We weren't totally familiar with UN craft, but transport vertols are transport vertols. The flight engineer refamiliarized us with the lasers on the doors as we flew. No, they aren't actually lasers. With the UN's love of cute acronyms, they were billed as "Light Aircraft Support Rotary Cannon." The C is silent. Idiots. While he did that, I chatted with the pilot.
"Warrant Leader Three Zulu One, commanding. Here's the plan," I said as soon as I plugged into the intercom. "You ever done insertions for recon?" I reached through the tangle of bodies for my drop armor.
"Yes, sir," he replied. Firm. Assured. I liked this guy.
"Good. We're inserting behind wherever the hell the attackers are," I said. We'd been informed that the first one had landed near a small convoy, and been brought down by their ADA. That should localize most of them. I was waiting on a map and a sitrep to bring me up to speed. "We'll flush them. Our gunners and the escort will pin them from the other side. As soon as we're through, we'll meet up with our team on the ground. We load the wounded, we load us, we bail out, we destroy the evidence, we call Thor in to clean up the area."
"Think it'll go that smoothly, Warrant Leader?" he asked me.
"Shit, no," I replied with a disgusted tone. I checked my armor. Cup, thighs, greaves all snug. I whipped out my compact and applied a dainty brown and black formal makeup effect, with green highlights.
"Good," he said. "I hate optimists. And uh . . . I'm sorry Thoensen skipped out on your guys earlier." He sounded embarrassed.
In response, I asked, "You gonna stick with us when it gets hot?"
"Yes, sir," he replied.
"Good enough."
A few seconds later, we had our commo patch from the air control bird, and in a few segs, we came within hearing range of the grounded team's transmissions direct. "This is Three Zulu One," I said. "I'll respond to Rescue or Evac, but I'll be using Three Zulu One. It's what I'm familiar with. Rescue Two, got it?"
"Yes, sir. Three Zulu One," I heard Warrant Jack Carpenter, commanding Rescue Two, reply. He was healthy. Good. I hate to lose friends. He sounded reassured that it was us and not the UN, and I kept the firm, positive, calm, bullshit-doesn't-bother-me demeanor going to keep the others relaxed. As relaxed as one can be while taking gobs of incoming fire. It was fucking hot down there. Well, it's only scary from the air. We were dodging and twisting against the occasional heavier round.
On the intercom I asked, "What's your name, Pilot?"
"Volokhonsky, Oleg," he replied. Russian. I thought I'd heard an accent there.
"Okay, Oleg, I want to swing around to the pip I just lit in your visor, and we'll hit the ropes there. You'll land immediately, five hundred mils across. Doesn't have to be a perfect line, but as close to the opposite side of the circle as you can manage. Don't flinch, because we'll be driving them straight at you. Trust your doorgunners. They're good." Everyone was in the circuit, as I believe in keeping my people informed. "Hand the copilot and flight engineer your weapons, medics," I ordered. "Extra firepower and all that."
"We aren't trained on small arms," the flight engineer replied to that. "Sorry."
First snag. I replied, "Well, haven't you shot—" one for recreation? I had been about to ask. But no, Earth didn't allow people to practice with weapons. They might be unstable and kill someone. Earth killers had to use poison, explosive, crashed vehicles, or blunt instruments. After all, why would anyone need to practice with weapons?
They likely had drilled with the usual non-lethal UN stuff, but in that case, I really didn't want to hand them hardware. The first rule of non-lethal weapons is to shoot anything in front and sort the bodies out later. The difference being between unconscious bodies their way and bodies with gaping holes our way.
I had started shooting when I was four. It's second nature to me.
"Screw it," I said. It was that time. We were over the grid I'd marked and incoming metal was making itself known. "Bank us. Oleg, I need you down ten meters . . . down two . . . Hold for my signal." I looked down through a dark green tangle of forest. Those branches all looked spiky, arachnoid, or otherwise bothersome. Well, it's only scary for the five seconds of drop.
I took a look around to confirm it was really where I wanted to rope. It wasn't, but it was likely the best location tactically, regardless of what I wanted. I leaned way out, head under the fuselage to be sure. There was a slight rise that matched the map. From there were soft rills paralleling the road. We'd take them.
