As Briggs fired, so did the Keen Steel troops. Tracers crossed in the air, but Briggs, Fell, and the troopers in the back were protected by layered alloy armor and ballistic glass while their opponents had leaves, tree branches, and armored vests to fend off heavy machine gun rounds. As bullets thunked off the side of Nasty 96, 11mm rounds shredded half of those in the trees into gore.
“Opfor infantry, right side,” Fell called to the trailing vehicles as 96’s treads crushed those downed in the road. From behind, the booming rattle of Track-89’s machine gun joined the noise.
As a left curve came into view ahead, so did the thermal image of a soldier with a weapon on the top of his right shoulder. “AT! Dead ahead,” Fell screamed.
Tracers from Briggs’ weapon hit the tree line at the same moment a rocket blasted toward them. The track’s forward bolters fired, guided by motion sensors, their crackling sound something Briggs had never heard before. To him it appeared the anti-tank round was coming straight at him, but an instant later the projectile passed just overhead, the propellant smoke blotting out sight for a moment.
Fell threw 96 into the curve and glanced at the thermal display. Grimacing at what he saw, he yelled, “AT! Both sides of the road!” as the deep tones of alarms sounded in the crew compartment. “They have a designator lock on us.”
“Lock on Nine-Six!” blared a warning from Track-89. “AT with designator!”
Before Briggs could fire, three missiles burst from the trees, two from the left, one right. He mashed the trigger as the bolters fired, the air in front of the track full of potential death: missiles, energy beams, and bullets all seeking a target.
One missile fell victim to bolter fire and exploded in a dirty red blast. Another bolter hit turned a second missile into a cloud of debris that spattered the speeding track with a dull clatter while the third warhead passed just to the right of Nasty 96. A pair of inert forms fell from the greenery to the left, the empty launcher tube falling from one while the other still grasped a designator device in her hands.
Briggs rotated right and fired again and once more a missile streaked from the trees, but this one went far above the hull and two more Keen Steel mercs tumbled dead onto the dirt road. Rotating the turret to hose down the area where the last missile came from, Briggs brought the gun back to the front as they rolled over the bodies.
Tensing for more, the greener rested his thumbs on the trigger ready for further action, but other than an anxious moment when they encountered a convoy of trucks carrying Savon Light Infantry troopers, there was none and before long the three tracks rolled into the Red Light Company’s position.
“Niner-Six, Rat-One,” came over the com as the three vehicles slowed. “Next time we’ll just stay at home, okay? You sure as hell didn’t need us in the lead. You could have left something for the rest of us.”
“You can have every damned bit of the action from here on out as far as I’m concerned,” Fell replied testily. “This is no country for tracks.”
“You have that right. Those AT troopers explain why the mortar track didn’t drop anything on us. Kudos to your gunner.”
In the brief time since they left the area where the vertibird had attacked, the admin, support, and intel troopers had been busy. In addition to a pair of rapidly erected shelters that were already up, more were under construction inside the tree line near the road. Placed in the open were several defensive stations, their sensors and bolters ready to fend off mortar shells that were sure to come their way. Locating the command post, Fell parked Nasty 96 under foliage and dropped the ramp.
“Well, you picked a helluva ride for your first go at track gunner,” Fell said to Briggs. “Saved our hide, kiddo. Climb outta there and come with me. We track chiefs have to report in and you need to see admin.”
The elation of surviving his first exposure to combat waned at Fell’s order. Briggs glumly made sure the machine gun’s selector was placed on safe before descending from the turret. Calls of thanks from the grunts in the troop bay didn’t make him feel any better as thoughts of being medevaced occupied his mind.
Fell helped his new gunner to the command post even though Briggs was now walking much better than earlier. They found Hawkwood busy speaking on a handset. Waving at Senior Sergeant Brown, the motor section head soon joined the three track chiefs and the demolitions team leader.
“You done good,” Brownie said.
“Keen Steel has troops over the river,” Fell replied. “Recon and AT troopers.”
“They must have been put in by the vertibird,” Rat-1’s chief said. “We had their ground vehicles beat by minutes. Fell’s track chewed the hell out of them.”
