“Perhaps,” Southard said. “Why do you believe you walked away with the right Comrade Li?”
“Comrade Li is a woman doing a job that many of her followers believe could be done better by a man,” I said. It hadn't been that long since I’d held many similar attitudes, shaped by life in the Undercity. “The last thing she would want is to keep a woman so battered down that she takes off her clothes the minute she believes herself to be threatened with rape. It would undermine her position. She really wouldn't want to make her male followers start thinking about weak and feeble women.”
I paused, then went on. “It was an act, sir,” I concluded. “She acted submissive because it would have made us underestimate her. And it nearly worked.”
“So it did,” Southard said. He raised his voice, addressing us all. “Grab some sleep, troopers. You’re going to Chesty tomorrow.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Psychologically, it is fatal for a woman to convince a man that she is weak, emotional, dependent or prone to female tribalism. Any of the above can seriously weaken a woman’s position and compromise her authority. Indeed, if the only way to get ahead in a male-dominated environment is to be ‘one of the boys,’ revealing oneself to be ‘one of the girls’ can be disastrous. It may not breed hatred, but it can breed contempt.
Ed’s reasoning, therefore, was sound. ‘Comrade Li’ had nothing to gain - and a great deal to lose - from keeping a reminder that women can be broken in her headquarters. Further, her pretence might just have led the troopers to hold her in contempt, which might have led to them turning their backs on her ...
-Professor Leo Caesius
“Joker, you’re Troop Leader,” Southard said, as soon as we landed at the FOB on the outskirts of Chesty. I hadn’t realised that several different platoons were being exercised at the same time, but they wouldn't have laid so much on for us alone. “You’ll have a somewhat less challenging mission, on the face of it.”
We eyed him suspiciously. Less challenging? There had to be a sting in the tail somewhere.
“Thanks to your earlier mission, the BLA is pulling back from Chesty in some disarray,” Southard continued. “This gives us an opportunity to ship additional supplies into the city and feed the starving women and children. Your mission is to provide security for the food supplies and oversee distribution. Be warned; local factions will attempt to steal the food for themselves in the hopes of leaving the other factions to starve.”
I winced, inwardly. I’d learned a great deal about psychology in the last few months, including how badly humans could behave when they were under pressure. The whole idea of snatching food from starving women and children was horrific, but I had no doubt that some of the local factions would do it, if we gave them the chance. Relying on the locals to distribute the aid was asking for trouble. But trying to distribute the food even-handedly would also cause problems.
“Take the trucks to the distribution point, then start handing the food out,” Southard concluded. “Good luck.”
I watched as Joker looked down at the map. “We’ll take the trucks and four AFVs,” he said, after a moment. “The roads should be largely clear, but we’ll respond with lethal force if challenged.”
We hastily checked the vehicles, then mounted up. Joker sat behind me in the lead AFV as I took the wheel, even though it would probably be the first vehicle to attract fire if we ran into an ambush. I was tempted to tell him he should probably pick another vehicle, but we had practiced what to do if we lost our commanding officer. Bloodnok - Joker’s second - would take command at once.
It might still disorientate us for a second, I thought, grimly. There were too many things that could go wrong before Bloodnok assumed command - and let us know that he had. But Joker would think that we would think less of him if he stayed in the rear.
“Let’s go,” Joker said.
I gunned the engine, then led the way onto the highway leading down towards Chesty. It was strewn with the rubble of hundreds of vehicles, providing far too many places to hide an IED or stage an ambush, but nothing happened apart from a handful of shots fired from the distant jungle. The machine gunners rotated their guns and searched for targets, finding nothing. I wondered if Joker would order them to lay down suppressing fire anyway, but he said nothing. There was little point in wasting ammunition without clear targets.
Chesty itself was both strange and alien. I’d never seen a true city until leaving Earth - I had had a chance to visit Wells on Mars, where humanity had established its first foothold on another world - but Chesty was in ruins. Hundreds of buildings were pockmarked with bullet holes, showing where the local defenders and the BLA had fought desperately for control. In the absence of heavy weapons, taking a large city is far from easy. Starving Chesty out had probably been their best option, assuming the starships played no further role in the engagement.
And they might have been right, I thought, grimly. A thousand civilians dead as collateral damage wouldn't play well with the media.
I pushed the thought aside as we rolled past the defenders - who looked little more organised than the BLA fighters we’d attacked earlier - and headed for the distribution point. Most of the city’s menfolk had been press-ganged into one militia or another, leaving the women and children at home; I hoped, numbly, that they were relieved that we’d saved the city from starvation. The fighters would have had the best food, such as it was; everyone else, civilian or not, would have been left to starve. By now, they’d probably started considering how best to cook human flesh.
Joker coughed as I turned the corner. “This is the distribution point?”
“GPS says it is,” I said. Once, it had been a nice piece of parkland; now, the trees had been cut down and everything else had been dug up in the city’s desperate attempt to find something - anything - to eat. Maybe people could eat grass - genetic engineering could work miracles - but it wasn’t very tasty, let alone nutritious. “At least we have clear fields of fire.”
