Stark's Command

by John G. Hemry

  "How come they're running, Stark?" a third voice wondered.

  Count to five, slowly, before answering. "I'll ask them when I get there."

  "We're getting some pressure, too," a fourth Sergeant added. "They're pushing us in front and the guys guarding our rears are running away. We can't hold our positions with that happening."

  Stark stared bleakly at the display, feeling uncertainty rising on all sides, the small hesitations multiplying, every one inconsequential in and of itself, but together building into a force that could turn the defenders into a panicked mob. "I told you we're gonna seal this penetration."

  "Maybe we oughta fall back a little."

  "No!" Stark almost shouted it. Start falling back now, and they'll never stop. "Hold on! Everybody hold their positions."

  "Why?"

  Why. Simple question. One word. Very hard answer. Why get yourself killed for something and someone else? Just having that question asked meant trouble, because "why" was one of the things you were supposed to be able to take for granted that everybody knew. "Why" had been easier to answer before Meecham's offensive had slaughtered the Third Division in repeated attacks against strong defenses, before the long habit of obedience had been shattered as unit after unit in Stark's own First Division had revolted against their own officers in order to try to save the remnants of the Third. Now, every possible reply seemed to have too many words, explanations too lengthy to have meaning to someone staring at incoming fire. Stark spoke with forced calm even as his mind churned in futile search for the answer that would likely do the job. "If anybody falls back, they'll screw everybody on their flanks and everybody in the rear."

  "We're getting screwed now, Stark."

  "You're in fortified positions," Vic broke in. "If you run, you'll be out in the open and much easier targets."

  "Sure, Reynolds. But you'd still be at headquarters, and we'd be just as dead either way. Why should we do that?"

  Stark felt pain, looking down to see his fist clenched so hard the armored fist of his suit was forming a vise. What reason could he give these Sergeants, what cause, when so much they'd always believed in and depended upon had been swept away along with the authority of their imprisoned officers? But maybe "what" was the wrong question right now, right this moment. Maybe right now he could only give them a "who." Sometimes people who couldn't find strong enough reasons to fight for themselves could find the reasons to fight for somebody else.

  Stark let his anger and frustration boil over, spitting out each word with accusing force. "Okay, Goddammit. You apes elected me to this rotten job. I didn't want it, but I said I'd do my best because you guys gave it to me."

  "We trusted you—"

  "And I trusted you! So now you're gonna leave me hanging while I try to do this damn job? Is that right?"

  "Stark, we've got our butts on the line here."

  "What the hell do you think I'm doin'? Looking at the damn scenery? I'm goin' out there. I'm goin' on the line. And I'm gonna hold that line. Because you gave me a job to do, and I'm gonna do it. So who the hell's gonna screw me? Who's gonna leave my backside hangin' out? You, Carmen? How about you, Jones? Or maybe Truen?"

  A moment's silence as the APC swerved around obstacles, rocking Stark in his harness though his eyes stayed fixed on the command display. "We ain't gonna screw you, Stark," an answer finally came. "We just, you know . . ."

  "No, I don't know. This is a battle. The enemy's in front of you. Kill 'em if they come at you, and they'll stop coming. That idea too complicated for anybody?" Silence, maybe embarrassed, maybe defiant. "So, you gonna fight? You gonna hold? You gonna back me up?" Stark demanded.

  "Yeah. We put you out there. We'll watch your flanks. Give 'em hell, Stark."

  "Thanks." He'd meant it to come out at least half-sarcastic, but relief made it sincere. A moment later, the APC braked gently, coming to a carefully controlled stop. Stark waited, fuming at the delay until the vehicle finally halted, then popped his harness and the access hatch in one motion. With the ease of long practice in low gravity, he shoved off surfaces with hands and feet to drive himself out and down instead of depending on the Moon's gentle pull for impetus. "Get the APC back about ten meters," he ordered the driver. "Have the gunner cover the ridge, but don't fire without my say-so."

