A Hymn Before Battle lota-1

by John Ringo

  Pappas gazed at him thoughtfully. “When will you get to the unit?” he asked. The suspicion was obvious.

  Stewart shook his head in reproach. “Gunny, I ain’t saying we won’t do a little partying. We’re gonna have to to blend in. But we’ll rejoin the unit, all of us, by dawn. Getting out will be harder than getting in. Drawing off their attention from you will be the easiest part.”

  Pappas nodded his head and regarded the private sagely. “Uh, huh.” He puffed out his cheeks in thought. “You know Stewart, some day I’m going to have to ask you how you got your entire street gang through Fleet Strike’s personnel filters and into my basic platoon.” He paused. “Intact.”

  Stewart smiled thinly. “But not tonight,” he said determinedly.

  “Not tonight,” the NCO agreed. “However, I’m not going to trust to your streetwise for everything. Once we pass through the area we’ll take up over-watch until I think you’re doing okay. Don’t hurry, we’ll be there as long as we need to.”

  “I’ll be fine, Sergeant,” said the private, with quiet confidence.

  “Okay, then you won’t mind if we watch?” Pappas said with a smile.

  Stewart shook his head in resignation. “Whatever, boss.”

  “Okay,” said the NCO, “time to play.”

  * * *

  Stewart wiped his hands surreptitiously on his silks then stepped forward and slapped the broad shoulder of the soldier in front of him.

  “Hola, ’migo, ¿dónde ’stá el licor?” The job was going to require some high-proof spirits.

  The big Hispanic soldier turned with a snarl. “Que chingadero quiere saber, cameron?”

  “Hey, we just got here. I need a drink.” A twenty appeared as if by magic in Stewart’s hand. The squad behind him had taken on the standard swagger, hands thrust into their belts or in pockets, hips thrust out, looking around. Just a bunch of home-boys looking for a party. Stewart had thrust the two broomsticks into the back of his jacket so that they jutted out the neck. In a pinch they would be in action in an instant.

  The big soldier took one look at the gang and rethought his approach. He had his own group of bullies to call on, but the time was not right for a fight against unknown odds. He was pretty sure he could break the shrimp like a twig, but you never knew. He looked awful confident.

  “It’s hard to find, man,” the big soldier said, taking a swallow of the raw tequila. “Maracone over by the bleachers, he usually got some.”

  “Gracias,” said Stewart, the twenty suddenly sprouting from the pocket of the Hispanic soldier.

  “De nada,” said the trooper and turned back to his buddies.

  “Anything?” whispered Wilson.

  “Had a shiv,” said Stewart quietly, “and some kind of pistol.”

  “Had,” smiled the second in command.

  “Had,” said Stewart, with a complete lack of humor. He was totally concentrated on the mission. “We’re gonna do a deal.”

  Even at halfway across the field the dealer was obvious, a ratty little private surrounded by heavies and a group of female soldiers with their uniforms cut down to nothing but midriff tops and shorts. They must have been freezing in the cool, moist autumn night.

  “Okay,” said Wilson, doing an automatic sweep of the area for threats. Then he checked to see that the rest of the squad was in position, looking out. They were and he nodded to himself in satisfaction; everything was rikky-tik as the gunny would say.

  “Then I’m gonna do the sword swallower routine,” continued Stewart. He was thinking about future plans and tactics while Wilson handled the present and security. They had developed the relationship as a survival necessity in the barrio, never realizing that they had simply reinvented the officer/NCO continuum.

  “Got it.”

  “Here.” He slipped the private the small pistol. Using Stewart as a shield, the private quickly checked the .25 caliber automatic. “Cover me.”

  Stewart stepped toward the dealer. One of the bodyguards stepped in front of him only to be waved aside. It was a pro forma demonstration of power that Stewart noticed no more than the wind. Now that he was inside the perimeter the dealer and at least two guards were dead even without Wilson’s backup. These guys are such fucking amateurs, he thought.

  “Hola,” he grinned, “whacha got?”

  “What you want?” asked the dealer in a bored voice. “We got about everything.”

