Burning Eagle

by Navin Weeraratne

  Shields frowned. “Third Company? You’re sure?”

  “Pitcairn and Rios. I went drinking with them in Villablanca after Dinsmore’s kid was born.”

  “I saw no reports about a blue-on-blue in Third Company.”

  “Well, that’s what they told me.”

  “Alright, let me go sort this out. Do what you can here, I’ll have the robotic weapon squad come up here and reinforce you till further notice.”

  “Thanks El Tee,” he offered Shields a beedi. “Smoke?”

  “That local stuff is the real deal. It’ll kill you, Aziz.”

  “So will the Rangers, Sir.”

  Captain Ian Bagshaw, 2nd Company, watched frowning by the side of the road. The aerospace-white fighters nosed-up on final approach. Lowered wheels tapped once, twice, and then screeched on the tarmac. They braked in formation smartly, all twelve of them. Orange jumpsuits wearing earmuffs ran up, grey, weapons-laden auto-gurneys following them. Canopies slid open and green flight suits climbed down. One pilot put on a pair of sunglasses.

  Douchebag, Bagshaw shook his head.

  “Sir?” from behind him. He turned around.

  “At ease, Shields. What is it?”

  “Sir, Second platoon just doesn’t have what we need to properly secure the access road. We need more help from the engineers, and we have no heavy weapons. If you can spare us just two heavy lasers; AT guns; and Sixties, we can get by.”

  A khaki armored staff car drove up and stopped in front of them.

  “Want to take a ride?” he opened the front passenger’s door.

  “Where are we heading Sir?”

  “Battalion Command. Colonel Baumgartner is having a staff meeting.”

  “I don’t think I understand, Captain.”

  “It’s not me who won’t give you what you need,” he strapped in. “It’s Colonel Baumgartner. Our weapons platoons have been split and the rest redeployed. Nano-mortars; drones; even the One-Fifty-Fives. It’s not just us though, the other captains have been complaining as well. The Colonel thinks we need to meet.”

  “Well, why not meet virtually through Battlefield Control?”

  “Because Battlefield Control seems precisely the problem.”

  Dawn broke over the city, bathing its temples and canals in borrowed gold.

  North were the docks, they received the river in a bay of wooden jetties and tar-roofed warehouses. 3rd Company was dug in there with a platoon of Teletroopers – American, remote controlled, mecha. They were puppeteered by cheery men sitting in an air-conditioned bunker. They drank cold energy drinks and practiced zero-casualty warfare.

  Just beyond the docks was the Rice District. Sun-browned coolies in shorts with bright teeth hauled in sackloads day and night. A planet’s worth of pilgrims needed feeding; the zealous are not known for logistics. The Rice District was 6th Company’s beat. Cautious troops swept the street with laser sights, trundling Cherokees following.

  In the dust-blurred distance were silver towers, their tips lit with controlled blazes. War spared the refinery: oil was the one shared value between races. Founded by a tycoon who died a slave, its miserable workers alone greeted Liberation. 4th Company guarded the refinery along with two Avenger smart-tank platoons. Morale among the tanks was high - they’d played each other at chess the whole war, and were up for something different.

  Three hills commanded over the city. On the smallest, a red metal tower was spider-webbed with antennae and dishes. Even a helmet comm could dial up to a satellite. However, the deep space array could message as far as the Kuiper Belt. It also housed an entanglement relay flown in from Shantung – a real-time link to the rest of human space. This was 7th’s cushy embed: an unlikely target for planet-focused insurgents.

  A glittering strand of diamond rose up from the second tallest hill. It cut through the clouds and pierced the sky, anchoring itself in space. The space elevator had only recently been unspooled over the spaceport. Below it landing pads and hangars clustered like day-laborers hoping for work. 2nd Company was here, guarding a fighter squadron and a pool of tilt-rotors.

  On the tallest hill was the Great Pyramid. It wasn’t really a pyramid and its flattened top was covered in a black, jungle, xeno-garden. Drop-troops are not pedantic with names though, and the label stuck.

