The War for Profit Series Omnibus

by Gideon Fleisher

  “You going to be okay?”

  “Check, Sergeant.”

  “First thing when we land, have the medic exchange that pneumatic splint for a cast. I’ll tell the Chief to put you in a job that doesn’t require two arms.”

  “Check, Sergeant.”

  The helo flew at nap-of-the-earth altitude, staying low and following the terrain. After ten minutes of flying without dumping any of his passengers, the pilot gave up and hovered half a meter high over a field. The tree line fifty meters away was populated with grunts, and they came running out as soon as the helo’s skids tapped the ground. Galen and his troops debarked. They looked dirty and tired because they hadn’t slept for a couple of days and had carried out an assault the night before. However, the troops sprinting from the tree line were more tired and much dirtier. Camouflage face paint covered their exposed skin. Strips of torn burlap and discarded uniforms were tied to their bodies and equipment. The overall effect, when they ran across the open ground, made them look like a herd of charging bushes. Galen ordered his troops to run into the trees where the other troops had just come from. He waited for them to run past, counting them to make sure he had everybody. Then he turned to take a final look at the helo. The Sergeant in the passenger bay of the aircraft shouted, “See you later, snapper.”

  Galen made a rude hand gesture at him while the helo flew away, then ran to the trees and joined his group.

  “Raper, where you at?”

  “Right here Chief,” said Galen. Chief Mortinson was a big man of girth, and almost two meters tall. His camouflage uniform looked like a sniper’s suit, covered with cloth strips and synthetic leaves to help him blend into his surroundings. It made the sturdy man look fat, but Galen knew he wasn’t to be trifled with. Mortinson moved with a casual grace and agility.

  “Who’s my new assistant?”

  “Hurston. His arm’s broken so he needs light duty for about four weeks,” said Galen.

  “No, dumbass, I asked which of you three Sergeants will be my assistant, to run the platoon when I’m asleep.”

  “Oh, that would be me, I’m senior here.”

  “No, dumbass. I want the junior Sergeant.”

  “Spike, you’re his assistant.”

  “Thanks, dumbass. Now you’ll be in charge of second squad. That other Sergeant, what’s his name?”

  “Tad Miller.”

  “Miller, you’re in charge of third squad,” said the Chief.

  “About Hurston--”

  “Come here, you broke-dick troop.” Hurston came over. “You’ll work with my two band aids and help them out at the medic station. There’s two other broke-dicks there, so don’t feel bad.”

  “Check, Chief.”

  “Okay, all y’all. Follow me ranger file on down the trail to the platoon center. Big guy, take up the rear.”

  Galen fell to the back of the column of mercenaries. They walked about four kilometers before they came to the platoon center. It was little more than a primitive camp. The only tent was an environmental bubble set up for the aid station.

  “All right everybody, fall in!” said the Chief.

  Camouflaged troops melted from the trees and formed up in a loose formation. Galen took his place at the head of second squad and the new troops filled in the spaces on the left. There were three ranks of twelve mercenaries each.

  “We got our fresh guys, but they’re tired. They had a firefight last night. Welcome them to the platoon and make them feel at home.”

  The camouflaged troops milled around, shaking hands and introducing themselves. The new arrivals followed suit and started mingling and talking as well.

  “I’m Corporal Lotus, your first fire team leader.”

  “Galen Raper. Glad to meet you.”

  “So, how do you want to disperse the three fresh troops in the squad? I’ve seen them split up or all put in the same team. Seems to work just as well either way.”

  “Well,” said Galen. “I’d like to keep them together so we don’t bust up the two teams already here, and won’t have to bust up any teams at the next rotation.”

  “Okay. You got two Corporals now, so you’ll have to pick one of the fresh guys to be the leader in third team.”

  “Good. You and me and the second team leader will talk to each of them and pick a leader together, kind of like a promotion board.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Fall back in,” said the Chief.