  “Need some high-test booze, man. We’re just in from basic and got us a powerful thirst!” He grinned maniacally, a stupid little basic trainee way in over his head. Yeah, that’s it.

  “That’s pretty expensive, man,” said the dealer. “Booze is hard to get. The fuckin’ MPs keep raiding my stash.”

  “Hey,” said Stewart, whipping out a wad of bills, “I got nothin’ but money, man. You got some high-proof tequila?”

  “Sure,” smiled the ratty little soldier. He gestured to one of the girls who reached in a spray-painted ammunition box and pulled out an unmarked bottle. “That’s sixty.”

  “Jesus,” said Stewart, shaking his head, “that is steep.” He counted out the bills and took the bottle. One sip was all it took to ensure that there was sufficient alcohol in the mix for his plan. “How! Time to Party!”

  “Yeah,” the dealer said sourly. “Somewhere’s else, I got other customers.”

  “Sure, man, later.” Stewart smiled again and walked back to the squad.

  “Sniper on the top of the bleachers,” whispered Wilson. “I can’t see the rifle, but it’s there somewhere.”

  “Can you take him from the other end?”

  “Not with this fuckin’ little Astra. Maybe you, but even then not with the first shot. And somebody’s already got that end staked out.”

  “No problemo. People are always willing to recognize talent,” Stewart smiled.

  “You are a fuckin’ nut, Manuel.”

  “My name is James Stewart. Don’t ever forget that.”

  “Sure, and I’m the king of Siam.”

  “Handkerchiefs,” Stewart said without comment, holding out his hand. The squad handed over the items and he tied them on the ends of the broken broom handles. Doused with the two-hundred-proof tequila they were torches waiting for a match.

  “Here goes nothing,” he said and walked towards the group that had staked out the section of bleachers away from the area’s single dealer.

  “Hey, folks,” he said to the group of white soldiers. They watched him approach suspiciously. He nodded at the obvious leader, a heavyset balding sergeant with rolls of fat on his neck.

  “You know what this party needs,” Stewart asked in a loud happy voice.

  “A fuckin’ idiot?” asked the leader. His group laughed at the rough humor.

  What an Einstein, thought Stewart. “No, some entertainment!” He hopped up on the bleachers and took a swig of the raw whiskey. With a flick of a lighter he spit it back out in a cloud of fire. The belch of dragon’s flame lit the area and there were gasps from the group on the bleachers.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he called out to the surroundings, “welcome to the Greatest Show on Earth! I will shock and amaze you with my powers of prestidigitation and psychic abilities! My powers know no bounds!” As he spoke he whipped out the batons, lit them and began twirling.

  * * *

  “Okay,” said Pappas, “that’s the signal. Get ready to move.”

  The wait as Stewart moved into position had been an eternity, but now that the show had started the crowd was, in fact, moving. He decided to move with it.

  “Fourth, head towards Stewart, try to get as close as possible. Third, head into the middle of the field. When Fourth is in position, head for the barracks.” He shook his head. “Fuckin’ everybody and their brother is headed for that little idiot.”

  * * *

  It was the largest crowd he had ever performed for; even the dealer and his bodyguards had moved over. These people must be really hard up for entertainment. On the o
ther hand, it had gone well. The mental act always amazed people and the tequila had held out long enough to do both the juggling act and the fire-swallowing.

  But he was down to magic tricks and it was about time for the big finale. He gestured at Wilson who rolled up his sleeves. He positioned himself across from Stewart and looked toward the squad. One of the members tossed him a knife and he tossed it to Stewart. Stewart tossed it back and they started a two-man juggle. One of the other members of the squad started to sing a well-known dance tune and they began dancing up and down the bleachers spinning and doing handstands as the squad tossed more and more items into the juggle. After fifteen minutes, Stewart found himself exchanging fourteen items, including the burning torches and two knives, and knew it was time to call it quits. With a nod at Wilson he flipped himself upward one-handed and caught the fountain to complete the act to thunderous applause.

