by David Poyer
Yet when Dan peered inland again, the airspace still sprawled empty. No more fighters coming. Which meant only the conscript armies were left. Huge, but little more than cannon fodder against the Indonesians and Vietnamese, Army artillery batteries, Air Force ground support aircraft.
And once again he gave way to that fucking questioning. Was this truly the best his species could do? They devoted their best minds, their greatest resources, to weapons. Established their boundaries by seeing who could murder most efficiently. It was mad. Irrational. Absurd. Appalling.
A Stone Age beast, armed with the powers of the gods.
He’d pondered the dilemma as the years went by and he witnessed ever more battles, from ever higher levels of command. But the incongruity had only grown. The roots of war were sunk deep. Maybe in human nature itself.
But he couldn’t accept that explanation.
There had to be another way. Just as the survivors had hoped after every global conflict.
But now, they had to finish this one.
And if they could endure, they might well end it today.
Miles distant, a tiny figure hovered. Dan steered toward it. The landing force commander was gazing down at a ship. Clots of black smoke billowed from its foredeck. One of the Indonesian transports. But it was still under way. Still bulling ahead, welded to its assigned course and station.
“General,” Dan said. “How bad?”
Isnanta turned a grim face. “No one knows where the missile came from. There are many dead. But I think the ship will survive.”
“We’re all taking heavy losses. But so is the enemy. I propose to press on.”
“Just put us ashore,” the Indonesian said. “Put us where we can fight. That is all I ask.”
Dan nodded, and looked up.
Far above the atmosphere, orange trails bent downward. Toward him. Gathering speed. Beginning to glow, as they reentered the atmosphere.
Monocacy reported lock-on. Then, seconds later, “Birds away.”
“Admiral!” Tomlin again, this time shouting, gripping his arm. “Sir. Block Island’s been hit. No damage report yet. Patrick Hart reported sinking. Makassar, fire’s spreading. Kuklenski is prosecuting a submarine contact. Two more Raptors lost. Close air support drones running low on ordnance. Catapult breakdowns on Stennis, unable to launch further strikes. La David Martin and Rafael Peralta report ‘winchester,’ defensive ordnance exhausted.”
Dan surveyed an entire sea on fire. A blue arena where exhausted, reeling boxers staggered in for the final confrontation.
He remembered the boxing ring at the Academy, under the iron arches of Macdonough Hall, when they matched each midshipman against the one he hated most. The smells of old leather, rancid sweat, and wintergreen ointment. The creak of ancient canvas. The muffled grunts as the final blows were exchanged.
Let’s see who will pound longest.
19
Hainan, China
THE heat was intense. The ship had baked in the sun all day, and now that it was night, the steel deck radiated that heat back out.
Hector Ramos couldn’t help wondering how it would look to the seeker of an antiship missile.
The invasion force had gotten under way the day before, and immediately scattered. The major said there were submarines below them, drones far above. And now and then you could spot one, a dark speck, way up there in the blue. But most of the time it just felt like the three ships, Makassar, Surabya, and one distant destroyer, floated alone in a vast and hostile ocean.
Hector lit a kretek. He hadn’t smoked before, but one of the Indonesian officers had offered a pack of the sweet clove cigarettes and now he couldn’t do without them.
Since he was a three-landing Marine now, Division had approved his transfer. With a black mark for instability, probably, but … whatever.
He was still a Marine. But he wasn’t with the Marines anymore.
At least, not the U.S. Marines. He looked back at his troops. They were lined up two and two across the deck, grunting and yelling as they went through hand-to-hand drills.
Smaller than most Americans, though pretty much Hector’s own size, the Indonesians still appeared tough. Their rifles looked like a cross between an M-4 and an AK. Their other gear was new to him too. The sergeant said a lot of them were Papuans.
Hector pretty much accepted whatever the division noncom, serson mayor—sergeant major—told him. Handayani was taller than Hector. Which wasn’t saying much.
But they looked up to Hector too. They called him “pria tua,” which seemed to be some kind of compliment.
