The War for Profit Series Omnibus

by Gideon Fleisher

  “Yessir.”

  “They welded thin metal boxing onto the outsides of their tanks and filled them with concrete. Nice trick but it slows them down. They also fired hotter rounds. The new gashes on A-13’s glacis plate are deeper than the old ones. They’re adapting.”

  I looked. The new gashes were a lot deeper. I looked back at the horizon behind the column. The sun was rising and my tank rose to slightly higher ground, giving me a wide view. I saw a glint of light and zoomed my optics and saw three Indigs on trikes, about ten klicks behind. “Sir, we’re being followed.”

  “I see ‘em. Set the grass on fire.”

  Parks fired his laser cannon on charge one, staring a dozen fires, closer to the Indigs first, then walked the shots back towards us. Then my tank fell to lower ground and the line of sight with the Indigs was lost. Parks started one last fire right at the crest of the horizon, two hundred meters back.

  I said, “Nice shooting, Parks. Sir, where are we headed?”

  “We’re going back to that airstrip we made a couple of days ago.”

  “That was yesterday, Sir.” I wished I hadn’t said that. I knew what he meant.

  “These eleven hour local days are screwing with my head.”

  “Yessir.”

  Captain Blythe said, “Now let me explain things and keep your little comments to your self, Sergeant.”

  Silence. Tension. Then he spoke again, “We stopped there to take on fresh water in a place that had good defensive terrain. The Indigs were also nearby, perhaps seeking good defensive terrain for themselves while they reorganize. They saw us first and prepared to trap us on the low ground. As luck would have it, the Marines alerted us in time and slowed the Indigs long enough for us to get on better terrain. Then our counterattacks and maneuver allowed our task force to come together on the best high ground near that creek. But what really saved the day was this platoon, striking the flank of their main force right before it could make its attack around the cone-shaped hill along the ridge line occupied by the task force. We saved their asses, and then the mortars saved us.”

  Corporal Parks said, “So we were damned lucky. But why are we headed South now? We beat them. They left.”

  Blythe said, “According to Marine recon, the route North would take us into a great spot to get ambushed. That’s were the Indigs fell back to. Task Force Six decided we would head back to our air strip and evacuate our wounded to the ship. Then stand down and take a break, get our battle damage repaired. He also said we have more IFVs than we need now, due to personnel losses. He wants time to mount four of the flak guns on four of the IFV chassis. Having four Flak Panzers will improve our effectiveness against the Indigs.”

  The A-13 commander, CPL Williams, said, “I thought the new mission is to kill all the Indigs.”

  “All the Indigs outside the safe zone.” Blythe coughed. “Major D thinks they’re trying to do the same thing we were about to do, drive the beefalo herd into the safe zone. He decided it’s better to let them do that job for us.”

  “But—”

  “We’re stuck here for at least three more months. There’s plenty of time left to kill Indigs.”

  “Yessir.”

  Comms got squirrely again and I saw an Indig drone approach. At six hundred meters I began firing bursts at it from my cupola gun. Damned thing sensed my rounds coming at it and dodged them, the way bats circling a street lamp can avoid air-gun pellets. Parks brought his main gun up to charge twelve and waited until it was less than a hundred meters away and blasted it to a million burning pieces that floated to the ground as ash, not hot enough to set the grass on fire. Comms improved. Parks switched to charge one and set half a dozen grass fires behind us in a half-circle four hundred meters wide.

  Blythe said, “Good job, Slaughter.”

  I held my tongue. I wanted to say, “Shuddup Capin’ !” but I didn’t. I was still in the process of adjusting back to being subordinate to people other than the Six. It takes time. Parks said, “Thank you, Sir.” Over comms, his voice sounds a lot like mine. Parks was helping smooth the transition.

  The task force arrived at the improvised air strip and set up shop on the South side, centered halfway along the landing field. All the Service Company and HQ tents and shelters went up. I was happy to avoid all that hard work, the tanks and IFVs left around the perimeter for security. The Marines parked their skimmers in a tight circle near the chuck wagons and went to sleep. I ate a cold ration and stretched out on my tank for a nap.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Hey!”