  * * *

  “Gunny,” said Adams, working his way into the packed crowd. “We got more problems.”

  29

  Andata Province, Diess IV

  0019 GMT May 19th, 2002 ad

  The journey of a hundred meters begins with one push, thought O’Neal. The suit lights had banished the enveloping darkness, but the twisted masses of plascrete and rubble they revealed was just as depressing.

  “Okay, have you come up with any ideas?” he asked his AID.

  “Only one. There is a small open area 3.5 meters away at 123 degrees mark 8. If you can worm your way there, you can work your way towards the nearest exit by blasting small openings with the activator charges on your grav rounds.”

  “What, you mean use them as explosives? How?”

  “If you jam one of them firmly in place then shoot it with your grav pistol, it will fracture the antimatter activator charge, releasing the energy as an explosion.”

  “That sounds… odd but possible. Okay, all I have to do is make it ten or eleven feet up and to the right. How do I turn over? Never mind… I’ve got an idea.” His right hand was, fortunately, near his grav pistol. The suit’s biomechanical musculature made short work of the intervening rubble and he sighed as his gauntlet contacted the familiar grip. He drew it and angled the barrel across his abdominal cuirass, the point that seemed most tightly constricted. Whispering a brief prayer to whatever gods might be watching this dust bowl of a planet, he triggered a single round into the plascrete mass.

  The concussion belled unexpectedly loud through the armor, transmitting by contact noise that previously had been comfortably muffled. Despite the muffling underlayer, his ears rang as though someone had put a tin bucket over his head and whacked it sharply with a stick. There was a moment’s freedom as he rolled quickly to his left then his right shoulder stuck fast again. If he were out of the suit, he could have flexed his shoulders inward and made the turn. On the other hand, if he was out of the suit he would be dead. The external monitors indicated very low oxygen levels and aerosol toxins, probably a result of all the combusted fish oil and associated burning.

  He worked the barrel upwards and carefully turned his head to the side. If the round struck the helmet or any part of his armor dead on he would be pureed as effectively as that poor private in the first contact. Pressing the barrel as much as possible into the slab, he triggered another round. This time it skittered ineffectually along the plascrete and ricocheted off his cuirass. The relativistic teardrop left a deep, glowing trench in the refractory armor that had shed thousands of lower velocity flechettes in the earlier battle and the heat dissipated through the underlayer.

  Rattled by the near miss he tried again and on the second attempt cracked the refractory plascrete. He twisted like a cat and found himself on his stomach facing slightly downward. Although there was pressure on several points he could move the rubble after a fashion, courtesy of the tremendous power available from the combat armor. After he twisted back and forth for a bit, the slab piece that had cracked to the left of his shoulder and was now across his right slipped beneath him with a resounding crash and a small area was opened to the upper right. He holstered his pistol and snaked a hand up to a convenient handhold revealed in his suit lights. With a firm grip on a piece of structural ceramet he dragged the rest of his body sharply up and to the right. Since this was the way he wanted to go he braced his feet on the rubble he had extracted himself from and pushed upwards. He was rewarded by sliding sharply backwards.

  After a good bit more struggle and twice being forced to use his pistol when vigorous activities were rewarded by large slabs pinning some point of his armor he finally reached the promised open area. Above his head was some indefinable piece of machinery. It was this large something, another indefinable bit of Galactic machinery that created the pocket. He took a sip of water and just sat and scanned his situation for a moment. No rifle, lost sometime during the explosion. Shoulder grenade launchers sheared off clean. Replacement was a simple field repair assuming spares which he ain’t got. One hundred twenty-eight thousand remaining rounds of depleted uranium 3mm penetrators with antimatter activator charge, pretty much useless without a rifle. Grav pistol and forty-five hundred rounds. Two hundred eighty-three grenades, hand or launcher useable. A thousand meters of 10,000kg test micro line, universal clamp and winch. C-9, four kilograms. Detonators. Sundry pyrotechnic and specialty demolition supplies. Personal Area Force-screen; useless against kinetic weapons, as he had pointed out, but of some utility otherwise. His suit had air, food and water for at least a month.