After he’d turned down the tactical cyber-school offer, knowing there was no way he was smart enough to keep up, his orders had sent him to Indonesia. Headquarters, Third Pasukan Marinir, the Third Marine Division. Most of the officers spoke some English. So did a private named Slamet, so Hector had grabbed him as gofer and translator. The Indonesians kept asking Hector questions, since he’d been in combat and they hadn’t. He tried his best to give useful advice. The language barrier was a problem, though. Not just for him; apparently not many of the troops spoke the official tongue as a first language.
His first recommendation was to get rid of the bright purple berets. The second was to get a lot fitter, and to practice moving and shooting in full gear. There’d been limited facilities in port, but he’d led the troops on runs and set up a firing range and shooting house, to give them at least some practice. They had their own squad tactics and he didn’t want to confuse them. But they perked up when he demonstrated a combat glide—how to steady the sights so you could shoot as you were moving—and it got picked up across the division. He emphasized the basics, Barney-style. Communicate. Lay down fire. Keep eyes on your NCO. Hold on to your masks. Don’t touch the enemy dead.
Across from them now, ranked in rows, sat dozens of CHADs. The old model, the Cs, repainted, refurbished, some pieced together from battlefield retrievals. The scrapings from the bottom of the barrel. And only enough to furnish one per squad. The Indonesians were wary of the bots. They called them “hantu” and gave them a wide berth. The best he could figure was to use them as disruptors, sending them in ahead of the human troops to draw fire so the follow-ons and supporting arms could light up strong points. He’d recommended that to the general, who’d said it sounded reasonable and put him in charge of training the NCOs in the control apps.
He strolled to the edge of the flight deck and looked down at the passing sea. He didn’t want to. But he couldn’t help it.
Yeah. There they were. Again.
Under the water.
Looking up at him. Some, waving. Others with their mouths moving, though he couldn’t hear what they were saying. Bleckford. Breuer. Titcomb. Conlin. Schultz. Vincent. Orietta and Truss and Whipkey and Lieutenant Hern. Pudgy little Lieutenant Ffoulk. Sergeant Clay, Patterson, Karamete … they wanted something from him.
He stared down, wanting to make out their words, but afraid to.
He knew what they needed, anyway.
They wanted him down there with them.
He lifted one hand and gave a little half wave back. Groped with his other hand, and found the crucifix Mirielle had sent.
He held it over the water for a while, and finally let go. It dropped, vanished, sucked down into the black.
Someone came up behind him and took his other hand. Hector jerked, flinching away so violently he nearly toppled into the nets, with nothing but nylon between him and the blue-dark water slipping past below. Then he would be joining them, because the captain had made it clear they couldn’t turn back if anyone went overboard. “What the fuck!” he shouted, before he remembered: he’d seen lots of the Indos holding hands. It didn’t mean … anyway.
“I am sorry, Sergeant Ramos,” Private Slamet said, clearly startled.
The guy was still too close. Hector bulldozed his chest with both palms, shoving him away. “Get this straight, Private. I’m not your buddy.” He clutched his head. He needed a d
rink. But there would be no drinks until after the battle. Unless he could organize something, the way he had in Taiwan. “Uh, look. Don’t go to thinking we’re friends. Mengerti?” That was one word he’d picked up. Usually from some guy giving him a blank look when he was trying to explain something. “Saya tidak mengerti”—I don’t understand.
“We are not friends?” The terp furrowed his brow.
“Get lost,” Hector told him. “Shove off. Don’t you get it? There’s no point. We’re both gonna…” he stopped himself at the last moment. He’d almost said We’re both going to die, but that wasn’t what you told anybody you were trying to lead. He mastered himself, trying to look away from the faces below. Whipkey was laughing. Fucker … “Don’t get attached, Private. It’s just gonna.… wreck you, when they get killed. Concentrate on hating the enemy. Mengerti?”
The Indonesian only looked puzzled. He stood with arms dangling, staring. Until Hector sighed and walked away.
