Enemy Front

by T. E. Butcher

  “Whatever it is, we need to find out,” Reiter said. “I’ve narrowed the potential locations down to about six sites.” As he spoke, he shone his light on the map. “These three aren’t far from each other, so if we get into serious trouble we can support each other.” He pointed to the north-east one. “White platoon and a section from Gold will investigate this one.” He pointed to the central one. “Blue and headquarters will investigate this one. The mortars will travel with us as soon as they get here from Bianowice, leaving the southwest one to black and another section from gold.”

  “Are fires going to be their own net or will they just hang on company?” Rudman asked.

  “Probably their own net,” Reiter said. “That’ll make it easier on Stovepipe, Steele, and Mo if you guys need to call medevacs.”

  “Supply situation?” Wesser asked.

  “Working on it,” Reiter replied. “Things have been slow out here, but we’ll make it work, now as far as the enemy situation goes, we’re up against MAGS, so even if their supply situation isn’t any better than ours, they’re still elite troops, with probably more than a few tubers.”

  “Tubers?” Major asked.

  “Artificial people,” Webb replied. “Grown in vats for a specific job or duty, genetically engineered.” The young officer blinked.

  “Wait, those are real?” he asked. Reiter nodded as images of Fletcher, Ballard, and Kennedy flashed in his mind.

  “We’ve encountered a few of them,” he said. “Some more friendly than others.” Major shook his head.

  “I can’t believe it. I honestly thought that was propaganda,” he said. Reiter clapped him on the back.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “When this thing is over, I’m sure you’ll meet plenty.”

  “Comrades of Bengal company,” Kennedy said as he stood in front of his Martian class panzerter. After his time in the Jupiter, it felt good to pilot the original machine he trained on. “This is a frontline inspection.” He grinned. “As in, you will join me on the frontline and I will inspect your combat abilities. Now you have all been briefed on the Vinnish supply convoy headed through our AO?”

  The Men and women before him nodded in the affirmative. As he looked over at them from his kneeling Martian, he smiled. Everything I read about this group was positive. Now I’ll get to see how good they are first hand. Spotting the company commander in the crowd, he pointed to the man.

  “Alright Comrade Fournier,” he said. “The company’s yours.” Fournier, a darker, shorter man with some salt in his peppery hair, nodded and came forward.

  “Comrades, we’ve been blessed to have comrade Colonel Kennedy join us today,” he said. “Do not let it distract you from your duty. We must seize as much of the enemy’s supplies as possible. To accomplish that, we must take out the guards quickly and effectively.” He knelt in the muddy soil and motioned for the platoon to bring it in. “The fire team will organize around Comrade Sergeant Gallant. After they’ve established suppression, the assault team will advance with me from this line.” The man drew a road in the dirt, followed by an “L,” where he wanted his people positioned. Textbook. He looked back at Kennedy. “Which group will you move with Comrade?”

  Kennedy looked over at the forces Fornier organized. “Your assault team seems a little light,” he said. “Of course. This is your operation. I’m merely inspecting. Just imagine, you’ve been assigned a strobe laser Martian, that’s all.”

  “What’s a strobe laser?” one of the soldiers asked. “I’ve heard the term thrown around, but it was never explained to me.” Fournier and Gallant looked annoyed, but Kennedy merely smiled and waved a hand.

  “Relax, an informed soldier is an armed one,” he said. “Functionally, it’s the same as a laser. Both emit concentrated beams of energy with high and low pulses.” He traced a wavelength in the air. “However, a strobe laser uses a shutter to block the low pulses from escaping, so only the high pulses escape, it looks like a laser turned into a machine gun.” He glanced at the pilot’s nametape. Orry, interesting.

  It didn’t take them long to reach the designated ambush spot once they mounted up and got moving. The curving paved road hugged the base of the foothills leading deeper into the mountains. Fournier chose a spot around one of the tighter turns for his fire support, so that the convoy wouldn’t see them until they’d already rounded the corner. Then his assault team would swing out from the opposite side of a different hill, cutting off any hope of escape. Even better, nothing about the spot stood out when viewed from a map because it was identical to at least several dozen different ambush spots.

