First To Fight

by David Sherman

  The gunny watched impassively as the Marines broke ranks and raced to the barracks to ready their gear and pack their personal belongings for storage, then signaled Bass to join him for a moment. He pulled his personal communicator from a pocket and punched in a code. He was just lifting it to his ear when Bass reached him.

  "Hell of a time for a new officer to come aboard," Thatcher said to Bass, then turned his attention to the person who answered his call.

  Bass took advantage of Thatcher's distraction to tell Hyakowa to oversee matters until he was finished with the captain, and so he didn't hear any of the gunny's conversation.

  Thatcher had a far-off look in his eyes when he signed off and secured his comm unit. "This ensign walked into the company office right when we were getting ready to come out for roll call. You were there, you saw the way he walked right past me and the Top to report to the Skipper," he said. "Just talked to a buddy of mine in F-l." His eyes drew in their focus and he looked directly at Bass. "Baccacio reported in to FIST at eleven hours yesterday morning. At 14 hours they gave him directions to the company and offered him a driver to bring him here. It seems that instead of coming here, he went into Bronnoysund and stayed there overnight. Strange way to report in to your first command. Damn strange." He gave his head a shake. "Something tells me this is a young man we should keep an eye on."

  Bass looked somberly reflective while Thatcher spoke, then grinned and said lightly, "I knew he was impressed with his own importance when I saw the uniform he chose for morning roll call." He clapped the other NCO on the shoulder and said, "Don't worry. I've straightened out young officers before, and I know you and the Top will give me any help I need with this one. Now, I shouldn't keep the Skipper waiting."

  They marched into the barracks and went their separate ways—Thatcher to see how Sergeant Souavi was coming along with readying the supply room for shipping out and to find out how much help he needed.

  In the office, First Sergeant Myer was busy packing his gear and overseeing Doyle and Palmer in readying the company's records and the headquarters equipment for transshipment. Through the open inner door Bass saw Captain Conorado seated at his desk, seemingly involved in mild conversation with Ensign Baccacio, who was standing at parade rest a pace in front of the desk. Without looking directly at Bass, Conorado signaled him to come in.

  "Good morning, Skipper," Bass said as he entered the inner sanctum.

  "Morning, Charlie. I'd like you to meet Ensign Baccacio. Ensign, this is Staff Sergeant Charlie Bass, the man you'll be receiving command from." Bass wondered if the slight ambiguity of the captain's phrasing was deliberate. It was. "Staff Sergeant Bass has been running the best platoon in the company. Third's the most squared away, and the most proficient in field tactics. That's despite the fact that it's been more understrength than any of the other platoons for most of the time he's been running it, and half of his NCOs are either acting in a grade above their ranks or are lance corporals acting as corporals. What I'm saying is, you're following a tough act. But it's not going to be as tough as it might, because Charlie will be there to teach you.

  "Now, as of this morning you are nominally in command of third platoon. The key word there is 'nominally.' Staff Sergeant Bass will remain in de facto command until you get up to speed, and that won't be before we're halfway to where we're going, wherever that might be."

  "Sir, if I may?" Baccacio said.

  Conorado raised his eyebrows at the young officer's formal manner. Infantry officers were normally much more casual except on ceremonial occasions. He gestured a you-may.

  "If Staff Sergeant Bass is such a good platoon commander, why isn't he an officer?"

  Taken aback by the arrogance of the question, Conorado took a slow, deep breath before answering. "There are many reasons a man might not have a commission," he finally said. "There are more qualified enlisted Marines than there are officer slots. Some NCOs feel they are of more value as senior enlisted men than they would be as officers. Some like being enlisted rather than commissioned. There can be any number of reasons." He raised one shoulder in a slight shrug. "That's not a question that's always fruitful to ask."

  "I understand, sir."

  Bass studied Baccacio's face during the captain's explanation. He didn't think the ensign really did understand. Yes, he was going to have quite a job on his hands. He thought, not for the first time, that it was a shame the Corps didn't require men to be platoon sergeants before being selected for officer training.

  "That's all for now, Baccacio," Conorado said abruptly. The significance of his not using the ensign's rank in addressing him in front of his platoon sergeant wasn't lost on Bass, or Baccacio either. "I trust you didn't completely unpack last night. Go to wherever your gear is and change into garrison utilities, gather everything up, and return here ready to ship out. You have one hour standard. Do it."