  No one wanted to make assumptions about an alien religion’s largest planetary pilgrimage site. That said, the Great Pyramid was clearly an admin building. An HQ was needed and it was the only large structure the Xeno-faithful were indifferent to.

  The xeno-garden was bulldozed, and field artillery heli-dropped into place. A battery of 155mm howitzers became sovereigns out to 40 kilometers. Beneath them a support platoon ran a 3d printing center, complete with regeneration bays. Checking papers at barricades and manning HLG sandbag positions were 1st and 5th Company.

  It took a day for the smart parts to re-assemble the audience hall into a modern control center. The large, open windows became narrow, armored, slits. Shaded balconies became gun nests, crews sitting patiently with screen-lit faces. Banks of operators flicked between virtual screens live-feeding from helmet, drone, and satellites cams.

  “Everyone here? Good. We can begin.”

  Colonel Lance Baumgartner, Union Droptroopers, wasn’t new to war.

  His first combat drop was against the runaway Von Neumann machines of icy Tanneburg. The rogue replicators were turning helpless settlers into (better optimized) greenhouse gas emitters. Suppression squads had to be anywhere within twenty minutes, and that meant space-based paratroopers. It was dangerous but rewarding work and convinced him to go career.

  His second had been on the Kyushu Dyson Project against utopian rebels. A controversial deployment, the Union backed the Transcendent architect over its Nipponese citizen-engineers. Rampaging mecha with continent-cutters were a problem, but negotiators and tea ceremonies soon won the day.

  Kashi was his fourth drop. He looked around the table, young men and women in Droptrooper Khakis looked back. No one else had more than two drops experience. That’s fine he thought. This war was about to make a lot of veterans.

  “Alright, we’re all here about one thing – Equipment. No one has enough. Yes?”

  Nods around the table.

  “For what it’s worth, I’m not the Scrooge. Battlefield Control has ordered away most of our support to Zulu Eight – it’s a Forward Operating Base about thirty kilometers from here. More than half our support weapons have been flown out there, including all our nano-mortars. A lot of our general equipment is there as well; dronezookas, smart mines, and ammunition.”

  “Zulu Eight, Sir?” asked a captain. CHOSUKABE was printed over her shirt pocket. “Sorry, I’ve not heard about it.”

  “That’s because you shouldn’t know about it. It’s a shit-hole in the middle of nowhere. It protects nothing of strategic value. I can think of no reason for it to be lavished with all our gear and I have said so in no uncertain terms to General Wong.”

  “What did the Green Zone say to that?” a large, dark man with an ironic beard. HOVIK.

  “General Wong is concerned about the cities falling into insurgent hands, and wants to make sure our prime assets are away from civilian areas.”

  “Taking away our heavy equipment makes that more likely, not less,” said Bagshaw leaning forward. “And why this all of a sudden now? There is a battle plan in place. Why is everything being changed at the last minute? This tastes like bad strategy.”

  “That’s because it is bad strategy. It’s also not General Wong’s strategy - I met him in person in a meeting in the Green Zone recently. We talked about many things – including defending the cities. He’s done frontline combat before; he knows what we’re facing out here.”

  “Then why is he doing this?” asked Chosokabe.

  “I asked him just that. He insisted that priorities have changed with the incapacitation of Sun Tzu, and that we’re working off a plan for a ‘worst case’ scenario. I was not convin
ced, though he certainly seemed to be. It seemed quite the turnaround in thinking. When I met him in the Green Zone, he talked about the danger of reprisals against supporters if we withdrew from a city. I can’t understand why he’s so callous about that now.”

  “So, that’s it?” asked a dark haired man, POZETTA. “We’re not getting our support or supplies back?”

  “Orders came in this morning, the teletroopers; One-Fifty-Fives; Avenger tanks; and Sparrowhawk fighters are to leave as well. Tomorrow morning, 4th through 7th Companies are supposed to follow.”

  Disbelief.

