He gave a rather thin smile. “A brand-new command and control system gets hacked ... and the enemy uses it to call down fire from orbit on our positions. A brilliant new encryption program ends the requirement for microburst transmissions ... apart from the minor detail that the reason we use microbursts is to avoid giving the enemy targeting information on a plate. A new piece of body armour is damn near indestructible, but anyone who wears it will overheat so rapidly that they’d be useless for anything within minutes ...
“Not that that’s the only problem,” he said, dryly. “If I had a credit for every time a new system went over-budget and ended up costing the taxpayer twice as much, I’d have enough money to buy my own planet.”
I stuck up a hand. “Why do people keep buying them?”
Bainbridge laughed. “Politics,” he said. He spoke the word as if it were a curse. “Stalker. What makes the universe go round?”
“Power, sir,” I said. The Undercity was a perfect example of just how power could be used to shape the world. Those with power would use it to take whatever they wanted, including money; those with money but without power would have to either hide it or lose it. “Not even money comes close.”
“Correct,” Bainbridge said. “You can look up the details later, if you like, but the military budget is one of the biggest slush funds in creation. Everyone wants a share of that money, so they use their power to force the military to buy expensive new weapons systems it doesn't need, weapons systems which might not work in any case. Someone at the top of the heap is unlikely to give a damn about our lives when there’s billions upon billions of credits at stake.”
He shrugged. “That's why the marine corps fights so hard to keep control of procurement,” he added. “Given half a chance, we would find our MAGs replaced by pieces of crap that, if we’re lucky, will fire a couple of rounds before breaking into pieces of biodegradable plastic.”
Joker coughed. “It can't be that bad, sir.”
“Go look up the Shrunken Tree massacre, when you have time,” Bainbridge ordered. “The short version of the story is that some corporation wanted trace elements in the trees, which happened to be defended by a tribe armed with nothing more dangerous than spears.”
I scowled, inwardly. We'd been told, time and time again, that there were no dangerous weapons, only dangerous men. A man with a spear, a man willing to use it, was potentially much more dangerous than a man with a gun. We’d been taught not to dismiss someone because he was unarmed ...
“The regiment dispatched to deal with the tribe, either by convincing them to move or simply exterminating them, had the latest in modern weapons,” Bainbridge continued. “Their rifles had been tested extensively under laboratory conditions. They had everything from air support to orbiting starships, ready to provide additional firepower if necessary. There should have been a very quick massacre, ending the whole affair.”
“Once they stole the tribe’s resources,” Professor said.
Bainbridge nodded. “It turned out that no one had tested the rifles in tropical conditions,” he said. “The regiment’s NCOs couldn't be arsed doing the paperwork necessary to get a few hundred rounds of ammunition to shoot off before they actually went to war, which sounds really bad until you realise that they would have had to ask for each round separately. A handful of rounds in such conditions caused the rifles to fail, if the bearer was lucky. I believe a number of rifles actually exploded. The tribe lost around fifty people, according to the classified after-action report, but they slaughtered the entire regiment.”
“Shit,” Joker said.
Viper looked shocked. “Surely we would have heard about it ...”
“The whole affair was hushed up, of course,” Bainbridge said. “Do you think that any of those investigative reporters actually investigate? Even if they did, their editors would kill any story that might threaten their fat paychecks. There were dark rumours, of course, but there are always rumours. The colonel in command of the regiment took most of the blame, as he was safely dead, even though there was nothing particularly wrong with his battle plan or early deployments. If his weapons had worked, everything would have gone just fine.”
“Except for the locals,” Professor muttered. “What happened to them?”
“Another regiment was sent, eventually,” Bainbridge said. “I believe they were moved to a place well away from the trees. And the hell of the whole affair, a few years later, was that they found another way to get the trace elements they wanted, without having to get thousands of men killed. Not that their lords and masters actually gave a damn.”
He cleared his throat. “You’ll find yourself in places where yes, you are expected to enforce injustice,” he added. “If you can't handle it, now is probably a good time to quit.”
It was a warning that stayed with me for the rest of my life. The exercises had forced us to grapple with some problems - was it a wise idea to lock up every male in a city, just to keep them from posing a threat? - that underlined the whole issue. How far were we meant to go if we were expected to enforce injustice? What would I do, I asked myself, if I was ordered to force people to move, just because they were living on top of natural resources someone else wanted?
There was a part of me that said it didn't matter. I’d never seen any real justice in the Undercity. The strong had ruled with iron fists; the weak did as they were told, or they were punished. Why should I sympathise with people when no sympathy had ever been shown to me? But, at the same time, two wrongs didn't make a right. I didn't have the right to kill anyone who tried to kill me ...
... And yet, did I have the right to kill the men who’d killed my family?
The question nagged at my mind as we worked our way through phase three. We dealt with actors playing corporate managers, local insurgent leaders and countless civilians, caught helplessly in the middle. Some of them were greedy, some clearly wanted power, but all too many of them were nothing more than victims. They weren't any better than I’d been in the Undercity.