“I’ll tell Hawkwood about it when he’s free,” Brown said. “Those troopers will be Savon’s problem before long. They’re moving into the area as we speak. All of you be ready to rock. Things are happening and dice are rolling.”
As Fell’s fellow track chiefs turned to leave, Brownie pointed at him and said, “I almost forgot. Forrester wanted to know how Private Briggs was holding up.”
Fell pointed a thumb at Briggs. “Here in the flesh. I want this guy officially transferred to Niner-Six. Even if it’s just for this little fracas. I need an assigned gunner and he’ll do.”
Surprised, Briggs breathed a sigh of relief but said nothing.
Brownie yelled across the CP to Captain Carol Frisco, personnel section chief.
After Brown explained Fell’s request, she didn’t appear happy after scanning the personnel files on her data device. “I’m not all that thrilled pulling Briggs from infantry. They’ll squawk about it,” she said. “They always do.”
“The kid already took a hit. He’ll be out of the fight if you keep him in infantry,” Fell argued. “I need a gunner. It fits. Hell’s bells, he’s already proven he’s up to it. Not a hope in all of creation we might have got through that trip back here, Carol. Not a hope but that bloody Briggs and that chopper on top of Nasty Niner-Six. They had us locked with three missiles and twixt Briggs and the bolters, they stopped them. I’ll keep him if it’s all the same to you.”
“He’s infantry, Sergeant Fell.”
“I beg to differ, ma’am. He’s a track-gunner that was mistakenly trained as an infantryman. With a bum leg he’s a casualty, not a grunt. As a track-gunner he’s a gunner with a limp.”
Confirming Briggs was tagged as a casualty to be replaced, the captain sighed and looked at Brownie. “It’s your call. He’ll be moved into one of your sections.”
Nodding, Brownie looked to the greener. “What do you say, Briggs?”
“Until my leg is back in shape, I sure can’t pound ground. If it keeps me in the fight, I’ll stick with Sergeant Fell’s crew for awhile if it’s all right with you.”
Brownie smiled. “You are the crew, kid.”
“I don’t know much about tracks but riding in them and getting blown up in one. As long as Sergeant Fell keeps me on the gun, I’ll stay.”
“That’s exactly where you’ll be,” Fell said. “Keep the gun in running order and spout off about trajectories and sights all you want while I take care of the track. A clear division of labor.”
“Put him in motor section for now,” Brownie said. “I’ll square it with Hawkwood or Holden. One less loss to the company and it spares us a grunt or motor section trooper for other duties.”
Frisco shrugged and sighed. “I’ll process it, but if the infantry side pitches a fit, I’m sending them to you, Fell.”
“Let’em come,” the sergeant replied with a dismissive shrug. Tapping Briggs on the shoulder he continued. “C’mon, we’ll be rolling somewhere soon enough.”
Despite the pain in his leg, Briggs limped happily alongside Sergeant Fell toward the exit.
. . .
Senior Sergeant Forrester’s platoon prepared to board tracks. With troopers from the replacement pool making up a team to be placed in 3rd squad and part of a team from 3rd moved to Sergeant Hooton’s 1st squad, there w
ere adjustments still to be made. The new team in Hooton’s squad was led by Corporal Hank Bastrop, a soldier Hooton knew well and respected. Deciding to shuffle personnel, Lee Brennan became Hank’s shadow, a situation Bastrop found irritating, but given the incident with the vertibird and the losses the squad had suffered, he was savvy enough to understand the reasoning for the move. Having worked with Hooton before, he took it in stride and was happy to do so again.
“Brennan,” Hank said when he saw the greener. “One of Holden’s recommendations at the hiring hall. Sorry to hear about your friends.”
“I guess we seven weren’t quite so lucky, but it’s nice of you to say. I’m dealing with it.”
Hank nodded. “Mourn when you can, but keep your head in the now. We’re going where the shooting’s serious and a pack of mercs just like us want us dead. Let’s see to it they’re disappointed.”