  “Sir, that’s tantamount to abandoning the city,” said Bagshaw. “There’s no way we can hold it. We can barely police it. Even with everything we need, the best were looking at was holding the strategic points. Without the tanks, aircraft, and artillery, we can’t defend against a large attack. They could take us out a pocket at a time.”

  “These were my thoughts exactly,” Baumgartner pointed for emphasis, “which is why I’m refusing the order. Everything is staying. Bagshaw, I want you to take a couple of platoons and the heavy lifters and fly over to Zulu Eight in the morning. Come back with as many of our supplies as you can.”

  “Yes Sir,” the captain’s face was one big grin.

  “This will be a one-time operation, Wong is not going to be pleased. Bring back all our support weapons too – and anyone who would like to fight where it matters.”

  “And if anyone tries to stop us?”

  “Shoot them. We have an excellent grievance procedure and people should be more comfortable using it.”

  “Can you get away with this, Sir?” asked Hovik. “Disobeying orders?”

  “Not really, no. But unless someone can convince me of the strategic value of losing the holiest city on the planet, I intend to hold it.”

  There was assent around the table. Someone started clapping, and others joined in.

  “Is there anything else we need to go over?”

  “Some of my men are nervous about the dragonflies,” said Chosokabe. “There’s a rumor going around about them.”

  “Excuse me Captain,” Shields leant forward at the table, “My platoon may have had something to do with that. We have a pretty bad blue-on-blue yesterday.”

  Captain Chosokabe frowned.

  “Well, it’s not in the report, Lieutenant. Too much paperwork for you?”

  “Respectfully Captain, I don’t understand. I filed it late last night.”

  “He did,” nodded Bagshaw. “I saw his report.”

  “Well all I read about was my incident, and the one that happened to 6th Company.”

  “Captain, Battlefield Control’s report on the friendly fire doesn’t mention 6th Company, but it mention’s the incident with 3rd Company.”

  “Lieutenant, I think maybe you should read that report again more closely.”

  “No,” said Pozetta, “He’s right. We had a blue-on-blue at the docks. Dragonfly missed the target and shot up a foot-patrol. But I didn’t see anything about an incident with 6th or with 2nd.”

  “Screw all of you,” said Hovik. “I read about our incident in the Rice District, but I didn’t see anything about 3rd or 7th.”

  “Everyone,” Colonel Baumgartner held up his hand, “just stop for a second and check the friendly fire reports – don’t refresh it – just check the same file you downloaded this morning.”

  Silence: eyes darted back and forth across pages they alone could see.

  “It’s as I said,” said Chosukabe. “Only 6th and 7th.”

  “Only 2nd and 3rd,” said Bagshaw.

  “3rd and 7th,” Pozetta.

  “I have 6th and I have 2nd,” Hovik.

  “And my copy only mentions 2nd,” said Baumgartner. “Something is very wrong. Until further notice, don’t send any info or orders through Battlefield Control. Send it direct, or in person. Bagshaw, ground the Dragonflies. I’ll send some techs over immediately to take a look at them.”

  “Colonel?”

  “Go ahead, Lieutenant Shields.”

  “If we’re getting erratic performance from Battlefield Control, what if other people are too? We noticed it because we’re having an in-the-flesh staff meeting – something we almost never do. We’re a small, light, unit. The larger formations can’t begin to do this as quickly and effectively. If they’re having problems, they’ll lean more on Battlefield Control, not less.”

  Wheels turned.

  “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I’m going to talk to the General about this, right now. Everyone, unless someone has something further to add, this meeting is over.”

  The veteran of four wars and two centuries stopped for a moment.

  “Does anyone know how to send a message– without going through the Battlefield Control infrastructure?”

  “I think it’s called a phone, Sir,” said Chosokabe.

  “What the fuck is a phone?”

  Day Three

  “This is Commodore Cullins aboard the Planet Carrier Washington. I need to speak with General Wong.”

  “Go ahead Commodore. This is Wong.”