  "Aye aye, sir." Baccacio snapped to attention, executed an about-face, and marched from the company commander's office. He didn't bother looking at any of the enlisted men as he marched through the company office.

  Bass watched him wordlessly.

  "Sorry about that, Charlie," Conorado said when Baccacio was out of sight. "The man's got the rank, I've got to give him the command."

  "No problem, Skipper. How long's he been in?"

  "Four years."

  "Half a year Boot, a year officer training. That means he only has two and a half years' experience as an enlisted man."

  "Minus transit time," Conorado agreed. "That's the way it adds up."

  Bass shrugged.

  "He'll get over it, Charlie. We're all going to be so busy during the next few days, he'll be racing just to stay in place. By the time he gets a chance to catch his breath, you'll have had ample opportunity to demonstrate to him how valuable you are. Just don't go hitting anyone."

  Bass smiled wryly. "Aye aye, sir. Just don't anybody give me any reason."

  Nearly all the men of Company L had mounted out before, most of them more than once. Several had done it on even shorter notice. All of them knew what it meant to "pack expeditionary"—they were taking only what they would normally carry into the field for combat training: their weapons and other combat gear and equipment, a pack with spare chameleons, boots, underclothing, and personal hygiene gear, tentage, and field mess gear. All dress uniforms, garrison uniforms, and personal, non-issue belongings went into lockable chests for storage in a Camp Ellis warehouse. If they were going to be gone long enough—and conditions were right—the chests would be delivered to them later on. Otherwise, the chests would securely await their return. Everyone, even those who hadn't mounted out before, was ready in less than an hour.

  There was only one bit of grumbling. That was when Bass told them, "Secure your chameleons. This is a humanitarian aid mission, not combat. We wear garrison utilities."

  After that the hurry-up became hurry-up-and-wait.

  The hurry-up-and-wait was interrupted at 1030 hours when two trucks came by to pick up their storage chests. Two men from each platoon were dispatched with the trucks to observe the secure storing of the chests. That was the official explanation; in fact, they went along as a work party to do the storing.

  At 1215 hours, the company fell in behind the barracks to march to the mess hall for noon chow. Nobody lingered over the meal, and the last straggler was back at the barracks ten minutes before 13 hours.

  Shortly after 15 hours, two platoons of Dragons pulled up behind the barracks. In minutes Company L was aboard the ten vehicles and on its way to the navy spaceport. The fast frigate HM3 Gordon was in orbit waiting for them. With only a pause for directions, the Dragons drove aboard four Essays. As soon as the vehicles were secured, the Essays were cleared for takeoff and launched to orbit. In orbit, two of the Essays mated with the Gordon's two cargo bays, and the Dragons drove into the ship's hold. After off-loading, the Essays dropped back out of orbit to the surface. The second pair of Essays mated to the frigate and, rather than of
f-loading their Dragons, secured to the ports for hyperspace transit. The Gordon didn't have entry shuttles of its own capable of landing the Marines, and these would be needed at the end of the voyage.

  On board, the Marines were quickly assigned berthing. The 107 enlisted men of Company L below the rank of staff sergeant were assigned to a crew bay that was normally home to twenty-five sailors. The six officers shared a compartment designed to house three of the ship's officers. The company's six senior NCOs had it the best; they got a chiefs' quarters that normally berthed four. It would have been worse had not the fifty-one men of the transportation company, who were part of the advance party, chosen to berth in the cargo hold with their Dragons.

  The navy had spent most of the day installing extra bunks in the crew compartment. The Marines quickly secured their gear and weapons to stanchions and pilasters, then climbed into the bunks, mostly because there wasn't room for them anywhere else. There was only one tense moment.