  The platoon reassembled in tighter ranks this time. The Chief paced the length of the platoon a couple of times, took off his helmet and wiped his face with a strip of cloth hanging from his forearm. “Camouflage, gentlemen. It’s summer now and getting hotter every day. Should we cut back on how much junk we’re wearing or should we drive on with what we got?”

  “I say we get rid of most of this garbage,” said Lotus.

  “No way! We’ll get spotted, picked off for sure!” someone in the back.

  “Okay: Galen, Sparks. You fall out into the woods twenty meters and conceal yourselves,” said the Chief.

  They did.

  “Now can anybody see either of them?”

  “Yeah, I see Sparks. His camouflage is too dark.”

  “Exactly. Our basic uniform matches the summer undergrowth. Strip that junk off. And don’t anybody accuse me of making you a naked target. Now we’ll put on a little face paint and use a little cloth on the weapons, but use it sparingly.”

  Galen and Sparks came back in. The camouflaged troops stripped off most of their camouflage and the fresh guys tied some of the discarded cloth to their pistol belts and weapons. They also put on some face paint offered by the other guys and put pieces of synthetic leaves in the elastic bands of their helmets. Now no one could tell by just looking who the new arrivals were.

  “Sergeants, meeting. Everybody else dismissed. Sleep plan.”

  The troops wandered back to their places in the forest. The Chief sat down and leaned against a tree and the squad leaders followed suit. Spike joined them.

  “What do you all want to be called? By me, I mean.”

  “Anything but ‘dumbass,’” said the first squad leader.

  “Not you, dumbass. You already know I can’t help it. I just say it without thinking. I’ve tried to kick the habit, even talked to a psychologist about it. That dumbass said I had some kind of battle fatigue post stress syndrome. So just bear with me. It ain’t much to ask.”

  “I’m Haas,” said the first squad leader, for the benefit of the newly arrived Sergeants.

  “Spike.”

  “Galen.”

  “Tad.”

  The Chief closed his eyes tightly for a second, opened them wide, looked at the Sergeants in turn and then said, “Got it.”

  “Are we going to keep the same structure, or do like you mentioned the other day?” said Haas.

  “Oh, whatever you guys think. The way we are now, each squad has everything: one suppression team, one rocket team and one machine gun team. It might be better to have all the suppression in one squad, all the rockets in one squad, and all the machine guns in one squad.”

  “Well,” said Tad, “I like it the way it is now. Each squad can lay an ambush to take out one tank.”

  “But what if there’s more than one? Then you die,” said Haas.

  “Then we go out together,” said Tad.

  “Okay, what my real question is, do you want to work directly under me with the whole platoon functioning as a single group, or do you want me to delegate authority. In the tactical argument, we can deploy to suit the situation when it comes up.”

  “A compromise,” said Galen. “Keep the platoon together. I like to have a higher-up right where I can talk to him. Also I’m new at this infantry thing and want plenty of examples to learn from. However, we should keep the squads the way they are, to make it easier for us to disperse our deployment if the situation calls for it.”

  “All in favor?” said Mortinson.

  The four Sergeants rais
ed their hands.

  “Good. I like you, dumbass. I mean, Galen. Now go to your squads and get some sleep. We won’t move until day after tomorrow, zero three hundred. I’ll brief you then.”

  They left. Galen found his squad sitting in their entrenched fighting positions. Each foxhole held a team, two troops asleep and one awake. Lotus met Galen when he entered the area.

  “You been outvoted, Sergeant. Me and Corporal Dees agreed on Clay for the new fire team leader. He was in the Norguard for six years as a rocket gunner and was a Sergeant for two years. The other two are good troops but just haven’t been in the military before.”

  “Good choice. Have him wake me up at zero two hundred. I want to get to know him before we move out.”

  “When are we supposed to move next?”

  “Zero three, but that could change,” Galen added the last part to sound more like a veteran.

  “I know what you mean.”

  The bluff worked, that time. Galen found a flat spot on the forest floor and lay on his back. As an afterthought he put a small log between himself and the most likely angle of enemy attack and then dozed off into natural sleep for the first time in almost a week. Galen slept all the rest of that day and through the night until he was awakened by Clay in the wee hours of the morning.

