by Mark Kalina
The second carrier had its point defense system on and the inbound missile was torn apart by the blast of one of the point-defense panels. The explosion was still enough to dent the carrier's armor plate and obscure the vehicle in a cloud of billowing dust.
Those must have been anti-tank missiles, Bernie realized with a sense of dull dread.
"All framers, move!" screamed Captain Wilson, over the company push. "Evade and return fire!"
"Move it, B-squad!" shouted Bernie, shaking off her sense of shock and bounding to her feet and taking off at a sprint across the rocky ground.
Against missiles like the ones they'd just seen, staying in once place, even with good cover, was a death sentence for a framer; they had no point defenses against guided missiles. Surprisingly, though, running was a good defense; a frame's power pack usually didn't generate enough of a signature for a missile's tiny onboard guidance systems to track them on the move. If they stayed put, though, it would be easy for the hostiles to lock a missile onto a stationary target using the less compact, more capable targeting systems built into the launcher.
Desperately, Bernie scanned for targets, but nothing was visible over the distant refugee camp wall. If she'd been carrying her anti-armor missile launcher, she'd have been tempted to order a volley into the camp, just to suppress whoever was controlling those missiles. But her company hadn't bothered to carry the heavy weapons. The idea had been to minimize collateral damage among the unarmed refugees. Besides, who needed heavy weapons against a bunch of refugee gun-boys?
Far behind her, the frame carriers were scattering, revving up their motors and kicking up plumes of reddish dust.
Some of the carriers were firing their auto-smartguns into the camp wall. They had no specific targets, but Bernie thought that maybe they'd at least give the enemy, whoever it was, something to worry about.
From a couple of kilometers away, the sound of the big bullets cracking by overhead was distinct from both the distant booming rattle of the smartguns firing and from the snapping impacts of the bullets on the camp's walls.
Another volley of missiles rose over the wall of the camp, this time tracking for where A-squad had been sheltering. The impacts kicked up violent sprays of rocks and dirt, but the A-squad framers were long gone. On the other hand, Bernie realized, if the hostiles could get an observer to command-guide those missiles, they'd be able to swat the evading frame infantry with ease.
"All carriers converge your fire on the top of the camp wall," came the captain's order.
Finally, a sensible order, Bernie thought as she ran. Keep their heads down so they couldn't see where the framers were going to ground.
The distant booming crackle of the carrier's auto-smartguns rolled out and echoed across the desert. From a few kilometers away, the bursts were scary accurate, strings of rounds tracking right across the top of the camp walls, kicking up showers of dust and debris.
Bernie picked some cover, locked it in to her targeting system and transmitted it to the display visors of the rest of her squad.
"Go to ground, B-squad," she sent, and suited action to words.
She was breathing hard; running full tilt through the desert was hard even when the frame helped your legs and took all the weight of your weapons and armor.
The carriers were still firing, pumping out burst after burst, bullets arcing across the desert to slap into the top of the camp's wall. The wall was wreathed in dust, but what could be seen of it was beginning to look like something large had chewed on it.
Those refugee fucks were going to be sorry they ever messed with her company, Bernie thought. But where did they get those missiles?
"Captain," came a voice over the command push, which as a squad-leader, she could listen in on, "I've got movement three klicks south on the rise..."
It sounded to Bernie like one of the carrier systems operators; they ran the carrier's auto-smartgun, helped maintain the frames and operated drones when they had to; the jacks-of-all-trades of a framer company.
The captain's voice came on the push. "Movement? Can you task a drone?"
"I did, sir. It just went off line. Should I task another one?"
"Right, do that. And while you're at it, get..."
Whatever the captain was going to say was cut short as one of the distant frame carriers exploded. Bernie snapped her head over in time to see the fireball climb into the sky and dissipate, showering distant the ground with debris. She focused her visor display on the remains of the carrier; it looked like it had been split open the long way, reduced to a mass of twisted metal.