“So do the tower blocks,” Joker muttered.
I followed his gaze and swore. The towers were nowhere near as impressive as Earth’s CityBlocks, but they still provided ample room for snipers. We could come under fire quite easily. If we’d had a choice, I would have set up a base in one of the buildings; it might have been more awkward, but at least it would have provided protection ...
“Squad Two, secure that warehouse,” Joker ordered, keying his radio. “If it’s abandoned, we’ll use it as the distribution point.”
We dismounted, then hastily started to unload the supplies and carry them into the warehouse. Joker would have been in deep shit if he’d been in the Imperial Army, where rewriting orders to suit local conditions was heavily discouraged, but the marines took a different view of things. If he succeeded in his mission, any small revisions of his orders would be overlooked; even if he failed, it might not be enough to end his career. Squad three patrolled the edges, while Sif and Bloodnok scrambled onto the roof to provide top cover. If the militias - or anyone - tried to make a go of it, we’d give them a hot reception.
“Joker’s Joke Shop is now open for business,” Joker declared, when we had unloaded the trucks and moved them to a safer location. We weren't planning to transport the supplies back out of the city. “Let’s see who comes calling, shall we?”
Our first customers were a handful of middle-aged women and a number of children, too hungry and thin to care about the possible dangers in approaching strangers. We did our best to look friendly, then passed out ration packs and offered to let them sit in the park - or what was left of it - to eat. Some of them accepted; others, their eyes fearful, took the food and scurried away. I watched them go, understanding their fear more than I cared to admit. We might have been distributing food, but - just like anyone in the Undercity - we could turn nasty or demanding at any moment.
“Got trouble moving towards us,” Sif warned, through the radio net. “Five men, carrying weapons. One of them looks to
be a boss.”
“Copy,” Joker said. “I’ll meet them in the park. Squad One will cover me.”
The newcomers strode into the park as if they owned the place, surrounded by an air of competence and barely-restrained violence that practically gave me flashbacks to the Undercity’s gangsters. None of the footsoldiers looked particularly competent, but their weapons and their willingness to use them gave the bastards more than enough power to dominate the city. Their master, who had a rifle casually slung over his shoulder, had a nasty expression on his face. I disliked him on sight.
“Got an ID,” someone whispered through the radio net. The FOB was looking through the handful of sensors we’d scattered around the perimeter. “Boss Gordon, leader of the Blue Boys Militia.”
Joker opened his mike, so we could all hear, and stepped forward. The boss scowled at him, then glanced at the rest of us, holding our weapons with easy precision. He didn't look up, much to my private amusement; Sif and Bloodnok could have wiped all five of them out before the rest of us had our guns up and ready to fire. We didn't want a fight, but we would win within a second if one started.
“Thank you for bringing us food,” Boss Gordon said. If he was aware of just how much danger he was in, he didn't show it. I would have awarded him points for composure if I hadn't been so sure he was too stupid to realise just how badly he was outmatched. “My men will take over distribution. You may hand it over to us and return to your base.”
It was, I suspected, a situation that called for diplomacy. Unfortunately, marines are not known for diplomacy.
“Fuck off,” Joker said.
Boss Gordon gaped at him. He’d grown too used to being the big man in the city - or one of them, at least. His militia had given him access to everything from food - such as it was - to wine, women and song. No one had dared defy him for a very long time.
“I would ask you to reconsider,” he said, lowering his voice. I gripped my weapon, bracing myself. There was no hierarchy keeping Boss Gordon in position, nothing but the threat of superior force. He had no choice; either he made us back down or the spell would be broken and his own people would turn on him. “We control this city. Either you give us the food to distribute or no one will get the food.”
Joker slammed his rifle into Boss Gordon’s chest. The man doubled over, gagging; we sprang forward and overpowered his four guards before they could even get their weapons up and aimed at us. Joker smacked Boss Gordon to the ground, searched him roughly and bound his hands with a plastic tie. Once we had secured the others, we picked them up and carried them into the warehouse. They could either be carried out to the FOB, once the distribution was over, or just left to the tender mercies of the city’s inhabitants. I had a feeling Joker would probably be publically reprimanded and privately congratulated for his coup. The Blue Boys Militia, having lost their leader, would have to decide who would succeed him before launching an attack.
“Watch for incoming threats,” Joker ordered, as the trickle of starving citizens turned into a flood. “The militia isn't likely to let this pass.”
“No, sir,” I agreed.
I kept running security around the edge of the park as the civilians walked through, some concealing weapons; we didn't disarm them as long as they kept their weapons firmly holstered. The Imperial Army would probably have snatched their weapons, on the grounds that they might pose a threat, but we knew it was pointless. Everyone who could buy, beg or steal a weapon would be armed, knowing that there was no other defence against the human animals unleashed by the siege. One man started to beat his wife - I have no idea why - only to be shot by one of our snipers. The crowd rustled uncomfortably as we pulled the body out and dumped it by the side of the road, but did nothing. We'd been taught that showing the merest hint of weakness to a crowd was fatal.