  Unfortunately, at his current rate of energy consumption he would be out of power in twelve hours; the kinetic damping systems had been forced to work overtime counteracting not only the effects of the fuel air explosion but also the settlement of the rubble. Combine all of those with the unexpected and unprecedented strains involved in extracting through the rubble and it was a recipe for disaster.

  Mike took a bite of suit rations. Ah, pork fried rice pulp. The semibiotic liner of the suit absorbed all bodily wastes, skin-borne oxygen and nitrogen, dead skin cells, sweat, urine and, ahem, and converted them back into breathable air, potable water and surprisingly edible food. In fact the food was quite tasty and constantly changing; just now it changed to broccoli. The texture was still paste, but the system pulled a little power and voilà. No worries about anything but power, as long as he did not think of where the food was coming from.

  Well, if it took twelve hours to work through the rubble, he might as well be dead; by then he would be far behind the lines. If he was alone, he would be dead. On the other hand…

  “Michelle, how many other members of the battalion are down here and functional?” The GalTech communications network could easily punch through the rubble and determine precise positions of every unit.

  “Fifty-eight. The senior is Captain Wright of Alpha company. Captain Vero is also trapped under Qualtrev, but he is severely injured and his AID has administered Hiberzine. There are thirty-two personnel who will survive if they are evacuated to a class one medical facility within one hundred eighty days. All are now in hibernation.”

  Mike rocked his armor back and forth on the plascrete pile trying to make a more stable spot. “Okay, gimme a three-D map with locations, and note rank with increasing brightness levels. Those out of action in yellow, functional in green.”

  As he spoke the map formed in front of his eyes. Most of the severely injured were those closest to the fuel-air burst or close to Jericho charges.

  “Are any of the others starting to extract themselves?”

  “A few. The AIDs are sharing the technique. It was initially hard to start without a pistol, but Sergeant Duncan of Bravo company suggested using grenades. So far, that is working.”

  “Get me Captain Wright,” said Mike, happy to have someone else find a solution.

  “Yes, sir.” There was a chirp and the sound of muted and futile swearing.

  “Ah, sir?”

  “Yes! Who is it?” Captain Harold Wright checked his heads-up display. “Oh, O�
�Neal. Your splendid idea worked like a charm. Congratulations.”

  “It would have been fine if it weren’t for the fuel-air explosion, sir,” Mike said with chagrin. A drift of dust dropped out of the ceiling of the rubble pocket.

  “That is what contingency plans are for, Lieutenant. As it is the battalion is combat ineffective, not to mention trapped in this damn rubble! Any more brilliant ideas?”

  “Work our way to the periphery, gather the survivors and head back to friendly lines?” Mike asked rhetorically.

  “And we start how?” asked the captain.

  “Your AIDs have the plans, sir. I’ve moved to an open pocket and am preparing to move to the periphery. Basically, we’ll blast our way out.”

  Hal Wright took a moment to consider the plan mapped out by the AID. “Okay, that might just work. I need to start rounding up the NCOs…”

  “Sir, the AIDs can sketch out a TOE based upon who we’ve got and who can make it out. My AID has significantly more experience than yours. If you wish, it can conference with yours and help it along with some of the rough spots…”

  “Like a certain helpful lieutenant?”

  “That was not in fact the idea.”

  “Well, whatever the idea, according to this schematic your helpful AID just supplied, you are the only surviving lieutenant under here. Congratulations, XO,” he concluded, wryly.

  “I’m not in the chain of command, sir.”

  “You are now. Also, according to this schematic, we will end up widely separated. You’ll have about thirty-five soldiers gathered in your area. When you’re concentrated we can try to use these utility tunnels to rendezvous. First, though, we have to actually extricate ourselves. Contact your personnel, they include Sergeant First Class Green, platoon sergeant of my second platoon. Get them sorted out and moving, then get back to me.”

  “Watch your energy level, sir,” Mike warned, checking his own decreasing waterfall display. “Mine is well down already. We can scavenge power if we find sources, but in the meantime…”