From far to the south, a distant, rolling boom echoed like thunder.
A few seconds later another carrier was smashed, flinging debris for a hundred meters in all direction, before it too exploded. Another distant roll of thunder followed its destruction.
"Oh, my god!" someone called out on the command push. "That's three gone!"
"All carriers, deploy countermeasures!" came the captain's shout over the command push. "Pop smoke and maneuver! Get back over the north ridge!"
Bernie's comm system pinged to tell her that a feed from one of the carrier's drones was now available, and she pulled it up on her visor display.
"Oh, shit!" Bernie breathed, as the picture coming from the drone became clear. "Tanks."
16.
"I don't know, Colonel," Major Feldman said. "Those reports sound garbled and the whole notion is far-fetched. Some sort of refugee uprising?"
Aaron Feldman was a short man, stocky and solid-looking, with oddly mild-looking brown eyes that seemed not to match his hard expression and his hairless, bullet-like head, shaved to obviate the onset of pattern baldness. The colonel, standing next to him, was notably taller than he was and he had never really made his peace with looking up to her... in either sense.
The early morning cool had gone as if had never been, and the battalion had finished rousing itself from its overnight bivouac. Staying out in the Highlands at night was a useful exercise, he admitted, but it would be good to head back to the assembly area and then to stand down and go home. Except that now it seemed there was something else to do.
"I agree that it's far-fetched, Feldman," Tara said, "but let's look at facts. First we lose contact with two Aerospace 'ghosts' and then our satellite comm and data-cloud feeds go down. And now there's a garbled call for help on an Infantry Corps push."
"That doesn't prove..."
"Doesn't prove anything," Tara agreed. "But I think something's going on. Command isn't responding to our shortwave radio communications, but there's no guarantee they're getting through to them; with the satellites not working, Command's going to be having a pretty chaotic day. So we take a look."
"Our orders were to escort the convoy and then head back to the staging area at Baker's Station," Feldman said.
"I do remember, thanks, Feldman," Tara quipped. "But this is weird, and we're in position to take a look. So let's take a look."
"Very well, Colonel. But I'd rather just take one platoon. If I take my whole company, it'll take hours to get back into proper position. Hell, I'd rather just take my tank and drive down there for a quick look, but I know you won't allow it."
"Alright, Feldman. One platoon, but get it done. Take a look, report back that nothing's wrong, and then we can head home."
"Well, Younger, what do you think's going on?" Tara asked, as the two of them watched Feldman's tanks drive off.
"Don't know, Legs. Not a clue."
"Seriously, Captain. I want your take," Tara said.
"I think you should have let me take one of my platoons instead of Feldman, is my take."
"Oh, God, Younger, not that again. Your whole company is so new the price tags are still attached. Neither of your subordinate platoon-leaders has got any actual command experience. Or combat experience, for that matter. If there's actually something out there and I'm not just starting at shadows, then sending one them out would be... let's see, how do I say this? A
bad idea.
"And if I sent you, who the fuck would run your company? Me? I've got my own company to run... and my platoon... and my fucking battalion, in case you didn't notice. Armored Corps has its fucking head up its ass, not giving battalion commanders a command tank section and a separate platoon and company leader."
"Yeah, well, Legs, just get promoted again a couple of times and then you can change the policy..."
"Right. I'll get right on it, Younger. Seriously, I don't like this. It feels... edgy. Like some bad shit is about to go down. Do you know what I mean?"
"Actually, Legs, yeah. I do. Like there's a storm coming. 'Course, I've been watching you get all antsy, so I might just be picking up on that. Aren't battalion commanders supposed to be all calm and cool and shit?"
Tara reached over and lightly punched the huge man in the shoulder.
"You are so full of shit, Younger," she said, grinning. "You'd better get back to your tank. I want all the tanks to do a little maneuvering. Get the drivers to actually drive between the alternate firing positions we've set up. If something's up..."