  "Uh, sir, mobile command center-configured armored personnel carriers don't have any armament."

  "You don't have a gun? Nothing?"

  "No, sir. All the command and control gear takes up too much space."

  "Oh, for . . . never mind. Get that damned thing back ten meters and try to look threatening." Stark stood on the surface, the unnamed ridge rising before him, blasted black rock merging into endless black sky lit with a trillion trillion tiny lights that offered neither heat nor comfort. On the other side of the ridge, panic-stricken soldiers were streaming his way. Behind him, a battalion of soldiers was rushing toward this spot. But here, now, everything around sat quiet, still, and empty. Shut out the frantic messages filling comm circuits, look past the HUD crawling with enemy and friendly unit symbols, ignore the APC resting a short distance back, and Stark might be alone on the surface, the only human on the otherwise dead lunar landscape. Just like that first human here, the guy who made the speech about everybody cooperating to share the Moon. Too bad all the other countries thought we meant it and came up here to get their share. Too bad our greedy corporations couldn't be happy with owning everything on Earth and had to tell their bought-and-paid-for politicians to order us up here to take it all back, so we end up fighting an endless war that we can't win and refuse to lose no matter how much we bleed. Yeah, too bad that for every human who wants to cooperate in building something there's usually two willing to cooperate to destroy it. Far above, the blue-white marble of Earth beckoned, gazing down serenely at the organized violence its children had brought from their home. You ever feel a little guilty, Mother Earth? Inflicting your offspring on other planets? Hell, you ought to. Maybe if you'd treated the human race nicer when we were growing up we'd have turned out better.

  Stark's original intention had been to take a position on top of the ridge, giving him maximum visibility to help rally his panicked soldiers. But some instinct held him here, on the reverse slope, while he watched the symbols crawl his way from both directions. Off to his right, where the widest open gap lay, a field of jagged rocks littered the terrain. On his left, a smaller gap beckoned, but off the direct line-of-retreat of Stark's fleeing troops. On Earth they'd run right or left, but here they'll go up the ridge. Easier in the low gravity. So we've got to hold the top of that ridge. Right? Wrong. That won't work. Not enough time to dig in and anyone on that ridge will be exposed to fire by every enemy soldier coming this way. Besides, I've got to stop all the apes running away, and my reserve battalion won't get here before some of them do. Just me and a lot of scared-witless soldiers. A whole lot of scared soldiers. Back here, I can handle them as they start coming over that ridge, one or two at a time. Yeah, much better odds. But how to stop them? A rousing speech? Stark snorted in self-derision. I wouldn't know how. So what do I know?

  I know how to tell people what to do.

  A figure came panting over the crest of the ridge, movements jerky with fatigue and panic. Stark tagged the soldier's symbol, coming up with an instant ID. "Corporal Watkins!" The figure spasmed in surprise, staring toward where Stark stood. "Take up position on the right." Stark pointed, armored finger designating the spot.

  "What? But—"

  "Watkins, get your butt in position! Now!" The figure finally moved, instinctively obedient though still uncertain. Two more soldiers came scrambling into Stark's view. "Jurgen! Rodriguez! On the left! By that rock."

  "There's an enemy army right behind us! We can't stop them!"

  "You haven't tried! Get into position."

  "Who the hell are—? Stark? You're Stark?"

  "Yeah, I'm Stark. You gonna stand here with me or leave me to fight alone?"

 
The two privates began moving, descending the reverse slope to where Stark had pointed them. Another soldier came right behind them. "Steinberg! Get over there with Corporal Watkins!"

  "I don't—"

  "Shut up and get over there!" The words had barely cleared Stark's throat when two more soldiers came into sight, but both of these paused on the top of the ridge, facing back toward the enemy. "Sergeant Ulithi, Sergeant Van Buskirk! Get down here!"

  "We're going to stop them," Van Buskirk insisted, standing steady even though his voice shook with anger and frustration.