* * *
THEY mustered after a midnight meal of rice and fish with a red sauce that reminded him of his mother’s pico de gallo. Then had to wait for hours in a sweltering passageway to load up. The usual drill.
Hector squatted without thought, without emotion. The colonel had wanted him to hold back with the headquarters unit. And maybe that would have been okay for a liaison, but Hector had insisted he wanted to go in with the first wave. The officers had glanced at each other and worked their eyebrows but finally agreed. Clapped him on the back and told him apparently complimentary things, but in Indonesian so he didn’t have to respond.
He didn’t care what they thought. Or if he made it through this time.
Actually, it would be a relief not to.
The Indos didn’t run LCACs so he loaded with Slamet’s squad. Down in the well deck, yells and clanking echoing off the high dark overhead. Now it was windy, and water dripped down from above. They filed down into a landing craft that looked like a leftover from World War II. They huddled cheek by jowl cross-legged under the hulls of two huge-wheeled APCs, Hector elbow to elbow with a CHAD. The Indonesians, except for Slamet, glanced at them both, but didn’t speak to them.
Hector spotted their machine gun, and held out a hand. After a glance at his squad leader, who nodded, the gunner pulled his mag, racked his bolt, and handed it over.
The weight was reassuring. As heavy as the old model 240 with the steel receiver. Belt-fed. A hefty handle to change barrels with. He didn’t want to give it back. But finally, reluctantly, let it drop from his hands back into the gunner’s.
“You’re the king,” Hector told the gunner, then to Slamet, “Tell him what I said. Translate. The machine gunner, he’s the king of the battlefield. Infantry, they’re the queen, but the king fucks the queen. Got it?” The private looked doubtful but rattled it off. The rest of the squad looked shocked, then chuckled uneasily.
Hector blew out and glanced at the CHAD. Its oculars were examining him curiously. What was it thinking? Oh yeah, they didn’t think. Didn’t feel. Or see the faces of the dead, like it was Día de los Muertos every night.
“Must be nice,” he whispered.
He looked at the oculars of the others. The humans. Nothing going on there either. Robots made of meat. Or maybe that was just him, a meat robot named Hector Ramos. Who’d seen too much to feel anything ever again. A burned-out fuse in an old house like his mom’s. Rented from Mr. Tankard. The old round glass ones that turned black when they burned out. Did his eyes look like that? Burned out. Nothing behind them.
He sat with the rifle he’d been issued across his lap, swaying with the roll of the ship. When the fuck were they splashing?
They’d given him the transfer, but the captain said it wouldn’t look good in his record after the war. Hector had stayed silent, not wanting to say that didn’t matter. There would be no “after.” He groped for Mirielle’s cross, then remembered: he’d dropped it overboard. Fuck, why had he done that? Maybe its power had kept him alive. A sudden jolt of panic terror left him sweating. Then it too vanished, sucked back into the massive numbness.
At long last he felt the craft lift. Water surged around them. They rolled, only a little, but enough to know the ship was flooded down. The engines whined and started. They settled into a dull roar and smoke choked the air. The marines coughed. A few broke out masks.
The sky appeared. A black lid slid back to expose the stars. The landing craft took on a sharper roll as it hit open sea.
The engine droned on, hour after hour. Now and again water spattered up and rained down. He licked salt from dry lips. It mixed with the blood from a deep crack in the middle of his lower lip. Here and there bright stars swayed overhead, like scratches on the night. How fucking far out were they? He tried to figure out how far they’d come already, but couldn’t multiply in his head. The old problem: numbers. They’d issued him a combat cell, a gimcracky thing, but since it was in Indonesian he couldn’t access it.
Around him the Indos began to retch. Great: puke and hot sauce. Rice and fish on the deck. Like that movie about Private Ryan. One guy was barfing into his mask. Hector jerked it out of his hands. “You’re gonna want that, once we land,” he yelled, then wondered why he bothered. He shrugged, handed it back, and crawled to his tire again.
The men opposite—there were no women in Indonesia’s assault divisions—took on the same look he remembered from other landings. Some joked and chattered. Most withdrew, looking inward. A few fingered worry beads. Others nervously, mindlessly checked gear, or picked their noses. A few were asleep or pretending to be.