  The Tharcians wouldn’t use that road at all. Kennedy’s mind raced as he strode through the misty foothills of the Tharcian highlands. They’d resupply by air, or use a trail, but they would never use such a vulnerable route. So are the Vinnish just naïve? Or are they pressed for time? Why would they be? He continued to ponder as his Martian took a knee at the edge of the assault formation.

  Before long, he could hear the roar of trucks rolling down the road and the march of panzerters. If the intel is right, their panzerters move in platoons of three. Highly trained pilots using advanced machines. Each individual is formidable, but harder to replace. Kennedy flashed a feral grin in his cockpit. All that training doesn’t mean as much when none of them have practically applied it.

  The thunder of a 105-mm machine gun told him the trap had been sprung. When the assault team swung around the hill, the last of the tree panzerters was making a break for it. Pulsing green light from his laser left angry scars on the drab Vinnish machine. But it didn’t fall.

  Rather, it returned fire with a volley of missile fire. A glimpse of a connection between a missile and its launcher sent a cold chill through the small of Kennedy’s back.

  “Those are giant-killers!” He cried. He swung his fire from the panzerter to the projectiles, struggling to shoot down the fast projectiles, or at least cut the wires. Two got through.

  A scream filled the net as one of the Martian Troopers on his left crashed to the ground in a shower of sparks and flame. A second crumbled under the secondary explosions of its ammo, cooking off.

  Kennedy poured laser fire into the Vinnish machine as Fournier added 90-mm shells to the mix from his assault rifle. Despite the barrage, the panzerter pressed on until a stream of shells from the machine gun caught it. Finally, the Vinn crumpled and lay still. Fournier sent the serving assault team members forward to secure the supplies while the fires team secured the perimeter.

  The two officers moved their machines so they could examine the fallen Vinnish panzerters. The olive drab machines seemed relatively plain at first. On a surface level, they looked like distant cousins to the Tharcian Panzerter IV. However, he noticed things like ablative armor plating and reactive armor blocks, things Tharcians normally didn’t use on their panzerters. Their heads also resembled a box more than a traditional head.

  “Well, these Vinnish machines are well made,” Fournier observed. “The only thing holding them back was inexperienced pilots.” Kennedy nodded in his own cockpit.

  “Agreed. Assuming they have any forces left in a few months, they will be a force to be reckoned with.” He looked back over the smoldering remains of the other Martians. “We’ll have to drag these back too. We need all the spare parts we can get.”

  “I sincerely appreciate your help,” Guard-Brigadier Chaney said. “Especially you Penny, your reading skills and attentiveness are commendable.” In his office, Commodore Mendez, Guard-Major Ballard, and Chaney himself all sat in front of a computer or tablet. Before each of them were different timelines for projects on spreadsheets. “Object 156-Impulse weapons.”

  In between all of them, Penny, Ballard’s adopted daughter of seven years old, sat among plies and piles of Chaney’s handwritten notes. While he’d been shamed for using paper notes before, it proved to be the only thing keeping his Research & Development department in order.

  “Let’s see, 156, 156, 156,
” Penny said. “You want the timeline or the other numbers?”

  “Just the timeline,” he said. The young girl flipped through a manilla folder full of sensitive information.

  “Phase 3 prototype testing, 5 May 2136,” she said. “Phase 1 production, 1 June 2136, initial fielding 20 June 2136, everything else involves the big numbers.” Chaney nodded as Mendez looked up from her own computer.

  “Object 2338, high-yield crop growth,” she said. “Can you check the timeline? All this has the project going nowhere until 3253.” Chaney sighed at the news and rubbed his forehead with a dark hand.

  “I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if it took that long,” he replied. “Weathers has been rather evasive about progress, it’s like he doesn’t even want to work on it.” He slapped his hand on his desk. “I told him it was a priority, damn it!” Mendez shot a look at Ballard, who nodded and went to his daughter.

  “Sweetie, why don’t we go get some lunch from the mess?” he asked.