“It’ll be nice to punch back.”
“That’s the spirit. Life kicked you in the teeth when you lost your pals, but I hear you did fine. Don’t dwell on shit you can’t control and just do what you were trained to do. When in doubt, stay close to me and shoot where I shoot. I run the team and also carry a machine gun. There are times I may have you spot for me, but mostly I just need you to do your job and watch my back.” Noting Brennan’s rifle, he nodded. “You carry a precision rifle. That’s good. That means you can shoot. All you need do is apply it in combat. Like I said, stay close and do what you were trained to do, got me?”
“Got it, corporal.”
“Don’t be shy about calling me Hank or Bastrop. We’re team and we shadow each other, got me?”
“Got you, Hank.”
“You already know our other teamies, Perkins and Curtis. I heard there was some bad blood between them and some of your classmates.”
“It’s past. The real trouble behind all that is incarcerated on Novar.”
“Good. Perk is the team gunner. Curt is awful good with rifle grenades so he can fire our share of the damned things. With your rifle we have a pretty potent group, so plan on our team getting pointed at trouble because of our firepower.” Gesturing at Privates Curtis and Perkins, Hank said, “There’s the rest of the team. I need to talk to Hoot so I’ll join you soon enough.”
“We know you lost some pals. Sorry it had to happen so soon,” Perkins said as Brennan joined them. “I mean, it’s gonna happen but I don’t think there’s any way to be ready for it.”
“You’re right, you won’t be ready for it,” Brennan replied. “Thanks.”
“We’re team, Brennan. We’re going where it’s hot and Hank’s a good trooper. We’ll do fine.” Pointing at the broad form of Curtis, he smiled. “Just stay behind the big guy there. I told him we’re going to use him as a mobile wall.”
Brennan laughed. “A grenade launching wall I hear.”
“Hank says I’m good at it,” Curtis said with a smile. “It’s bullshit. I just handle the recoil better because of my size. I think he carries a chopper just so he doesn’t have to fire rifle grenades.”
“Such a cynical questioning of my leadership and motives?” Hank said jovially as he joined his team. “Half of being a decent rifle grenade shooter is handling the recoil and for the record, I hate firing them. We’re going to have one of Posey’s engineers with us. He needs to look at the river once we get in position and we’re his security. Check your gear gents, we’re moving pronto.”
A few minutes later, the call came from Senior Sergeant Forrester. “Pack it and track it. We’re going where the shooting is,” he yelled.
Originally functioning as a support vehicle, Track-70 was quickly turned armored personnel carrier with the removal of storage inserts and the addition of a short section of seats in the middle of the troop bay just behind the blast curtain. With fold down seats on the sidewalls locked and ready, Hooton’s squad had transport once again.
As Brennan climbed aboard Seven-zero with his new team, he hoped this trip would fare better than the last, a sentiment the squad’s machine gunner shared.
“I guess we’re going to find out if the greener was the missile magnet or not,” he said with a glare at Brennan. “Might get the rest of us this time if he was.”
“Keep up the chatter McIntyre and you’ll find your face is a fist magnet,” Curt returned with a glare of his own. “He’s had a—”
“Pipe down or there’ll be asses meeting my boot,” Sergeant Hooton said. “Stay mean, but direct it at Keen Steel.”
“Where’re we headed, Sarge?” Perk asked as the track lurched into motion.
“South,” Hooton said. “We’re going to un-ass our war-wagon on the backside of the ridge and patrol west. Keen Steel will be trying to get infantry across the river and we’re going to stop them if they do it in our area.”
“West? Any help coming from those Carmag bastards?” another trooper asked.
“Count on it. I know their CO. We’ll coordinate with them once we’re out there. Coms are already crapped. Our mortars are saturating the south side of the river with interdictor shells and they’re doing the same to our side. Don’t count on anything but field phones, hand signals, and voice for communication.”
“You were on the track that got punched out?” the engineer corporal asked of Brennan.
“I was,” Lee said.
“You the guy that carried an intel specialist off before the thing burned down?”
“I did.”