  “General, our recon shows large, isolated, buildups of friendly forces across the planet. Can you please confirm that we should expect to see this?”

  “The disposition of ground forces is my call, Commodore. Are you questioning my orders?”

  “I’m not questioning your orders General. I’m questioning if these are your orders. Many small towns have been abandoned altogether. This is at odds with both Battle Plan Seven for counter-insurgency, and Battle Plan Nine for Transcendent incapacitation.”

  “The deployments indeed follow a recent reevaluation. We have new data and I believe we can operate more effectively from outside the cities. Civilian casualties will be minimized and we can use heavier assets with impunity.”

  “Respectfully General, civilian casualties will be highest if the cities fall into the hands of insurgents.”

  “Respectfully Commodore, I won’t advise you about your responsibilities if you would return the favor. General Wong out.”

  “Colonel Baumgartner, are you disobeying a direct order?”

  “Yes General, I am.”

  “Then consider yourself relieved of command. You will report to Villablanca immediately, where you will be placed under restriction until further notice.”

  “I will do no such thing, General. The Planetfall Corps are a separate service, not Army or Aerospace Force. Fleet Admiral Haisley is the only person in the system who can order me relieved; I suggest you take the matter up with him.”

  “You will stand down Colonel, or I will have you court-martialed.”

  “That would be preferable to being shot Sir, which is what will happen to my men if I comply with these truly, stupid orders. Baumgartner out.”

  The black freighter fell screaming towards the city, its hull glowing red. Its weapon pods were extended, rail cannons and megajoule lasers. Anti-air weapons locked on aggressively, but held their fire. A flock of birds as white as their feces, erupted. They fled the Great Pyramid as the freighter landed rudely in their place. Engines whined down and ramps slammed the ground. Black, Special Forces, body armors poured out, guns at the ready. Shirtless, howitzer crews stopped their card games to turn and stare. A tall black man descended the freighter, two pistols clamped to his sides.

  “You,” he pointed at a skinny man seated on an ammo crate, sipping his morning tea. “Take me to your leader.”

  “You must be Jack Diamond.”

  1st Company’s 1st Platoon squared off with Koirala’s team. Laser sights formed a cat’s cradle of beams between guns, hearts, and heads. In the center, Diamond and Baumgartner regarded each other.

  “I must be?” the giant cocked his head. “We’ve been talking.”

  “No,” Baumgartner frowned, “No, I’m pretty sure we haven’t.”

  “For the thousandth time, I am now in command. I have here papers – printed papers! – from Commodore Cu
llins.”

  “Mister Diamond, I assure you this is the first time I’ve ever had the privilege of talking to you.”

  “Well who was I fighting with all morning? Your moron twin-brother?”

  “Did you talk to me through Battlefield Control?”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, you should have used a phone.”

  “What?”

  “I couldn’t get one either. What am I being relieved for?”

  “Who said anything about being relieved? I’m in command. There’s a difference. I’m here because I am – again – the only person in space who can hunt an alien super brain. I’m in charge, because that way I can have whatever resources my team and I need from you.”

  “Wait – you’re not here to relieve me?”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Diamond stepped forward and pushed past a pair of riflemen. “You see that?” he pointed out the window. “That’s why I’m here. Kashi, the holy city! Everything keeps coming back to this place, and I’m the only one who sees it. Now if you don’t mind, where can we set up? I have some very confused and worried scientists I want off my ship.”

  “This ship – it’s a pirate ship, right? I’ve heard about it. It’s not connected to any of the military networks, yes?”

  “Maaaybe. Why?”

  “Lieutenant Viegas, set coordinates for Villablanca. We’re paying a visit to the Green Zone.”

  “Yes Commodore. Shall I inform General Wong?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  The dark haired lieutenant froze for a moment and then looked back at Cullins.

  “That’s right Lieutenant.”

  “Yes Sir. Course laid in, ETA one hour, thirty-four minutes.”

  “Have the hanger deck prep my shuttle for launch. I’m going to be paying the General a personal visit.”