by Danny Loomis
Perhaps it would be best to wait on plans of expansion, at least in the short run. Damn the Confederation anyway. The reaction by their military was too strong. Have to give the enemy time to forget, time to grow complacent. For some time he continued to stare broodingly out his window.
MILITARY TERMS AND DEFINITIONS
Area Reconnaissance:
A directed effort to obtain detailed information concerning the terrain or enemy activity within a prescribed area.
Basic Load:
That quantity of ammunition required to be on hand to meet combat needs until resupplied.
Battle Position:
A tactical location on the ground, selected on the basis of terrain and weapons analysis.
Canalize:
To restrict operations to a narrow zone by use of existing or reinforced obstacles, or fire support.
Chaff:
Radar reflectors, usually consisting of thin, narrow metallic strips of various lengths and frequency responses, used to confuse radar, guidance systems and incoming missiles.
Checkpoint:
A predetermined point used to control movement, whether friendly or enemy.
Combat Trains:
The portion of logistics required for immediate response to the needs of forward tactical elements.
COMINT: (communications intelligence)
Technical and intelligence information derived from foreign communications by other than the intended recipients.
COMSEC: (Communications Security)
Protection resulting from measures taken to deny unauthorized persons information derived from the possession and study of telecommunications.
ECM: (Electronic countermeasures):
Actions taken to prevent or reduce the enemy’s effective use of the electromagnetic spectrum. Includes jamming and electronic deception.
FPF (Final Protective Fire):
Preplanned direct and indirect fire designed to provide close protection to defensive positions.
Fire and Maneuver:
A tactical technique used once contact with the enemy is gained. One element moves while another provides a base of fire.
Fire Support:
The collective employment of mortars, field artillery and close air support.
Low Intensity Conflict (Type A):
Internal defense and development assistance operations involving actions by combat forces to establish, regain or maintain control of specific land areas threatened by guerrilla warfare.
Jamming:
The deliberate radiation or reflection of electromagnetic energy to prevent or degrade receipt of information by a receiver.
LZ (Landing Zone):
A specified zone within an objective area used for the landing of troops.
Military Crest:
An area on the forward slope of a hill or ridge from which maximum observation covering the slope down to the base of the hill or ridge can be obtained, without forming a silhouette.
Movement Technique:
Manner of tactically traversing terrain. The likelihood of enemy contact determines which technique is used.
Traveling: When speed is necessary, and contact is not likely. All elements of the unit move simultaneously with the unit leader located where he can best control.
Traveling Overwatch: When contact with the enemy is possible, the lead and trailing element are separated by a short distance.
Bounding Overwatch: When enemy contact is expected, the units move by bounds (leapfrogging). One element is always halted in a position to overwatch the one moving.
OP/LP (Observation Post/Listening Post):
Security elements sent forward of defensive positions to observe/listen for enemy movement. An early warning security system.
Route Reconnaissance:
An effort to obtain information of a specific route, and all the terrain from which the enemy could influence movement along that route.
Screen:
Maintaining surveillance for a larger force to provide early warning and a means of controlling fires, guiding reaction forces and destroying or repelling enemy units within the capabilities of the screening forces.
Sitrep:
Situation Report.
Task Force:
A force generally organized by combining armor, infantry and artillery under a single commander to conduct specific operations.
SCOUTS OUT: BOOK TWO
INVASION
PLANET ALAMO: REGIMENTAL TRAINING FACILITY #2
2nd Diaspora 1198 (Old Earth 3984)
Sergeant Ian “Irish” Shannon flipped his face shield up and squinted at the wall of fog rolling towards his fire team. Good, it was nice and thick. He closed his helmet’s shield and checked the environmental read-outs. Jeez, it was cold. Minus twelve degrees centigrade. He inspected his Webley Mark IV rifle once more, making sure the heavy needler hadn’t gotten any moisture around the bolt’s action. The rifle’s one weakness showed on this trip. Tended to freeze up too easily. A few drops of moisture in the wrong place turned it into a fancy club.
He called up the tactical display on his helmet to ensure his fire team was still 15 meters apart facing the enemy’s defensive perimeter two hundred meters to their front. Lying in concealment on solid ice and snow for an hour allowed the cold to seep in, even though his white parka had state of the art insulation. Stiffening up a little, too. His helmet radio squelched, an incoming call from his squad leader, Staff Sergeant Brita “Valkyrie” Weiss.
“Eagle two, this is Eagle one. Once the fog reaches your position, move with it towards the objective.”
He double-clicked acknowledgment and gave the alert signal to the three members of his fire team. Being one man short for the past two months was a pain in the ass for the rest of them. He’d been promised a replacement once this exercise was over. The thick fog rolled over him and he crawled with it, his camouflage blending with the snow that blanketed the terrain.