The engineer nodded. “Thought I recognized you. She’s a pal of mine. They said she’ll be okay. You have my thanks, Brennan. I’m McCall.”
The three tracks carrying Forrester’s platoon rolled hard and fast. With more than just interdictor rounds falling from the sky, the track crews looked to drop off their troopers and find a cool spot on the increasingly hot battlefield.
The rear ramp on Track-70 dropped and Sergeant Hooton led the way off. Heading west for the thick woods, the troopers could see the ground was peppered with tiny dark pellets that once filled interdictor shells.
Each pellet was a thorn in the side of some kind of sensor, scanner, detector, or communications band. With even basic waved wireless communications turned worthless, the fog of war became denser and the need for disciplined and versatile troops became even more necessary for victory. Not always present on Jubilee’s battlefields but frequently used, interdictors rendered most forms of enhanced detection or sensing useless and were an effective way to take battle to its base form where innate senses and skills played the major role rather than technology. Termed ‘tech negating tech’ by mercenaries, it was a goal of the creators of the Accords to force most battles to be contests between humans rather than computers or machines. The crucible of war bred various paths—philosophies followed by mercenaries—and the Red Light Company had long felt combat at the basic level favored them.
Mortar shells popped high above as the platoon moved into the woods, sending more interdictors falling somewhere on the battlefield. The whump of explosive rounds landing out of sight but not far away signaled that things more lethal than just pellets were falling from the sky.
The platoon ran past a mortar track parked near the tree line. Having just shifted position to avoid counter-battery fire, the mortar team had the armored roll-top open and prepared to send shells south. Exercising the age-old soldier’s right to complain, the grunts learned the mortar crew were still grousing about using the 84mm weapons.
“Don’t get me wrong now,” one of them said. “The eighty-four’s a fine weapon, but the one-two-five is what we need here. The one-two-five can kill the hell out of an APC or even a light tank, a hit from an eighty-four will just make those tread-heads angry.”
“Not to mention the eighty-four’s more vulnerable to bolter fire,” another griped.
Bastrop shook his head and snorted as the platoon slowed at the edge of the brush. “Fucking shell-droppers. At least they have a ridge to prevent direct fire and an armored hull to keep the flak from punching holes in t
hem. They can pack up and be gone while we’re busting brush trying to figure out where our track ended up.”
“Why did the arbiters limit the size of the mortars?” Perkins asked as the troopers formed up.
“Range and destructive power is my guess,” Hank replied. “Our eighty-fours can hit a target six klicks away, easy. Put one dead center in our playground and they could still hit something two or three klicks outside the red zone. A one-twenty-five has more range and a hell of a lot more boom. There’s probably civilian population or infrastructure in range of bigger stuff. Same reason they limited the size of main gun tubes on tanks and tracks.”
A veteran team leader from third squad named Musky laughed quietly. “Civilized warfare, kid. Rules of the game. We mercs take it in the teeth so the rest of Jubilee’s citizens can thrive without fear of fusion devices or rods from the gods ruining the party. We’re paid savages, licensed murderers so long as we ply our trade in the red zone. The privileged underclass.”
Hank laughed. “Corporal Musky’s a philosopher. Not a speck of eloquence but a philosopher despite his brutish looks. He was my team leader when I first started with the unit and he spouted the same wisdom then. It happens when you’ve soldiered for a couple of decades.”
Musky glared at Bastrop before cracking a crooked grin. “I’d like to see what you become when you get where I am, Hank. That wit of yours? That gift of gab? You’ll have all the greeners sitting at your feet seeking your wisdom. Before that happens, we need to get through this little affair.”
Senior Sergeant Forrester waved a hand and all conversations ceased as the platoon began their move into the trees. With a trooper named Bridges at the point, they formed a long and loose column to move through the heavy undergrowth. While the abundant foliage made it difficult to move quietly, the surface below them did not. The moist loose leaf cover on the ground created little noise when disturbed and the soft soil beneath it was even less an issue. At one point the platoon stopped while Bridges scouted forward by himself where the brush became even thicker.
Free Company- Red Zone Page 16