"Yeah, Legs. If. I know. Gonna feel pretty silly, getting this ready, if it turns out to be just some refugee gang-lord fight."
"Nah, Younger. I'll just call it training. That's the awesome thing about being battalion commander. Everything I say is automatically rendered wise and correct through the magic of my exalted rank."
Younger laughed as he slid off the turret of Tara's tank and started stomping towards his own War-Hammer.
17.
The six surviving frame carriers of the 9th Frame Infantry Company were going slow, trying to keep their dust cloud down. There were twenty-one framers, a whole platoon's worth, with no proper transport, which meant that there were framers clinging to the roofs and sides of the six remaining vehicles.
The trick was to make sure nobody masked one of the auto-smartgun turrets, Bernie thought. Her carrier had been one of the ones destroyed, and now she was finding out that clinging to the side of a frame carrier was even more uncomfortable than being stuffed into one of the oversized-but-still-cramped frame-trooper-sized seats that she usually rode in.
She wasn't quite clear how the company, or what was left of it, had gotten away from those tanks. Somehow, as the framers had rushed towards their surviving carriers in the dust and smoke, the tanks had lost them... or let them go.
For that matter, she had no idea whose tanks those were to begin with. It wasn't even clear how many tanks there had been; the drones had shown only one with any clarity, and even than one had been half-obscured by the dust its main gun had kicked up.
Except that it was pretty clear they weren't Defense Force tanks. Whatever was going on, though, it was serious. The sat-comm system was down, and calls to Command on the shortwave radio were being met with silence. Jamming, was the word going around.
Despite the loss of the three carriers, so far only six of the company's people had been killed. Bernie had allowed herself a moment of relief when she found that the captain's carrier, with the two Earther civilians aboard, had not been among the ones to be hit. The thought came with a muted burst of bitter resentment that her carrier had been hit. Neither the driver nor the systems operator had been close to her, but they'd still been...
She cut her thought short; there wasn't time for it. They were gone, the rest of the company was in deep shit, and she had to keep herself focused. Other thoughts could come later.
"All drivers, stop," came Captain Wilson's voice over the command push, "gunners, scan three-sixty. All squad leaders, dismount and meet me by my carrier."
"OK," the captain said, speaking face to face with the two lieutenants and six assorted sergeants who made up the leadership of 9th Company.
Bernie noticed that the two civilians had dismounted as well, though they were hanging well back from the clustered meeting of armored framers.
"Here's what we've got," the captain went on. "We've lost our communications with Command. Sat-Comm is down. I don't know if it's some sort of info-war attack on the comm-network, or if the satellites have been taken out. Now, since our only working radio booster was on Carrier-7, and that's gone, we might not be getting through to Command. Or there might be jamming"
There was a radio booster on the captain's carrier, too, Bernie knew, but a single freak fragment from the destruction of one of the other carriers had hit it with what seemed like a sniper's precision, smashing the external module without even scratching the paint on the frame carrier's hull.
"We definitely know that there's a major hostile incursion going on," the captain went on. "Some sort of infiltration. So. Here's what we do. With no sat-comm, our sat-nav and the Defense Force data-cloud is down too, but we've got a clear line on the Isthmus Highlands and our nav systems can triangulate, so we know where we are."
The captain was pointing to a reference point on the map displayed on his planning tablet, a bit of gear that officers had to carry, which sergeants didn't. Bernie carried a spare magazine for her M39 in that pouch.
"Now," Captain Wilson went on, "we are just over eighty klicks from this little automated sensors outpost, right here on this ridge. It's hard terrain, but the carriers can still make it, and it's far from the road route. I figure, those hostile tanks are going to be watching the road.
"If we can make it to the outpost, there's a full communication setup there. Satellite uplink, but also directional parabolics and a serious radio booster setup. So even if there's some sort of jamming, we should be able to punch through.