Four pulsing red dots appeared on the inside of his face shield, making him stop. The dots showed where sensors and booby traps were placed by the enemy. “Blade, Pointy. Nasties at twelve o’clock. Take ’em out.” He settled down to wait. It was always hurry up and wait since he’d joined the Orion Confederation’s Army.
One by one the red dots vanished from his view screen. He clicked his transmitter once and they all moved forward, drifting with the fog. Three weeks of training in sub-zero temperatures ensured they weren’t affected by the weather.
Ian stopped fifty meters from the perimeter of the company they were going to infiltrate. “Pointy, you and J.C. go in thirty meters to the right,” he whispered. “Looks like an opening. Blade and I’ll try the front door.”
Ten minutes of low crawling at a painfully slow rate brought them to the first covered foxhole. Twenty-five meters away in either direction other low humps marked the outer defensive perimeter. They eased closer to either side of the foxhole, Blade to the right.
Once at the rear of the position Ian took a small box-shaped probe from his belt, and pointed it toward where he suspected the entrance was under the snow. He pushed a recessed switch. A thin wire burrowed into the snow, the tiny button-sized camera on its point questing for the opening located about—there.
“This is Eagle two,” he commed. “Ours is a dry hole.”
“This is Eagle four. Same here,” Pointy whispered.
Immediately Ian reversed course. “All Eagles withdraw. Something’s out of whack here.”
The flat crack of a flash-bang grenade fifty meters away signaled he was too late. He lunged up and sprinted away from the perimeter, vainly looking for a scrap of cover. He’d managed ten steps before a searing pain between his shoulder blades signaled a laser had tagged the sensitized patch on the back of his uniform. It delivered a painful shock which knocked him to his knees. Another jolt to his chest hammered him flat.
Six white-clad shapes materialized around him, weapons at the ready. Damn, they’d moved outsid
e their own perimeter. Hadn’t thought to look for more than just an occasional sentry or listening post. He struggled painfully to his feet and slung his rifle with its barrel down, the sign he was wounded or captured. Two of the soldiers helped Blade upright. He’d also gotten a double dose of shock. While trudging to the rear, Ian saw two other groups herding prisoners. He grimaced in disgust. His squad leader would have his balls for this.
* * *
Mercifully the debriefing began soon as everyone was back at base. The entire facility had been built underground due to permanent winter conditions. A briefing room was adjacent to the mess hall and operations center, with their barracks a stone’s throw down the northern corridor. Ian and his fire team had just settled when Staff Sergeant Brita Weiss strode in, a smile on her face. He was startled, having built up an image of Brita using her legendary sharp tongue to flay him alive for his team’s screwup.
She slipped into the chair next to him, and he searched her face for any sign of anger or annoyance. Neither was present. He gave a mental sigh of relief and relaxed, rubbing his head which had two centimeters of brown hair. It didn’t matter how much anyone else chewed on him over what happened, long as his squad leader wasn’t unhappy with them. For the umpteenth time he surreptitiously admired the slim form of his leader. 1.8 meters tall, and startlingly blond short hair. Looked out of place in the room that was filling up with mostly males. The fact she could whip ninety-nine percent of everyone in the room without working up a sweat made her even more admirable in his eyes.
Her blue eyes swung toward him. “What? My hair out of place or something?”
Inadvertently he glanced at her short-cropped hair, then blushed. “Um-no, just wondered why you hadn’t taken a strip out of my hide for what happened this morning.”
She smiled again. “Irish, don’t beat yourself up. For the past two weeks you’ve all performed flawlessly. Today was no exception. In case you haven’t noticed, Captain Stanton’s company has improved by leaps and bounds. Not only are they almost our equal, the good Captain has been exhibiting a devious mind when it comes to tactics.”
The arrival of the rest of those attending the debrief shut down further conversation. Seconds later everyone braced to attention when the Exercise Commander, Major Parks entered.
“At ease everyone,” he said, striding to the front. “Today’s exercise was the final one for all of you. Tomorrow you’ll be back at Fort Henry to enjoy what’s left of summer.” You could almost feel the wind from the collective sighs of relief. Not many enjoyed the harsh weather and physical demands at Training Facility 2, also known affectionately as “Camp Badass.”
For the next twenty minutes each unit involved in the exercise was critiqued. Brita kept the Scout’s portion mercifully brief, with one exception:
“One final comment: I’d like to commend Captain Stanton and his company for the way they demonstrated how much they’ve improved during our training stint together. I consider his company to be the best trained line outfit on the planet, and wouldn’t hesitate to have them guard my back no matter how dangerous the situation.”