“We’re at least trying to do good,” Professor said, when I discussed it with him. “Aren’t we?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I’d grappled with the question for days without finding an answer. “What makes us any better than gang enforcers?”
“We don’t loot, rape or kill,” Posh pointed out. We’d all heard horror stories about the civil guard. They’d enter a town which had a handful of insurgents and, by the time they left, everyone in the town would be insurgents. “That makes us better than them.”
“We clear away the insurgents,” Viper said. There was a bitterness in his tone that surprised me. He still wasn't really one of us, but he was doing better. “And yet, when they’re gone, we find that we have cleared the way for exploiters.”
“We clear up messes,” Professor said. “They don’t send us in to crack heads ...”
“Messes that they create for themselves,” Viper said. “In the end, there's no real difference.”
I hoped, desperately, that he was wrong.
Chapter Nineteen
Viper was not wrong, in a way, to state that the marines cleaned up messes, messes caused by bad government, corporate mismanagement or naked exploitation. It is quite true that many of the brushfire wars that weakened the Empire, prior to Han and the Fall of Earth, wouldn't have happened if the Grand Senate had told the corporations to treat the locals with something resembling decency. (There were some decent corporate rats, but most of them believed that they earned more credit by serving their corporation’s immediate interests than trying to build up a long-term relationship.) However, as sickening as it may seem, such involvement did tend to create improvement ... of which Avalon is a prime example.
-Professor Leo Caesius
It felt like almost no time at all had passed from the day we entered phase three and the day we commenced the exams for entering phase four. I know we did a great deal of work, combining our older exercises with newer ones, but I honestly
can't remember most of them. It was overshadowed, far too much, by everything that happened on the third day of the exams.
“All right, maggots,” Bainbridge said. He’d been increasingly cranky with us as the exams started, although none of us were sure why. We suspected we weren't doing as well as the previous platoon and their Drill Instructor was rubbing it in a little. “The mission is as follows. An enemy regiment is on the move to Wander Gap, where it will attempt to punch through and down into our heartland. Your mission is to get a blocking force in place before it’s too late. The bad news is that your trucks are short on fuel.”
I cursed mentally as I recollected the map. Wander Gap was quite a slog away, assuming that we drove ... and, it seemed, we couldn't. Two days of manoeuvring around the landscape in our trucks had left us with severely depleted fuel. Getting into place wouldn't be that hard - we’d mastered forced marching by now - but getting there with enough weapons to do more than slow up the enemy would be a little harder. I didn’t want to get there in time to have our asses kicked by a heavily-armed opposition force.
“Stalker,” Bainbridge snapped. “You’re in command.”
Shit, I thought. Now what? The clock is ticking ...
I pushed the thought aside as hard as I could as the rest of the squad gathered around me, waiting for orders. We’d swapped commanding officers so often that we’d all had a turn in the hot seat ... something I wouldn't have minded, if I hadn't been the guy in charge during the exam. I might end up less popular than Viper if I fucked up.
“Joker, Professor, get me a count of how much fuel we have left,” I snapped. Maybe, just maybe, we could pile everything into one or two of the trucks. Transferring fuel from one vehicle to another was a pain in the ass, but it could be done. “Everyone else, get ready to start unloading the trucks.”
I unfolded the map as everyone went to work and checked my earlier conclusions. The shortest way to Wander Gap was up a mountain path; the map, unfortunately, made it clear that there was no way we’d get a truck up it without a minor disaster. I’d have to send the trucks - if we had working trucks - the long way round. If we'd had enough fuel, it would have been pathetically easy. As it was, the Drill Instructors had timed it perfectly.
“Not much, sir,” Professor reported back. His thoughts had evidently been running along the same lines. “We can get one truck to Wander Gap, but we'd have to drain the others completely dry.”
“Do it,” I ordered. I checked the map again, then sighed. “Take Bongo” - yes, we'd named our trucks - “and transfer the contents of Booger, then drive it all to the gap.”
“Yes, sir,” Professor said.
“Keep Posh with you,” I added. Professor couldn't handle everything alone. “The rest of us will march up to the gap.”
I called everyone back, then started to bark orders. “I want everyone carrying a heavy weapon or helping to carry an ammunition pallet,” I bellowed. “We need to empty the trucks as much as possible before start the march.”
Viper stuck up a hand. “Shouldn't we leave a rearguard?”
Someone to watch the remaining trucks, he meant. It wasn't actually a bad idea, but there were only thirty of us. Bainbridge had put the entire training platoon in the field and I had a feeling we’d need all of them to close the gap. I fought the temptation to leave him there - it was a tempting thought - then shook my head.
“I’ll call in for someone to pick them up, if we can strip them bare,” I said. I had a feeling the AAR would call my judgement into question, but I just didn't have the manpower to deal with everything. “Depending on the time, we may send someone back once we’re in the gap.”
“Coward,” someone muttered.
