rat-2 moved to the crest, the three tracks a short distance behind on its right side.

  “We got recon cars,” the chief said as Rat-2 rocked to a halt. “Six of’em on our side of the river. Warning, AT teams, AT on the ground. Six hundred meters. Engaging.”

  The quad 11mm machine guns fired a storm of bullets for a few seconds before the 90mm barked. The sound of return fire tapped on the armored hull as the machine guns on the track chattered again.

  “Missiles!” Lodge yelled. “I repeat, missile launches. Stay put. The bolters will deal with’em at this range.”

  The crackle of bolters firing was soon drowned out by another loud thump of the 90mm.

  “Four cars down, Top,” the track chief’s voice said over the intercom. “The other two are headed for the tree line on the other side. Do we close on the bridge?”