  Commander Kahunii, the ship's captain, objected to the Marines having their weapons at hand while aboard his ship. This was only to be expected, as navy officers usually object to having anyone aboard a ship armed except for designated security personnel. But the Gordon's small weapons locker was already filled with the few weapons the ship carried for emergency use. Captain Conorado strenuously objected to Kahunii's suggestion that the Marines' weapons be stored in the officer or staff NCO quarters—there simply wasn't room, he insisted. Kahunii grudgingly relented when Conorado assured him that none of the weapons had batteries installed and couldn't be fired. But Kahunii had the final word—if there were any weapons incidents, the weapons would be secured in the officer and staff NCO quarters, even if that meant the officers and staff NCOs had to cram themselves into the already overcrowded troop hold in order to make room for them.

  While all this was going on, the Gordon left orbit and came up to full space-3 speed, headed for the nearest hyperspace jump point, which it reached in three hours. Since a jump into hyperspace was best done on an empty stomach, the embarked Marines didn't get evening chow until some hours later than they were used to in garrison. Then it was Taps.

  Still nobody in Company L knew where they were going. Commander Kahunii did, of course, but he didn't bother telling Captain Conorado.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nine men and one woman sat around the conference table deep in the bowels of Shabeli's mountain retreat. One wall of the room was covered with a viewscreen display map of Elneal. The details were perfect, the result of map surveys made by the mining companies—Shabeli had better maps than the Confederation, which had to rely exclusively on satellite surveillance since the companies' maps were proprietary and not available to the military. The details provided for the transmontane and oceanic regions, however, were much less accurate than for the Siad and Bos Kashi lands, because the companies had no interests in those regions. That was fine, since Shabeli did not expect any action to take place there.

  The Bos Kashi, Gaels, and Sons of Freedom had each sent their chief war leaders and their deputies to this council. Shabeli himself, Wad Mohammad, and Wad Ramadan represented the Siad. The tenth member of the council was Moira, and she was the topic under consideration at the moment.

  "Either she leaves or we do," Erne Foyle of the Gaels said. The other representatives nodded.

  "It is not that we distrust her, Shabeli," Obeh Rud of the Bos Kashi added. "But she is a foreigner and we will not discuss our war plans in the presence of a foreigner."

  Shabeli bristled, as he knew he was supposed to over such a demand. He was not afraid of any of the men and they were not afraid of him. He had discussed this probability with Moira before the council. Her departure, after some perfunctory blustering, would make the chiefs think they'd won a concession from him, but in reality Shabeli was setting them up. Were the truth known, he himself often wondered if Moira were a spy. Therefore, he never told her all the details of his plans.

  Shabeli turned to his uncle, pretending with a gesture to seek the old man's guidance. Not a party to the charade, the old man nodded. Going along with the ploy, Moira swirled out of the conference room without a glance or a word to anyone.

  Shabeli sighed. "Brothers, the first phase of our campaign is proceeding well." The map display zoomed in on the capital city of New Obbia and its suburbs. "Two nights ago my cousins carried out the raid against the foreigners' relief operation in the suburbs. Admiral Willis was there yesterday. By now he will have decided to intervene."

  "President Merka's government is virtually helpless," Ramadan said, "and our raids against the other settlements have been totally successful." He nodded to the others. "The mines are in our hands," he added.

  "Fine," Mallow Ennis, Foyle's deputy, interjected. "But when do we get into the picture?"

  "Yes, Wad Shabeli," Prairie Dawson of the Sons said. "Our compliments. The Siad and the Bos have upheld their part of the plan. But we want to get in on the action." He glanced at his deputy, a tall, dark-haired man named Blaine Flathead, who nodded.

  "When the Marines get here, brothers," Shabeli answered. "The Confederation forces in New Obbia will send for reinforcements. I expect them to begin arriving in force within the next two weeks. Meanwhile, Admiral Willis will form a provisional force from the Marine complement in his fleet to secure at least New Obbia as a base of operations for the first of the subsequent contingents. I expect the advance party to begin landing within hours. When the reinforcing contingents arrive, their first mission will be to secure the city and then extend relief operations into the outlying territories. Once that is done, we will destroy them piecemeal."

  There were no comments. Everyone around the table had already figured out this scenario for himself. They also knew that if they were not successful tying up the Marines in the towns and farmlands, the full force of Marine arms would, in time, visit total destruction upon their own people.

  Wad Mohammad was the only one who spoke of their concerns. "The Confederation Marines have aircraft more fearsome than the rocs of legend," he said. "Their soldiers are armed with fire-guns. They ride in fire-breathing dragons. How can we stand against such might?"