  I looked up. Captain Blythe sat on my turret and looked down at me. I sat up. “What’s up, Sir?”

  “We’re first in line for platoon services. Ten minutes, we move to the maintenance pad and run through.”

  I stood. “Good deal, Sir. We can use it.”

  He said, “Do we have a problem?”

  “I’ll be honest. It’s a big change for me but I can handle it. You’re a fine leader and I’m not blowing smoke. I haven’t adjusted to the point where I can brown nose you yet.”

  He smiled and nodded. “All that crap you gave me when I was in a line company and you were high and mighty at Battalion, all those donuts I had to lay at your feet when I was just the wee little A-3, I’m slowly deleting that from my buffer. You’re an excellent tank chief.”

  I was about to extend my hand for a shake. Held back. He was the boss; it was his place to offer the handshake. He stood, extended his hand and I shook it. “Yessir.”

  He gave an involuntary closed-mouth smile. I could tell he was trying to keep a blank face. He turned and climbed off my tank. I took my seat in the cupola and looked down at Parks. He was slumped over, forehead on the weapons status panel. I tapped his right shoulder with my left foot. He sat up, stretched and rubbed his eyes. I put on my helmet and hooked it up.

  “Caldwell, you awake?”

  “Roger, Sergeant. Stay alert, stay alive.”

  “Okay here’s the deal. When ORF-2 and A-13 come off the line, you follow them. We’re going in for platoon service.”

  “Good deal.”

  I heard the drive motors come on line. The other two tanks backed up fifty meters and faced toward the maintenance pad and moved toward it. Caldwell went forward and made a sharp turn to get behind them. Two Command Post Carriers took our place on the line, gunners in the hatch standing behind swivel-mounted rapid fire rail guns, same model as the one in my cupola.

  Ground-guided by mechanics, we pulled into the inverted half-pipe maintenance bay tent and parked, five meters separating each tank. We removed all our bags and personal gear and stowed it in lockers off to the left side of the bay. I stripped off my war gear and put it in my locker as well, then pulled my mechanic’s coveralls out of my bag and looked around for a place to change. I heard two landing boats come in and taxi along the air strip.

  Captain Blythe tapped my shoulder. I turned to face him. He said, “You won’t need the coveralls. You’re going up top with Major Deskavich.”

  I scratched my head. “Sir?”

  “Go see Major Deskavich; he’s in the dome.”

  “Sir.”

  “What?”

  I took a deep breath. “This isn’t helping me adjust to being your loyal subordinate.”

  He squared his shoulders. “As long as your heart’s in the right place.” He turned and walked off.

  I looked at Corporal Parks. “You get to supervise services. Have fun.”

  Parks had his coveralls in his left hand. “I am an expert and a professional.” Then a smirk.

  I punched his shoulder. “Smartass.”

  I put my coveralls away, found my soft cap and put it on. As an afterthought I separated my pistol belt from my combat vest and strapped it around my waist, moved the scabbard for the bayonet on the left back a few centimeters, checked the load on the pistol and then went to the TOC and entered the dome. Major Deskavich was there, seated at the AV control table. He looked up and waved me
over.

  “What’s up, Sir? Heard I was going up top.”

  He smiled. “Have a seat.”

  I grabbed a fold-up chair and sat in front of him.

  “Sergeant Slaughter, you’re not just going up top, you’re going to the orbital habitat, with me.”

  Huh. The habitat. “For how long?”

  “As long as it takes. I think it’ll be about a week, maybe longer. But not more than ten days.”

  “So, what are we supposed to do up there?”

  Major Deskavich sighed. “We’re supposed to plead our case to our employers that they owe us four times as much money, plus damages, and an officially published apology.”

  “Ha!” oops. My big mouth. “Good luck with that, Sir.”

  “We have more than luck. We have full documentation. Your job will be de-scrambling a mess of data and documents into a vid presentation, and then you’ll narrate it in person. You’ll present it to the French ruling triumvirate, their highest court.”