"Ropes!" I snapped.
Tyler and Deni kicked out the rope bags, checked their rings, and nodded.
Had I mentioned how crowded it was in there? We were asshole to elbow. I mean we were hanging out the sides, grabbing the door rails ourselves. Tree armor is bulky.
"GO!" I shouted. Tyler threw herself into space, Deni went out the other side, and we humped across the deck of the craft like metallic caterpillars until we reached the doors.
Then I was over the edge, and going down! Face first, rope rattling against the ring, sliding smoothly through my gloved hands and getting warm. I twisted hand over hand, swung sideways, got legs down, and didn't slow at all. Actually, I slipped and accelerated. The highest twigs scritched in a blur across my visor, ripped at my gear, poked at me and then the heavy limbs thumped against my legs. I tumbled, steadied, tumbled again.
Then I spun in a hurry and crashed into the ground, jarring my brain. I hadn't seen the surface through the shadows, and it was closer than I had thought. I hit the release, and ran for the nearest cover, as I was on that tall, rocky ridge, perhaps four meters above average ground level. Spiffing. "Oleg, Three Zulu One, GO!" I remembered to shout, and all four ropes began coiling and thumping down through the trees as he released them. His craft dopplered away as he went to deliver Frank and our three backups.
I moved quickly, while triggering Boost. Someone was taking potshots at me, and was far too close. Actually, there's no incoming fire that isn't too close, on reflection. I had jarred my left ankle and knee and they hurt. Every step pinched a fold of thigh between the cup and thigh armor, and I shrieked hoarsely over the clattering polymer. The gloves were hot from friction, and that friction was starting to burn through. I'd have to lose them quickly, as I could smell the sickening smell of burning leather and knew that my skin would be next. That, and I couldn't handle weapons properly with those thick palms. Amazing how fast things always go to hell.
I dove into a depression, grabbed the right glove by the tip of its middle finger with my teeth and ripped it loose while singeing my lip. It was that hot. The palm was smoldering. I had come down fast. I grabbed my weapon from my chest, stripped off the other glove and began to unsnap the armor. It fell in an articulated heap, and I dropped a small charge from my belt on it. It would destroy the armor and create a distraction when I moved, which would be now. One cannot stay still for long in a firefight, or one tends to stay still permanently. I gave my shredded thigh a brief, tender rub with my fingers and stood, keeping behind that ridge.
I shot three grenades toward where I guessed the fire had come from, then ran. I took a second to glance at my display, and swore. "Open squad channel, Goddess fuck me, what's wrong, Martin?" I asked. He was showing as wounded. He was our Combat Air Controller for the support craft, and I needed him. Hell, I needed everyone. Behind me, the demolition charge on my armor boomed loudly.
"Cracked my ankle," he replied. "I can move slowly. Don't worry about it."
"Says you. Barto, stay with him. Tyler, lay down some fire and let's move! Neil, cover for Martin and clear some of these armored vehicles out," I ordered, highlighting an area on the map that was showing as rather hot and with no friendlies nearby. His dot winked and headed for the woods edge.
Tyler was already laying down fire. I could hear the distinctive sound of an M-42 chewing dirt, wood, and unidentified other things to my right. Then I saw the enemy convoy, or at least its cargo vehicles, ahead.
Or what remained of the vehicles, I decided as I
ducked again. They'd been hit pretty hard. Still, it doesn't hurt to be sure. I fed the rest of the grenade clip at them, using the sight to estimate best trajectory, and fired a few bursts as I shifted to the cover of another clumpy tree to put a new clip in. I wasn't the only one with that idea. The wrecked vehicles were exploding into polymer and metal confetti from the impact of perhaps ten clips of grenades. The stink of ammonia, fuel, scorched polymer, burning magnesium, bugs in the earth, rotten foliage . . . it reeked, let's just leave it at that.