  "Damn straight," Stark approved. "But do it down here. One soldier at a time." He felt something to his left, where Jurgen and Rodriguez waited by their rock, an unsteadiness, as if the soldiers were reeds wavering in a strong wind. "Sergeant Ulithi, get down on my left and hold those soldiers and any others I send you. Van Buskirk, same on the right with Corporal Watkins."

  "Roger. They won't go nowhere, Stark." The Sergeants moved, and Stark's small line steadied a little more. More American soldiers now, coming in larger numbers. Too many to hail individually. Stark grabbed the ones he could, building up concentrations of troops who had stopped running. Gradually, they stiffened, out of sight of the enemy, surrounded by friends, with increasing numbers of Sergeants giving them alternate doses of encouragement and browbeating. Gradually, they became an armed force again instead of a beaten mob.

  "Commander Stark?" Another voice, breathing heavily, from a symbol approaching from the rear. "Fourth Battalion. Sergeant Milheim commanding."

  Stark broke his concentration on the situation to his front, switching scans and juggling responsibilities frantically. "Nice to see you. You got the positions in your Tacs?"

  "Yeah, but I don't like them."

  "What—?" Stark bit off the word, remembering Vic's anger at being ordered around like a new recruit. He's not some brainless, green private. He's a smart, senior enlisted. I'm not perfect, and I don't have time to think everything through the way a guy with less responsibilities can. I damn well better remember all that. "What's the problem?" he continued, his tone clipped but respectful.

  Milheim pointed along the ridge. "You want my battalion deployed in thirds. One third here in the center, and the others to the left and right. I want to put most of my people right here in the middle and only a company on each flank."

  Stark considered the idea, frowning at the ridge before him. "Why?"

  "Because the enemy ain't gonna come through that rough terrain on the left," Milheim argued. "It'd slow them too much, even in low-G. And the opening on the right is too far off their line of advance. No, they're gonna come charging right up the middle here, and I want enough force on hand to knock them back on their butts."

  "Kinda risky if you're wrong," Stark observed. "But it makes sense." And it felt right on that level where his instincts operated. "Okay. Do it, Milheim. Update your battalion's Tacs and get them deployed like you want. Do it fast. We ain't got much time."

  "You got it." Milheim's fierce smile somehow came through the comm circuit, then he switched circuits to start ordering his soldiers into position.

  "Ethan?"

  "Yeah, Vic."

  "What the hell is Milheim doing?"

  "Sorry. You weren't in on that conversation." Small wonder, with the entire rest of the battle to worry about. "We decided to deploy his battalion different than you'd told them."

  "I see. You've gotten rid of the officers so now you have to disobey my orders."

  "You think your original plan was better?"

  "I don't know. But I do know I can't run a battle if you keep improvising and don't keep me informed!"

  Stark winced. She's right. "I'll keep you cut in from now on."

  "Thanks." Vic sounded only slightly mollified. He'd have a lot of fences to mend when this battle was over, assuming they both survived the experience. "Don't get me wrong, though. I'm not used to handling this many troops. I want input."

  "Understood. Me, too."

  "You sure you want that battalion deployed along the back of the ridge? The best place to hit the enemy is when they're trying to climb up at you."

  "Yeah, and the best place for them to hit us is on top of that ridge. These guys are still shaky, Vic. I need them under cover."

  "You're on-scene. It's your call."

  The simple statement startled Stark, used to officers in the rear using the sophisticated command and control gear to literally try to call every shot he fired. If we get through this, I bet I can make these apes ten times as dangerous as they were when they were micromanaged. Just give me a chance.

  A moment's respite, the line around him solidifying, Milheim's Battalion giving a spine to those soldiers who had fled the enemy. Stark switched circuits again. "Anita. How's it going?"

  Her breathing came heavy, health indicators displaying stress markers across the board. "They're all over us, Sargento. This bunker ain't gonna last much longer. They've got its position, and there's a lot a heavy stuff being thrown at us."