  “Can we get cake?” Penny asked, make her eyes extra big and her lips pouty. Ballard nodded,

  “Sure, why not?” The young girl suddenly glanced from Mendez to Chaney.

  “Can we bring some back for the door lady and Comrade Chaney?” she asked. Ballard and Chaney chuckled.

  “Commodore, she’s a commodore,” Ballard replied. “she’s the same rank as Chaney, but she’s in the Navy.”

  “She’s the same as a bridge?” she asked. Ballard chuckled and led her out of the room. Mendez sighed.

  “I’ve never wanted kids myself, but I have to admit, she is cute,” she said. “There’s also Masterson. He insists he’s sharing everything he has with your people, but according to your end, that’s bullshit.”

  Chaney sighed and rested his head in his hands. “It’s easily possible that he has and that Withers is simply ignoring it in favor of his own pet projects.” He stood and walked over to his hidden liquor cabinet. “Its also possible whatever is going on with our computer systems, which I’m certain is either a Tharcian or Vinnish cyberattack, has simply sent all of that data to an accountant or poet’s personal email.” He opened the cabinet.

  “You don’t sound like you believe any of that,” she said.

  “As reasonable as those seem, my intuition says that Masterson isn’t sending shit,” Chaney replied. Glancing back at Mendez, he scrunched his face in thought. “You look like more of a wine girl.” Mendez reclined in her chair and stretched her back.

  “Guilty,” she replied. Chaney closed the cabinet and instead opened a wine cooler next to it.

  “Ah, here we go,” he said. “Rose City N0 17, 2041, a good year.” He produced a bottle of deep red wine from the cooler. “This is one of the few bottles to survive the War of 2112. I actually got this at a funeral.”

  “They already had vineyards going ten years after terraforming the planet?” Mendez asked. “Priorities I guess, who’s funeral did you get it at?” Chaney shook his head.

  “An old comrade of mine from the war. He died in battle around when the advance ground to a halt,” he replied. As he began to uncork the bottle, Mendez shot him a curious look.

  “I didn’t realize you were that old,” she replied. Chaney shrugged before popping the cork.

  “Well, besides aging like this wine, I really didn’t fight, per se. I was a mechanic,” he replied. He pulled two wine glasses down from over the cooler and examined them for dust. “Now Blake did a lot of fighting, and he looked like it aged him twice as fast.” As he spoke, he poured them both a glass. “It was a nice service.”

  “He died at the front, didn’t he?” Mendez asked as Chaney walked back over with the glasses. He nodded as he handed her one.

  “Tharcian plasma sword, burned right through his cockpit hatch and down the channel,” he said. “His death actually led me to order an increase in cockpit armor and a bulkhead on the pilot hatch.” Chaney took a swig of wine and shook his head. “Of course the unions complained, things like pilot safety make producing the thing longer and costlier, but we can build another panzerter, we can’t build a veteran pilot.”

  “I doubt that’s something they’d understand,” Mendez replied after sipping her drink herself. “Oh, this is one of those dessert wines.” She gave an appreciative look at the glass in her hand. “Anyway, I agree with you about pilot safety. Trust me, crew chemistry isn’t something you can manufacture despite the name.” She glanced at the pile of papers in front of her. “Have you heard from your associate?”

  Chaney shook his head. “Agent Thorn’s gone dark for a few weeks. I think he’s got a major operation underway.” He sighed. “I wish I could ask him to investigate Masterson. I get it, it sounds paranoid, but he’s hiding something.” Mendez sighed and took another drink.

  “Between whatever’s happening with our computer systems and the stalled offensives in Gallacia and New Slovakia, I think we have enough to worry about for now,” she said. “Let’s just focus on trying to fix our records for now.”

  “You’re right,” Chaney said. Staring at his own piles of notes, he shook his head. “Well, let’s finish these while we wait on the Ballards.”

  2

  For the first time in a long time, Walter Adamski stood on a train platform, a duffel bag over his shoulder. Shifting his weight, his enhanced legs still felt odd. From just above the knee down, his sense of touch dulled, an imperfect part of the mechanical legs he received after losing his off a road near Grunbeck.