"If that doesn't work, I plan to keep moving till here," the captain's finger tapped another point on his map screen, "to this Auxiliary Corps outpost at Hamilton Station. There should be a squad of Auxiliary Corps people there, and some transport too, as well as a parts depot. Maybe they've still got communications with Command. Or maybe we need to warn them and pull them out before those hostile tanks find them."
The captain paused a second. To Bernie it seemed as if he wanted to see if anyone had anything to add, but before Lieutenant Maynard could draw a breath to speak, the captain started up again.
"From there, we can try to fall back into the highlands, to Baker's Station. There's an Armored Corps outpost there. Hopefully someone at one of these places will know what's going on."
"We got to keep it slow," said Chief-Sergeant Norton, the company's senior NCO. He was probably the oldest man in the company, having refused promotion to officer rank often enough to make it a running joke. "If we move too fast, dust cloud... and then the tanks home in."
"Absolutely correct," said the captain. "In fact, I plan to move slowly enough to keep one platoon of framers out and running as a perimeter. That way, we get some warning when we crest any high ground. And our route will stick to low ground for the carriers as much as possible. I don't want to risk silhouetting them on some miserable little sand hill. So, this is the first leg of the route. My platoon will take perimeter duty till we hit this point. Then we switch to 2nd Platoon, till here. And then 3rd Platoon till the outpost."
Riding inside a frame carrier again was a bit of a relief, Bernie thought. Granted it was cramped and dark, but it was a chance to rest and let the carrier's power plant recharge her frame's power pack.
It still wasn't comfortable. Wearing a frame gave you mobility, firepower and protection, but it took away the ability to scratch most itches, which was, in Bernie's opinion, actually the worst hardship of being a framer.
From her seat in the carrier, she could see into the forward crew cab, where the two reporters were sitting, huddled in some mix of shock and misery. She wanted to tell them that it would be OK, but for one thing, she had no idea if it would be OK. And for another, she was pretty sure that the forces shooting at her had been UEN... and did that make the reporters part of the enemy? Bernie was pretty sure that the German woman, Ulla, would have been delighted if UEN forces had wiped her company out. Aran, though, seemed to have a more Australian —or was it Indonesi
an?— attitude. He seemed to be more open minded, unless that was a trick of some sort.
Fuck it, she thought to herself. The Earthers would have to take care of themselves. She had her squad to worry about, and that was enough.
***
"I'm... I'm scared, Aran," Ulla whispered. "I wish I'd never agreed to come with you. I wish you hadn't agreed to this. I wish we were both back on Earth."
"Me too, Ulla," Aran said. "But we're here, and we have to keep our wits about us, or our chances will be worse than they already are. Right? Eyes and ears open and brains working. That's the best bet for getting out of a sticky situation like this."
"I'm afraid of the Arcadians with us. What if they decide to take revenge on us... for their people who got killed? I mean, were those UEN forces? I want to get away from here," Ulla hissed.
"I don't think the Arcadians are into reprisal killings, though," Aran said, sounding thoughtful. "I think they'll try to keep us safe, until they can get us out of here."
"If the UEN is here, then we'd be safe if we can get to them," Ulla said. "I don't see how you can be so sure about the Arcadians. They were going to kill those refugees. They fired at the camp. Who knows how many people died inside?"
"They were being shot at, you noticed?"
"Sure, but they didn't show any concern about non-combatants being killed. I doubt they'd be any less willing to shoot us. Especially if it turns out the people they're fighting are from the UEN."
Aran was silent for a long while, as the carrier crawled forward. "I hope you're wrong," he said, finally.
18.
Major Aaron Feldman watched the bleak terrain of his world roll by under the articulated tracks of his tank. His platoon of four tanks were cruising at a steady 80 kph, the speed blowing the desert air into his face like a hot wind. An acquired taste, the hot Arcadian wind on his face... but in his experience, most tankers acquired it.