But that had the desired effect. The enemy stopped paying attention to the downed crews. Some few of them ran as fast as and as far as they could away from us. That wasn't very far. As they entered the clear area, Carpenter and his people hit them, and two brutal hoses of fire lashed out from our crashed vertol, over the downed party's heads. People seem to assume that a craft once down is helpless. That depends on various factors. This one might not fly again, but the crew had unlatched the door guns and were propping them across dead trunks. Not the most accurate base, but good enough for this. The UN doesn't believe in arming evac vertols, relying instead on the red cross logo to protect them, so we didn't have a third cannon, but two seemed to be enough. The enemy hesitated and died, dove for cover, or otherwise ignored us. We began to circle wide around them. I heard the distinctive sound of a Hatchet element overhead, then the pleasing sound of enemy armor being mulched. A quick listen on his frequency let me hear Neil's singsong control voice chanting, " . . . confirmed on the ADA, Katanas. Target Two is an IAV with rapid fire cannon, eight zero meters north of your previous target, five five meters west . . . and that's a splash. Target three is a . . ." I stopped listening. He was doing his job.
Frank pinged for attention and said, "We have our recovery, we're landing." I pinged back without speaking.
Volokhonsky had balls. At Frank's suggestion, he dropped between the casualties and the enemy, using himself as shield. Not quite what I wanted or had asked for, as it increased the risk of damage to what would be the savior of us all. But it did offer more cover for the extractees. The rescue bird was landing behind him from my point of view, on the far side of them.
"Ops, turn in. We're going through the BGs," I said, for I could see that they were still sniping at our people. The only way to stop that was to keep them occupied. Well, it's only scary while they're actually shooting at you.
"Leapfrog by team. Er, new guys are in third team, everyone else buckle down," I ordered. I'd forgotten to tell the replacements what team they should be in, and they'd been too eager to ask. Luckily, all the missing personnel were from Weapons. Just as well. "One!" I hissed loudly, and leaned between the trees to lay down suppression. I caught movement at the right range and direction, and put a few rounds and a grenade right on the spot. "Two!" I said after a timed five seconds on my visor display, and rolled sideways around a protruding root. I had to wait my turn, but didn't feel like being an easy target in the meantime. "THREE!" I snapped, and moved.
I rolled sideways, got into lizard crawl, and advanced behind another hummock. I stood in a crouch, hopped over the top and skittered into the next depression while shooting, threw myself low and banged my chin on the ground. It burned and hurt and stunned me for a moment. "One!" I ordered as I shook it off. Damn, that hurt. "Stagger position for best advance, Two," I said as I refreshed clips and laid down more fire. Second fire team formed a rough skirmish line behind the best available cover. "Stagger out, Three," I said next, then took a good position behind a tangled bush to my right.
We were close now, and these bastards were panicking. They had heavy fire from aircraft and evacuees on one side, heavy fire from us on the other, and they were stuck spread and naked. "Boarding!" I heard Jack inform me.
"Boarding, acknojjed!" I replied. We'd been on the ground all of one hundred and fifty seconds, according to my tac. I felt as if I'd run a marathon.
The escort vertol made a pass along the road, guns laying a swath of tracer that did resemble a laser, or at least a vid game version of a laser. Small munitions shattered some of the remaining vehicles. Now it would get interesting. We would be going through the wreckage, as we didn't have time to go around. Well, it's only scary while you're doing it. "Through the middle, by team!" I ordered, and braced myself. "Oleg, Frank, keep this spot clear of fire, no matter what happens!" I ordered, and lit the map for him.
"Acknohleged!" he replied. His accent got thicker under stress. A ping from Frank echoed Oleg.
"ONE!" I yelled. They sprinted through, weapons tucked and firing, as the vertols and we poured fire on both sides. They made it through and hit the ground, and then fire started pouring over them from the vertol.
"Oleg, Three Zulu One, CEASE THAT FIRE!" I shouted. It was already lifting. The flight engineer had apparently manned the unfamiliar gun while Bryce helped hoist casualties, and had gotten eager. Luckily, no one was hurt that I could tell. "TWO!" I followed up while the enemy was still confused. Team One shot the hell out of my right, we shot up the left as Two ran between them. That's the way muzzles naturally point for right handed shooters. We practice things like that until everyone knows what to do and it's almost instinctive. Then Two was through. "THREEEEE!" I screamed as I dodged and ran through smoking, twisted wreckage that clawed at me, protruding pieces of damaged vehicle frames and shells, cratered and pocked earth and corrosive air burning my lungs. I was aiming about five meters in front of myself and poured out an entire clip. I shifted my point of aim as Tyler hopped in from the side and she ripped off the rest of the drum in the 42. Then we were through.