  “Yes?” said Galen.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Galen could see nothing. It was absolute darkness in the forest. “Yes. Tell me about yourself and why I should promote you to Corporal.”

  “I’m good. Well seasoned and experienced. I’ve been part of a team knocking out real tanks in real combat, and I’ve also trashed a Mosh in full battle armor, with my bare hands.”

  “Tell me why you left the Norguard.”

  “They suck. One faction lies on its back to please the monarchial state and the other faction is a bunch of superstitious fanatics. I had all I could take. The battle on Lux, that was a joke. The beating they took there cost them dearly. They’ll never have the resources to defeat the Mosh after that fight.”

  “But they won on Lux.”

  “Ha! They got a truce. The Mosh can rebuild quickly, the Norguard can’t.”

  “Okay, so why are you here?”

  “To make some money for myself.”

  “Fine. You’re now a Corporal and you’re in charge of the rocket team. The other two guys who came with us, they’re your troops.”

  “Sergeant, yes Sergeant,” said Corporal Clay. Then he was gone, moving without a sound into the darkness.

  Galen sat up and checked his communicator. He shielded its dim light with a cupped hand as he read the display. Zero two twenty in the morning. He tapped another button. Fifteen thirty six in the afternoon back on Ostreich. He stood and looked around, peering into the darkness. Finally he noticed a faint glow and started walking toward it. Soon he came upon the medics’ environmental bubble, its location marked by a pile of rotten tree bark glowing with a luminous fungus.

  “Who’s there?” a whisper came from inside.

  “Sergeant Raper. Which way to the Chief?”

  “Stand with your back to the foxfire, make a half left, and go straight ahead twenty paces.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me, thank your agent.”

  Galen stifled a laugh as he walked toward his intended destination.

  “Halt, snapper scum!” Spike’s voice.

  “Okay, assistant platoon daddy. Where are you?”

  “Right by you.” The voice was only a meter away now, “Check out these goggles.”

  Galen felt a set of night vision goggles thrust into his hands. He held them up to his face. Night was turned into monochrome day. Depth perception was demolished and tunnel vision was all he had, but it was a zillion times better than being blind.

  “Put the lens cap on,” said Spike.

  Galen did. His peripheral vision spread by about fifty mils each way, and nearby objects became clear. He could see every line and crinkle on the palm of his hand, “Cool, I can see right through the lens cap with these. What’s the spectrum and energy output?”

  “Well, there’s a pinhole in the lens cap. You use it to see better in confined spaces and read stuff like maps or reports. Take the cap off.”

  Galen did.

  “Now, find the knob on the left side. Push it in and turn it one click.”

  The field of vision became shaded with red. The troops in the distance glowed brighter than their surroundings. Galen said, “Infrared.”

  “Good guess, Sherlock. Now turn it another click.”

  The goggles went blank except for the outline of rifles and pistols in the distance. Magnetic resonance.

  “And the next click?” asked Galen, turning the knob once more. Spike didn’t have to tell him. The forest around him was lit up as bright as fire, red and green and blue images merging to give full color, and depth perception seemed exaggerated.

  “Full daylight reality. Now twist that knob all the way back.”

  Glen did.

  “By twisting the knob the other way, you change the magnification. By pressing in, you get a readout of the range, in meters, to the target, as well as a magnetic azimuth. Works by starlight, infrared and magnetic resonance combined. Also works in the daylight.”

  Galen said, “Handy equipment, but over-engineered for grunt work, don’t you think?”

  “Not at all. Remember, we’re an anti-armor platoon.”

  Galen shrugged and started to hand the device back to Spike.

  “Oh no, they’re yours. All the troops in anti-armor get them.”

  “NVGs, rockets, heavy machine guns. What else do we get?”

  “Three sniper rifles for each suppression team,” said Spike

  “Loaded for bear. So how does all this work?”