And besides, I didn't like wife-beaters. None of us did.
All hell broke loose two hours after we’d arrested Boss Gordon and his men. A large mass of civilians, male and female, appeared at the edge of the park and advanced towards our positions. Very few of them seemed to be armed with anything more dangerous than sticks and stones - which can be very dangerous in the wrong hands - yet sheer pressure alone would eventually overwhelm us. We levelled our weapons, but held our fire. We'd slaughter hundreds, perhaps thousands, if we pulled the triggers. The bullets would slice through the first rank and injure others in the rear before they finally stopped.
“There are people at the end, encouraging the mob forward,” Sif reported. “I can slot them.”
“Take them out,” Joker ordered. “Squad One; deploy shields. Squad Two; prepare to launch gas grenades.”
The mob surged forward as we deployed our shields and locked them together. They struck the shields with astonishing force, but we held; I prayed, inwardly, that the mob would start coming apart now the agitators were dead. But a mob has a mind of its own. Someone a great deal smarter than me said, years ago, that a crowd is only as smart as the stupidest person in it; personally, I believe a crowd is only half as smart as the stupidest person in it. A person smart enough to run, when faced with deadly danger, would think himself invulnerable if he was part of a mob. I cringed as the surging tidal wave of emotions raged over me, a force threatening to suck me into the mass. There is something in all of us that seeks to be part of a crowd ...
“There’s more coming,” Sif reported, as we fought to hold the line. “Three more groups, including a number of heavily-armed men.”
“Shit,” Joker said. “Squad Two; grenades. I say again, grenades.”
I braced myself as the grenades were hurled over the interlocking shields, landing amidst the crowd. Gas was already spewing from them, a translucent yellow cloud that was meant to knock out anyone who breathed even a tiny whiff of it. We were immune, of course - several of the rioters had the bright idea of hurling our grenades back, which didn't do more than annoy us - but none of the rioters had any defence. Several of them had been smart enough to carry wet cloths with them, which provided a limited degree of protection; the remainder, one by one, started to fall to the ground in front of us. I knew far too many of the rioters would be injured when they landed, or when someone bigger landed on top of them. It was hard to feel sorry for them, but I did. They’d probably been told that we were withholding supplies until we were given control of the city.
“Squad One, drop shields and advance,” Joker ordered. “Knock out the remaining protesters.”
I swung my shield to the side, then lunged forward. A rioter, his face covered by a wet cloth, tried to jump at me; I knocked the cloth away from his mouth, then watched dispassionately as he sagged and fell to the ground. It was hard to push forward without stamping on someone, but we had no choice. One by one, we picked off the remaining rioters, the ones too stupid to flee while they had the chance. But the other groups were still incoming ...
“Drop grenades on the other protestors,” Joker ordered. It was a grim decision, all the more so as we had no real control outside the park, but there was no real choice. “Pick up the ringleaders, if you can identify them, and move them back to the warehouse. The remainder ...”
He broke off, clearly thinking hard. What did we do with the remainder? They were mainly starving civilians, not insurgents or legitimate combatants. There were no legal or moral grounds for mass slaughter. Leave them to wake up, which they would; the gas wouldn't last forever. Or pick them up, dump them in a makeshift detention camp and put them to work for their food? The briefing hadn't been clear about just who would take control of Chesty once the BLA was driven well away from the city. No doubt the sudden collapse of the Blue Boys would leave a power vacuum for other militias to fight over.
“I’m forwarding this decision to higher,” Joker said, reluctantly. I understood. It was just possible that Southard expected him to come up with a solution. “They can decide what to do with them.”
Orders came back, five minutes later. We were to round up the male rioters an
d dump them in the trucks, then take the poor bastards to a detention camp. The women and children were to be woken and told to go home and behave themselves. We’d finish distributing the food once everything else was done. Hopefully, it would be easier now the main troublemakers were gone.
“What a fucking realistic test,” Joker muttered, later. The debriefing had pointed out that he had probably caused the riot, although - as Southard had admitted - there had been no good choices. At least we hadn't faced a major assault. “I keep forgetting.”
I nodded. The exercises were realistic. They had to be; Bainbridge had said as much, back when we’d started. Hard training, easy mission; easy training, hard mission. And yet, looking around Chesty - and a dozen other training areas - it was easy to forget that it was an exercise. Which was, I supposed, the point. They wanted to see how we behaved when we thought we were in very real danger.
We had the mission into Shithole a week later. But that, I believe, is where I started.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
One very real difference between an exercise, however well designed, and real combat, is that the danger of death is minimised. Not, I should add, removed altogether, but minimised. It is therefore easy to regard the exercise as a game, rather than serious combat. This leads to an attitude that allows the trainees to romp through the exercise, without learning much - if anything. The Marine Corps works hard to make the exercises realistic to convince its recruits that they are in very real danger. It’s the only way to test the young men and women before putting them into the fire.
First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) Page 25