He stared into nothingness, and it reflected his mind.
* * *
AT last, a far-off rumble. Faint at first, it slowly grew. Jet engines, or maybe rockets, screeched overhead. Shells howled and crumped.
He knew that rumble. Those sounds.
The hymn of War.
He checked his rifle again, and met the unblinking oculars of the C opposite once more. It hadn’t looked away from him the whole time. Mindless. Thoughtless. A thing. He envied it. He closed his eyes and waited for the shell to hit. Like the one that had wrecked their LCAC on Itbayat, killing most of the Marines aboard. Leaving him wandering memory-less until he’d come to on the beach, not even remembering how he’d escaped that flaming pyre.
The grumble grew into a continuous thunder. He couldn’t see what lay ahead, but he could imagine it. The fiery trails of missiles going in. The flashes along the line of coast. Smoke billowing up. The darting and swarming of the drones. Shell bursts, the searching beams of lasers, and the smoke trails of incoming rockets as the enemy fought back, intent on wiping out the invaders before they set foot in China at last.
He lay propped against the tire as his ear tuned through the barrage of sound. Picking out mortars. Heavy MGs. So they were close now, and this enemy was throwing everything he had against the first wave.
The serson mayor bent and waved five fingers. Hector passed it on. He checked his rifle one last time and adjusted his jelly armor. The Marines had let him keep it, instead of the old-style Kevlar the Indos wore. He eyed the front ramp. A single shell, and no one would make it ashore.
With a jarring, rasping chhhnkk, the craft lurched, throwing them all forward. The engines rose, strained, but nothing happened.
The troops cast frightened glances at each other. The serson mayor bent, and shouted something to them.
“Fuck,” Hector muttered, fearing the worst.
The engines declined to idle. The transmission thudded, then strained again at maximum RPM. Trying to back off. But the deck under them didn’t move.
They were aground. A big fat motionless target for every gun on the beach.
Handayani bent to him. Yelled over the rumble, which reverberated now terrifyingly close, “We are no float. What we do?”
“Debark,” Hector yelled back. “Get off boat.”
Beside him Slamet was yelling too. Handayani sucked air, looking startled. Then his face closed.
He nodded, once, and vanished again.
Above them the engine of the personnel carrier cranked, cranked, then fired with a muffler-less bellow. The marines scrambled out from under its iron belly and fastened themselves along the bulkheads. A klaxon honked, cut off, then cawed again. Hector unsnapped the flap of his mask carrier and gripped his rifle, staring forward. Feeling nothing, except that his legs were shaking.
Ahead, light. Flickering color. The rattle of machine guns. The crack of bursting shells, merging in an unending growl that seemed to grow from heartbeat to heartbeat to a crescendo of mind-battering noise.
The personnel carriers roared and eased forward between the ranks of infantry. The deck lurched with the shifting weight, and for a second Hector wondered if they’d buoy up off the reef once they unloaded. But the craft settled back again as the lead APC, venting a cloud of black smoke, charged down the ramp and sank immediately up to its thrashing wheel hubs in a dark surf. It lurched and wallowed, clawing its way toward the shore.
Hector looked out then, into the maw of Hell.
The whole coast was on fire. The first light of dawn showed gray against black, but the burning glare cast writhing shadows across the sea. The pounding surf was heavy. Six feet, maybe eight. High and dry, the landing craft blocked it directly in front, but to either side it surged in toward the beach in snowcapped rollers that broke and foamed as if huge serpents were battling beneath them. But weirdly without sound. No sound at all, the roar was so loud. Concussions vibrated his chest like an emergency room doctor pounding on it, trying to bring him back from the dead.
The second APC gave a bull roar and charged forward. It cleared the ramp, hit the sea with a booming splash, and rolled to a halt, dead, the engine choked.
The serson mayor walked forward. He stood for a moment silhouetted against the gray dawn, rifle raised, yelling something soundlessly back at them.