  Scan simply confirmed Corporal Gomez's report. The enemy had figured out that Mango Hill formed the hinge for the American line now. Break it, and the rest of line would probably fall apart. Stark bared his teeth as he viewed the forces assaulting the hill held by his old Squad. Too much going on at once, but I'm not gonna forget them. Okay. Think it through. Try to find an option, maybe not a by-the-book option, but one that fits the problem. "Anita. Put the bunker's chain guns and grenade launchers on continuous full auto, minimum target criteria."

  "Sarge, that'll burn all their ammo in a coupla minutes, at the most."

  "The bunker won't last much longer than that, anyway, and that heavy fire will roll back the troops closest to you. Hang in there a little longer. We've almost got this mess fixed up."

  "Sí, Sargento. Got 'em on full auto. Uraaahhh!"

  "Bail out of there, Gomez, before they take the bunker down. You and the weapon station sentries."

  "Comprendo. See you on the surface, Sarge."

  Back to where he stood, focusing on the situation around him, adrenaline making Stark shiver with reaction even as Vic Reynolds called in. "Got a problem with Fifth Batt, Ethan."

  "What?" Stark scanned Fifth Battalion's symbology hastily, scowling as he did so. "Nobody's hitting them. Why aren't they moving?"

  "Because Kalnick doesn't like his orders."

  Kalnick. Sergeant Harry Kalnick. Not someone Stark had ever had much contact with. A vague impression of someone who didn't quite rub right, though. "Kalnick, this is Stark."

  "Yeah." The response was surly, with a dash of annoyance thrown in for good measure.

  Stark counted to three before speaking again, fighting off the pressure-driven urge to scream Kalnick into a primal state. Give him a chance to explain. "Why isn't your battalion moving into position on the flank of the penetration?"

  "I'm not going to let my battalion get beat up because you and Reynolds lost the bubble. I think it's a lousy idea and lousy tactics."

  "Okay, what's your idea? How do you think we should deploy Fifth Batt to stop and roll back this attack?" Silence. "Kalnick. Tell me what's wrong with the positions you've been ordered into."

  "They're lousy orders! They won't help anybody!"

  "What's your alternative?" Stark repeated with forced patience. "Kalnick? We haven't got all damn day. The tactical situation is critical, and every other soldier is counting on you."

  "This situation isn't my fault, Stark."

  "I'm not debating with you, Kalnick. Get your Battalion moving."

  Another voice, one Stark recognized, broke in as other Fifth Battalion Sergeants joined the debate. "Hey, Kalnick. What's wrong with these orders?" Sergeant Stacey Yurivan questioned.

  "Stark's trying to use us to bail himself out," Kalnick argued.

  "The hell he is. Stark's planted right in front of the enemy advance along with Fourth Batt."

  More Sergeants chimed in. "I got friends in Fourth Batt. I ain't lea
ving them hanging."

  "Why are we just sitting here?"

  "Kalnick, what's your plan?"

  Another brief stretch of silence, finally broken by Stacey Yurivan's voice again. "Hey, Kalnick. Either lead, follow, or get out of the way."

  On Stark's scan, units in Fifth Battalion began moving, breaking out of their neat alignment to head for the positions Reynolds had designated on the flank of the penetration. "Kalnick," he called, "I'm giving you one more chance. Get your Battalion in position. If you've got a problem, we'll settle it after this is over. Understand?"

  Kalnick didn't reply directly, but as Stark watched, the rest of Fifth Battalion surged into motion. Okay. Got that fire put out. Now look at the big picture. Got a battalion taking up position to hit the flank of the penetration. Stark pulled up the command scan, chewing his lip as he watched the so-far victorious enemy swarm toward his improvised defensive line. Got another battalion here behind the ridge. Switch views again. The Castle's still holding. Mango Hill's still holding. God, look at all the crap getting thrown at them. "Corporal Gomez." Static answered, fuzzed with the staccato beat of enemy jamming. Stark swore in frustration.