  My shoulders slumped. “Sir, I’ll do it but it’ll give me bad breath. It’s a shit sandwich.”

  “You’ll have help.” Emily’s voice. She’d snuck up behind me. “I’ve already started sorting the data.”

  “That’s good news.” I turned my head to the right. She walked around to stand by Major Deskavich. “We need a slant, a tone.”

  She shrugged. The Major looked away.

  “Okay,” I said, “We’ll begin with the losses incurred by our unit, the suffering inflicted on them by Indig atrocities, bios of some of the more loveable troops who were killed, interviews with our more severely wounded troopers, then a memorial for Stallion Six, some footage of him with his fiancé and his siblings, nieces and nephews. A real tear-jerker.”

  The major nodded. “I knew you were the best choice for this job. A great opening.”

  “Sure!” I stood, excited now. “Then we’ll get into the original negotiations, the terms of the contract, the expectations based on information—”

  The Major raised his left hand, palm toward me. “I got that part. You just work on your opening. Ten to twelve minutes.”

  “Yessir, got it. When do we blast out of here?”

  “Be on the boat in half an hour. Come as you are, everything you’ll need is up there or on my communicator.”

  Emily slapped my right shoulder as she walked by. “Let’s go now, get a good seat.”

  We went outside. Troops who’d healed enough to return to duty came out of one boat, more supplies and repair parts and ammunition from the other. I stood by with Emily and watched as the band aids loaded wounded troops onto one boat, the wrenches loaded the stripped chassis of four flak gun carriages onto the other. We went in the boat loaded with flak gun chassis and moved to the front and climbed the ladder up to the cockpit and took seats on the left side behind the co-pilot and fastened out seatbelts.

  The pilot said, “Who are you?”

  Emily said, “Sergeants Dickinson and Slaughter.”

  The pilot checked his manifest. “Okay.”

  Major Deskavich came and took a seat in the row behind the pilot. He said, “You’re dropping us off at the habitat first.”

  The pilot nodded, then typed furiously at his terminal, had the co-pilot look it over, sent a message to the transport ship, got a response. Then he turned to Major Deskavich and said, “No problem, Sir.”

  The co-pilot got up and went to the cargo area, returned with the loadmaster and two aerospacecraft crew, they took their seats and buckled in, the co-pilot gave a thumbs-up to the pilot and the boat taxied to the end of the airstrip, turned, trundled along for a few seconds and then accelerated forcefully. The boat left the ground, the landing gear retracted, the boat tilted nose-up at an eight hundred mil angle and then blasted at four Gs, retracted its wings to the first increment, broke the sound barrier, retracted the wings some more, blasted through mach 2, and then 3, wings in all the way, Mach 4 and beyond. Beyond the atmosphere. Once free of Tumbler’s gravity well, the boat accelerated at a smooth one G.

  Major Deskavich said, “That never gets old.”

  I said, “It was a hard takeoff.”

  The co-pilot said, “It’s a short air strip, and unimproved. Wait until you see what it’s like landing there. That’s rough stuff.”

  The boat turned sixteen hundred mils to the right. The orbital habitat that had been the Frog’s generation ship was huge and became more huge as we approached. Seeing it for real was a spiritual experience.

  “Halfway there,” said the pilot. He rotated the boat around thirty two hundred mils and began braking toward the habitat at one G.

  I could no longer see the habitat but the left cockpit window showed about half of Tumbler. It was an ugly planet with an oversized white ice cap taking up most of the Northern hemisphere, a band of green, then tan desert, and a small ice cap at the South Pole. Some white and gray clouds obscured about a third of the surface. No oceans; I was able to see a couple of large lakes along the equator that looked dark brown and black.

  The boat flipped back around to face the orbital habitat. All I could see was the open docking bay and some of the flat gray hull around it.

  The pilot said, “We’re entering the ass-end of this thing, dead center of its ring of ionic propulsion nacelles. Zero G until you get into the rotational area.”

  The boat settled near the far wall and the docking bay door closed. Eight minutes ticked by while the bay re-pressurized. Then I followed Major Deskavich and Emily out, floating to the lowered cargo ramp and then to a door ten meters away. Two Frogs were there wearing magnetic shoes and thruster packs to help us.