Viper spun around, fists raised. “What was that?”
“Silence,” I bellowed. Viper hadn't been coping well with teamwork, which hadn't endeared him to everyone else. I was mildly surprised he’d made it into phase three. “Grab your load and get ready to march!”
I hadn't exactly been weak in the Undercity, for which I will be forever grateful, but I hadn't known what strength was until I’d spent two months in Boot Camp. All of us, including Viper, were solidly muscular now, used to carrying immense combat loads. I checked the recruits assigned to carrying heavy ammunition boxes, then picked up a rucksack I knew I would never have been able to lift as a teenager. As soon as we were all loaded up, we started our march.
It wasn't easy. The pathway was thoroughly treacherous; I nearly lost my footing twice and others were just as unfortunate. If the enemy had a scout watching us, or a drone hovering high overhead, we were probably under observation. Once they stopped laughing, they'd call in an airstrike. I looked up, knowing it was futile, then shook my head as sweat kept running down my back. If they were watching us, it was unlikely I’d see anything until the first bomb fell on our heads and by then it would be far too late.
There was a crashing sound behind me. I spun around, almost losing my footing, and paled as one of the ammunition boxes crashed to the ground. Marine-grade mortar shells are relatively safe, but ‘safe’ has many separate meanings in the military. If one of those shells blew, they’d all blow ... and we’d all be blown to bits. I had a feeling that Bainbridge, who was tagging along in the rear, would survive - I had a hard time believing that anything could kill him - but the rest of us would be dead.
“That was your fucking fault,” Joker snarled at Viper, who’d evidently slipped and fallen. “Watch where you’re fucking going!”
“You keep fucking pushing me,” Viper snapped back. “This isn't a fucking parade ground ...”
“Shut up, the pair of you,” I shouted. I wasn’t surprised that someone had lost their footing while carrying the boxes - it took four men to carry them safely - and it probably wasn't Viper’s fault. “We don’t have time for a squabble.”
“He’s not pulling his weight,” Joker said, angrily. Friend or no friend, we were all getting short-tempered as the day grew hotter. “We keep pushing him forward because he’s a fucking slowcoach.”
“I don’t care,” I said, gathering myself. We were carting live ammunition around, not blanks or training rounds. “We’re running short on time and we have to keep moving.”
I briefly considered giving Viper my pack and taking his place myself, but I had a feeling Viper would just fall behind. He consistently came in at the back on route marches or training runs, save for the escape and evasion course. Like me, he’d reached the flag before getting nabbed, which made me suspect the whole exercise had been rigged and none of us had had a hope of avoiding the experience of being a POW.
“Keep moving,” I repeated, looking directly at Viper. “We do not have time to waste.”
I kept my eyes on Viper, willing him to understand. There was no way I was going to lose the exercise because of him. If he caused any more problems, I was going to take him behind a tree and settle the matter with my fists. He must have read something in my gaze because he picked up his handle and started to walk, slowly but surely. I met Joker’s eyes for a long moment, then turned and continued to walk myself.
“We should have walked along the road,” Viper said, as we kept going. “It would have been a damn sight easier.”
“And slower,” Smartass commented. “We might not have gotten there in time.”
“Then we should have sent a squad in the truck and got them into place first,” Viper snapped.
“And you didn't think of it,” Joker hissed. “Or did you intend to land Stalker in the shit?”
“Shut up,” I said. Maybe Viper had a point ... and if he’d suggested it at the time, I would have happily stolen the idea. It would have its problems - a single squad might not be enough to hold the gap - but it might have been worth trying. “There’s nothing to do now but endure it.”
Viper kept muttering until we finally reached the gap, despite increasingly angry remarks from the other three porters. I did my best to ignore him as I looked at the gap, a narrow road running t
hrough the mountains. If the enemy had trucks, or even light tanks, they would have to come at us single-file, giving us plenty of opportunity to tear hell out of them. I’d have given the task to light infantry instead; hell, for all I knew, that was what the enemy intended to do. Sending tanks along the road, when there were so many trees to provide cover, was asking for trouble.
“Get the machine guns into the trees,” I ordered, as I considered the situation. The enemy would have a chance, at least, to impale themselves on my weapons. “Once the truck arrives” - I didn't dare call Professor to check on his progress, not when the enemy would know to listen for microburst transmissions - “get the trees further down the road felled, just to slow them down a little. The five best shots in the platoon are to set up sniper nests; I want one of them armed with a laser pointer, so mortar shells can be guided onto their targets.”
The problem was I didn't know where the enemy was - and, as Bainbridge had told us often enough, war is a democracy. The enemy gets a vote. I could have used the crew-portable mortars (the only people who say carrying mortars is easy are people who have never done it) to hit a target within five kilometres, but I had no way of knowing if the enemy was already within range. I contemplated possibilities for a long moment, then ordered Joker to move the mortar crews downrange so they were well out of sight, but ready to engage the enemy.
First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) Page 18