  Flanking him on either side were two women, newly promoted corporals. One of whom had a prosthetic leg like his. The other a jagged scar across her face. She looked over at Adamski as they stood on the platform, the cool morning air beginning to give way to the warm noon.

  “Hey Top, what do you know about where we’re going?” Corporal Magyar asked. Adamski shrugged.

  “Not much, to be honest,” he replied. “I was so focused on getting my home back I hardly stopped to appreciate the greater war, but from what I heard, the Union made some considerable gains after landing on the shores of New Slovakia, bombing slowed them down and then they came to a halt when the rest of Fox helped kick their teeth in at the Battle of Ironton.” He held up his hands. “That’s all I know besides the fact we’re going to a new company, they’re standing up.”

  Zorro, the woman with a prosthetic leg, looked away from their huddle. “We really had little time to recover,” she said. “They must be desperate if they’re tossing us back in as soon as possible.” Adamski shrugged.

  “We’re already trained,” he said. “It takes time to train up raw recruits, I think we’re good on numbers, they just don’t want to lose what little momentum we have.” Zorro huffed.

  “Well, it still isn’t right, surely they-” the young woman trailed off. Adamski shook his head.

  “It is what it is Zorro. They need experienced bodies, and we’re it,” he said. “Now if you need more time for your leg, that I can-” He turned his head to talk to her and saw why she paused. Silvery locks framed a soft face as a familiar face approached. She held a duffel over her shoulder and bore sergeant rank on her sleeve.

  “Hey,” Fletcher said. “I guess calling you all comrades would get me a funny look.” Adamski held a hand at his waist.

  “We don’t do that around here,” he said. “But, what? I mean I have so many questions.” He pointed at her rank. “That’s our uniform, but you 're a sergeant?” he blinked. “Aren’t you an officer?”

  She reached up and touched the rank on her sleeve. “They didn’t want me to access officer level information, but they didn’t want your junior enlisted to hit on me either.” She looked down with a little smile. “Especially since I can get pregnant now.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Adamski realized what was happening.

  “They pressed you into service,” he said. “To repay them for fixing your… lady parts.” His lips curled, and he clenched his fists. “Those weaselly bastards! I looked over the agreement with Captain Reiter myself. I t
hought we closed any loophole to allow them to-”

  “Its alright,” she said. “Besides, it feels… right, like I’m doing what I’m supposed to.” Zorro raised an eyebrow.

  “Is that like some tuber instinct talking,” she said. “Or is it something you’re choosing?” Fletcher shrugged.

  “I don’t know, but honestly, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “When the war is over, I can choose my own partner, choose to have children and the kind of childhood they’ll have. I’ll be able to own my own home. Maybe I’ll get a car.”

  “Van,” Magyar said. “If you’re as baby crazy as you sound, you’re going to want a van.”

  “Whatever,” Fletcher replied. “Even with this-” she pointed to a black ring around the base of her neck. “-I feel more free than I ever have before.” Adamski leaned in close, at first believing she was wearing some kind of necklace, then realizing what she truly had.

  “That’s a bomb,” he said. “They put a bomb around your neck.” Fletcher tapped it and smiled.

  “I’m not worried,” she said. “It’ll only go off if I attack you guys, which isn’t something I intend to do any ways.”

  “You’re not worried about fighting your own people?” Zorro asked. “I mean, you could end up fighting someone you know.”

  “I’m not too worried,” Fletcher replied. “Unlike a lot of our male counterparts, I’m not interested in talking to someone trying to kill me.” Zorro and Magyar snickered. Adamski shrugged.

  “I never did that,” he said. “That’s all Reiter and Mo.” He paused for a moment. “And I guess that Kennedy guy too.” A gentle rumble signaled the impending arrival of the train. Adamski held the door while the ladies walked in.

  “So you’re going to this Brave Company as well?” Zorro asked. Fletcher nodded. Seeing the three of them together reminded Adamski of the old White platoon. He shuddered at the thought of their old platoon leader.