  They sealed the door behind us and hit a switch. I looked back at the drop boat through the door’s window. It sat, the docking bay door still closed.

  One Frog, I could barely understand her accent, she said, “We compress the air in the dock. Then we will the door open. Half an hour.”

  “Seems inefficient.”

  She said, “Your ship, does not fit. Our air locks?”

  I nodded. Whatever. They showed us through a round opening eight meters wide. Past the opening, the wall on the other side rotated. Eight ladders radiated out from it like spokes of a wheel. The female Frog pointed at a ladder, indicating we should climb down it. We did. It was a long climb and gravity increased as we went down. Below, I saw green fields and narrow roads and a large town with smaller towns about five klicks away in a sloppy circle. Haze and clouds hung near the rotational center of the atmosphere. We’d climbed down at least three hundred meters when the ladder ended in a platform. It felt like about one tenth of a G, enough to walk. Carefully. There was a single metal door and Emily pressed the button next to it and the door slid open. We stepped into the elevator and Major Deskavich pressed the ‘G’ button.

  It was a long ride down, ten minutes at least. I started to make small talk but the Major pressed his right index finger over his lips, pointed at a vid recorder. I nodded. It was a long ride, boring as hell.

  We stepped out of the elevator and the fragrance of flowers filled my nose. The air was sweet, filled my lungs and I felt stronger. The gravity felt like about point eight G, maybe it was more but the air made me feel great. A middle-aged man in a bureaucrat suit met us and gripped the Major’s hand. “Welcome to Acadia. I’m Victor Rolph and will see you to your lodging.”

  The Major shook his hand and released it after two pumps. “I’m Major Anthony Deskavich. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Right this way.” Victor motioned us into the seats of an open-topped wheeled flatbed vehicle, the seats bolted to the flat bed. Like the sort of vehicles tourists might ride. Victor drove, the thing quiet. Electric motor, no doubt. Three klicks later we were at a hotel in the downtown area of the large town I’d seen earlier. Not many people, mostly middle-aged Frogs—I mean, Acadians—strutting around in business or lawyer clothes. Across the street from the hotel main entrance was what had to be the courthouse or city hall. I couldn’t read the
signs, printed in French.

  The architecture was Terran throwback, lots of brick and stone in the facades. The hotel lobby looked like something out of an old 2D vid. Victor led us up the grand staircase and opened the door to a suite. “Your accommodations. Three bedrooms, each with their own bath. The restaurant serves breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner and supper and you can call for room service at any time.”

  We stepped in. Big room. A desk. Couches, foot tables, (or are they called coffee tables?) a vid screen. A food prep area, refrigerator and coffee maker and a food heater. Doors to bedrooms, sliding glass doors to a balcony. Sweet.

  Major Deskavich said, “This is more than adequate.”

  Victor stepped backward out the door and closed it.

  I spread out on the couch closest to the balcony. Emily shrugged off her rucksack and took out a detector and started to sweep for bugging and surveillance devices. The Major set up his terminal at the desk and adjusted the projected display parameters to match the wall behind the desk. Having nothing to do at that time, I felt guilty for a whole ten seconds before I dozed off on the couch.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Emily shook my shoulder. “You stink.”

  I sat up, looked around.

  “Go to your room.” She pointed at the door furthest away. “Dinner’s in an hour.”

  I stood. That nap was good, but she was right. I was getting a little stinky. I went into my room and undressed and found the bathroom. It had a running water sink and bathtub and shower combination, set up in a twenty-second century style. The clothes machine was a little funny too but I managed to get my clothes into it. I used the razors and soap and toothbrush provided by the hotel, then checked the machine. Clothes were still wet. The machine had spun them into dampness. The French instructions didn’t help as I scrolled through the menu of the display, but the cartoony picture of heat radiating from fluffy clothes look like a good choice. I selected that and then put on a hotel robe and went back out into the main room. The Major sat at the desk and picked at his terminal. The projection on the wall showed lots of text, documents, and reports.