  “You mean our tactics?” asked Chief Mortinson.

  “Yes.” Galen wasn’t aware the Chief was within earshot, but wasn’t startled either.

  “You’re trained as a can man--I mean, a tank commander--so you know what they can and can’t do. What’s the farthest one of those things can shoot?”

  “Long range missiles can mess you up at almost seventeen thousand meters.”

  “And how far does a sniper rifle shoot?”

  “About four thousand meters, effectively.”

  “Our machine guns are effective at eleven hundred meters. Our rocket launchers are good out to almost three hundred meters. So we have a disadvantage when it comes to range. Now what’s the most devastating weapon, the one with the most one-shot punch?”

  “The tank main gun, the heavy gun like the ones on the Ostrich Foreign Corps’ Hercules Heavy Tank. It can flatten most light and medium tanks out to a range of three klicks. A high explosive shell from one of them could take out our whole platoon in one shot.”

  “And our heaviest weapon is the rocket, doing just enough damage to knock the tracks off a main battle tank. It would take two dozen direct and perfect hits to chip away the armor on the front of a heavy tank.”

  “So we lose on firepower, range and mobility. How do we compensate?” asked Galen.

  “Heat,” said Chief Mortinson.

  “Heat,” said Spike.

  “You mean, gelignite launchers?”

  “Yes. But we call them flamers here. We use a locally-produced generic version of gelignite. Also you probably noticed we use home-grown slug throwers too.”

  “Yes. Why?” said Galen.

  “Open the butt of your weapon and pull out that adapter. Notice how it snaps into your rifle’s magazine well. Now work the bolt. That puts a breech adapter into your rifle’s breech. Now you can chamber and fire ten millimeter rounds from either a submachine gun or a pistol, using magazines from either. However, the reverse isn’t possible. There’s no way to shove ten millimeter rifle ammo into a submachine gun or pistol.”

  “How ballistic is this rifle when using the pistol rounds?”

  “Good out to two hundred meters. Great fo
r urban combat, and a good way to conserve rifle ammo for longer shots.”

  “Now back to our tactics, if you’re ready,” said Galen.

  “Oh yeah, knocking out tanks. We outnumber them. Our suppression teams fire on them at extreme range, to get their attention and make them button up. Our machine gun crews do the same, firing at every opportunity. The rocket teams crack off shots as best they can, making sure the tank commander doesn’t take his victory for granted.”

  “Flamers?” asked Galen, wondering if Mortinson wasn’t playing a joke on a snapper.

  “Oh. Well, we preposition them. We bait the tanks, stay at extreme range and make use of concealment and cover to ensure they don’t kill us. Then, with them warmed up good from using their weapons, we nail them with flamers until they overheat and cook off.”

  “It would take a stupid tank commander to fall for a trick like that.”

  “You’d be surprised how over-confident they get in battle,” said the Chief.

  Galen could feel the smile radiating from the Chief’s face. Some things didn’t need to been seen, they showed through the darkest dark.

  “Anyway, you’ll see some tomorrow night. We hump out of here in thirty mikes, tactical all day then start setting up our ambush right after dark. In about twenty four hours, you’ll see some dumbass tanks.”

  “Next question. What’s the big picture?” Galen sensed the presence of the other two squad leaders and knew it was Tad who stood closest to him.

  “Slave revolt. A bunch of disenchanted factory workers on strike. They’ve declared independence and they also have about a dozen tanks. Brand new ones, right out of the factory where the strikers work. Hornets, I think.”

  “Wasps, Chief. Light recon tanks,” corrected Spike.

  “Oh yeah, Wasps. Anyhow, intelligence says they can’t do automatic air defense. This factory doesn’t make the control components for their air defense guns. They’re installed later at another plant, so we got half a chance against them. Also, I don’t expect their gunnery skills to be too hot either, but these workers have been maneuvering tanks around their factory for years. There are some former soldiers amongst the strikers, I’ll bet you. So we’ll respect their abilities like they were real professionals until they prove otherwise.”