  "Pfaugh!" Shabeli spat on the polished floor at his side. "Yes," he said angrily, "the Confederation has aircraft more fearsome than rocs. Yes, their rifles shoot fire instead of bullets. Yes, they ride in fire-breathing dragons, swifter than the jinn. But as fighters, their men are as women." He spat again, and glared at the men facing him. "Had you not insisted that she leave, Moira could tell you that. She was born into them and lived with the Confederation people until she came to Elneal and met real men—true fighters and warriors. When she saw that their men are as women to our men, that their men are not even as strong as our women, she disowned her own parents and people so she could live with true men, men of courage. Us!" He bellowed the last word. "Does any man here question that?"

  The war chiefs hung their heads and glanced at each other, but none met Shabeli's eyes.

  "No, Wad Shabeli," they murmured. "No, Magnificent One," they said. Faced with the anger of Shabeli the Magnificent, they could do nothing else.

  Shabeli glared at them again, let the silence continue until they shifted uncomfortably and finally became still again. In the end, Wad Mohammad was the only one who raised his eyes to Shabeli.

  "All right, then, let us continue." Shabeli gave a signal to someone unseen and a table of organization and equipment for a Marine FIST flashed on the vidscreens. "This is what we're up against," Shabeli continued. Next to the FIST Table of Organization and Equipment appeared the diagram of a breakout of allied forces. In contrast to the Marines, Shabeli's forces had no air support, no artillery, and very little in the way of logistical support. "Our advantage lies in mobility, knowledge of the countryside, and the valor of our men," Shabeli said.

  "Many will die," Jabal Rustak, Obeh Rud's deputy, muttered.

  "Is there anyone here who is not ready for death?" Shabeli asked. There was n
o response. After a pause Shabeli continued. "We are a light, highly mobile force. My plan is that each of you will provide two thousand men. Each of you will target specific towns where you will conduct urban terrorist operations. The Bos Kashi will relieve my men now in position around New Obbia because they are closer to the capital. You brothers of the Sons of Freedom and the Gaels may decide between you which will join the Bos Kashi to attack the surrounding settlements and which will attack the farther towns.

  "Brother," Obeh Rud said, "since your men are already in place, why don't you attack the Marines in New Obbia and let us be the reserve force?"

  "Because we are better armed and can deal on a nearly equal basis with the Marines after they have settled in the countryside. None of us can stop them from doing that, brothers. But you can keep them off balance and delay their timetable. Once you control portions of the cities, you will hold the populations hostage so the Marines won't be able to use their airpower and heavy weapons against you. They will have to fight house-to-house, street-to-street, man-to-man, and therefore their weapons advantages will be greatly nullified. You can inflict severe damage on them. The Bos Kashi are brave and resourceful fighters, all know that. You will kill many of the Confederation Marines. You will know how to make them think they have killed many more of you than they do in truth." He shifted his gaze from Obeh Rud to include all of the other tribal war leaders in what he said next.

  "Remember, when I give you the signal, you will melt into the surrounding countryside and disperse to your own lands. That is when I will tell the government we are suing for peace. They will believe we have been defeated." He snorted at the preposterousness of the idea. "They will have no more desire to fight us after the losses the Bos have inflicted on them. Then they will go into the countryside peacefully and confident. There we will kill them all."

  The others cheered.

  Since it was the Siad who had received the bulk of the payments the mining companies had made on Elneal, it was they who possessed the more modern weapons and communications systems. Everyone at the conference knew this, but what they did not know was how many men Shabeli had been able to outfit. He let on it was only a few dozen, but in reality he had more than five hundred well-equipped men under arms. What nobody outside his immediate circle knew was that he also had aircraft, two A-5B Raptors—old, second-generation, and as yet poorly armed for a ground-attack mission, but a devastating surprise for any foe. They were piloted under contract by renegade airmen trained originally by the Confederation Naval Forces. Shabeli passed them off as foreign technical advisers required to keep his headquarters power plant running. The machines were kept well-hidden in a remote valley two days' march from the headquarters. The pilots were already on their way there, to prepare the aircraft for combat. He also had a company of Siad warriors armed with the same blasters the Confederation Marines carried.