We were through! I yelled, "Control, Three Zulu One, FIRE SUPPORT!" and the Hatchets made another pass behind us, Neil guiding them within meters of us. Oleg brought the vertol around tail to us, and both door guns proceeded to dump money and ammo behind us. We retreated leapfrog through the tall grass around the roadway, shooting as we went, although I didn't think there was much left of that convoy. Call it a target of opportunity. They'd picked the wrong people to screw with.
Then we were scrambling aboard, metal rungs and steps hard under our feet and against our hips and shins. Someone got hit as we did, and slumped as something spattered me. I helped shove the limp form ahead of me. Everyone clicked a signal as they got inside, and in seconds my tac showed them all aboard one aircraft or another. "OLEG, LIFT!" I demanded. It came in stereo, as I was still transmitting, and had just coded back into the onboard net. He relayed to the other two craft, and we all rose ponderously over the trees, wind and impeller wash and dust and twigs pelting us through the doors. It was still cramped.
"Control, Three Zulu One," I shouted into my mic. "Thor! Thor! Thor!" I lit the coordinates and sent them, even though they were already in the database. It never hurts to be sure. Then I turned. The casualty was Neil. Head shot through the visor. Dead. Shit.
"Thor confirms target," I heard back from Control, then a few seconds later, "Thor confirms fire." Then the now distant site erupted in a brilliant flash as metal bars homed in on the remains of the convoy at 7 km/sec.
"They were friendlies," Oleg rasped in my ear.
"What?" I replied.
"They were Christian Coalition fighters. We didn't get the advisory until after we lifted just now. I guess our control didn't relay to yours in time."
I had just enough presence of mind to drop the clips from my weapon, then I turned and started smashing it against the bulkhead. There was profanity under my screams, but the noise was all that came through. I was absolutely fucking berserk. I mashed a finger and didn't care. Pieces of ultratough polymer broke off the stock and I didn't care. Dents appeared in the bulkhead, and I didn't fucking care. I didn't dare think about how many people had died in the last two days because of bureaucratic fuckups and human stupidity, because I knew exactly how many it was, and didn't want to think about it, because . . .
I was wrestled down to the deck. A noise in my ears resolved as Oleg shouting, asking what was wrong. Deni was trying to talk to him
through the din, Tyler and Kit were holding me down, and Tyler was screaming into my ear over the roar of the craft and the slipstream. "Boss, either you calm down or I will trank your ass right here and carry you off when we get back!" I finally heard.
"Shit," was all I could think to say. Through a red haze of CNS afterglow and fading adrenaline and hyperventilation my thoughts became rational again. Someone had screwed up a target along the line, and before a correction could be made, we'd lost three craft and a few people, and they'd lost a convoy and a lot of people. Great. Thrilling.
But it wasn't over yet. Oleg called again. "We're overrmass," he said.
"How?" I replied. I came back to rationality because it was the only way to stay alive.
"Impeller damage. We're going in if we can't lohwer mass. Two zero zero kilos might do it. What can we lose?" he asked.
I dragged Neil's soggy form toward the door, stuffed hand grenades and demo blocks into his gear, and looped four weapons around him by their straps. I gripped a grenade tab, kissed his battered helmet and rolled him over the lip. "Fire in the hole!" I yelled. Five seconds later, a boom slapped at us. Hell of a way for an Operative to be disposed of, but I knew he'd support the mission. Too bad we hadn't been able to support him.
"Noht enough," Oleg said. I could almost see his head shaking. "Ze bearings are starting to gall," he explained. I could feel it. The ride was getting rougher and noisier as we went. The craft might stay airborne . . . if we were lighter. I looked around for things to dump, like our own considerable mass, the gear, the rescue kit . . .
"Toss the winch," I said, and the flight engineer reached down with a wrench to twist the lugs loose. I tossed out a couple more weapons, after rigging grenades to them. No need to leave anything the enemy could use. Two more harness rigs followed them, and the winch.
The Weapon Page 29