Ian felt a trickle of unease which grew, then passed over like a wave. He looked down at his arms, watching goose bumps appear. What a spooky feeling…
His reverie was interrupted as the meeting broke up, and a general exodus began towards the mess hall. Brita stopped him before he could move with the rest.
“Our boss showed up just before the briefing. He wants to meet with you after chow. Classroom three.” With that she was gone, leaving him with an even deeper feeling of disquiet. Now what? He hadn’t done anything outstandingly wrong since making team leader, except for the week-end he’d spent with the regimental commander’s daughter, and no one knew about that, not even Pointy. Or did they? He shook his head, knowing he’d find out soon enough.
Reporting to classroom three after chow was somewhat of a letdown. No one was inside, and he had to wait fifteen fidgeting minutes before the door opened and Warrant Officer Boudreau entered, followed closely by Brita and a familiar looking naval officer, full Commander tabs on his shoulders.
He was on his feet and bracing to attention when it dawned on him. The naval type was an intelligence officer. When he’d first seen him he’d been a Major, then a senior NCO, then a Lieutenant Colonel. Now a Commander? Whenever this joker turned up, life seemed to get interesting. Not always in a good way, either.
“Take a seat, Irish,” Boudreau said, all three pulling chairs closer to his. Ian again felt on edge, a slight quivering in his stomach muscles.
Commander Leslie Grant stuck out his hand. “I see you remember me, Ian.”
Ian took his hand. “Good to see you again, Sir—I think.”
“We got some good news and some bad news for you,” Boudreau said. “Which do you want first?”
Ian turned beet-red, a common reaction whenever he became embarrassed. Oh, hell. They knew about that week-end. Couldn’t trust a woman to keep her mouth shut. “Actually, Sir, it wasn’t all my idea. Kathy was kinda insistent we…” At the blank looks on their faces, he quickly shut his mouth. Now he’d done it.
Brita’s face lit in comprehension. “You mean the Colonel’s daughter? Tell me more, Irish,” she purred, a malicious gleam in her eye.
“I think we’d better let him know the bad news before he confesses to the rest of life’s sins,” Commander Grant said with a sardonic grin.
Boudreau took a small box from his shirt pocket. “Here’s the bad news. Put these on.” Opening the box, Ian stared openmouthed at the Staff Sergeant’s chevrons. What in damnation?
Brita burst out laughing. “The past three weeks of training were all worth it, just to see that stupid look on your face.”
Ian shook his head. “Either there’s been the granddaddy of snafus in Personnel, or you’re buttering me up for a suicide mission.”
“Remember your application for secondary specialist training? It came back approved,” Boudreau said. “The only catch is you have to be at least a Staff Sergeant to enter the training.”
Ian blinked. “What kind of specialist training requires that?”
“Pilot training,” Grant said. “Specifically, Wasp fighter training.”
He cocked his head. “Wait a minute, since when was fighter pilot considered a secondary specialty?”
“Since you applied,” Boudreau said. “Having a bio link in your head gives you priority listing.” Three years before, Ian had been badly wounded. During his convalescence a bio chip had been installed in his head, to allow a direct interface between his brain and electronic equipment. To include computers, weapon systems and anything else using electronics to work. Such an interface was necessary for fighter pilots.
“How would that affect my being in the LRS—Long Range Scouts?” he asked.
Boudreau hesitated, and glanced at Grant. “I guess we need to tell you the whole story. Bureau of Personnel, BuPers, has decided anyone with a bio link is too valuable a commodity to leave in a ground-pounder unit. They were planning on reassigning you. We just learned about this last week. Sorry we didn’t tell you sooner, but we wanted time to get Commander Grant involved. He was able to swing this deal for you, but it’s all dependent on your accepting it.”
“What’re my other options?” Ian asked.
“There are several other specialties who’d snap you up in a second. Your bio link makes you a valuable commodity. Especially in logistics and planning,” Boudreau said.
“Logistics and…” Ian felt the room closing in on him.
“Gentlemen,” Brita said, “Let me talk to Ian privately about this, will you? I think we’ve hit him with enough surprises. He needs time to digest it all.”
Murmuring agreement, both men left Ian alone with Brita.
Ian slumped in his chair. “I feel like I’ve been hit with a hammer. What’s this about having to leave the Scouts?”
“Afraid so,” Brita said. “I couldn’t believe it myself. There’re a
bout a dozen of you in the Army and Space Marines who’ve gotten implants. All are being moved out of front-line units.”
“And being a fighter pilot isn’t considered front-line?” He stood and began pacing, still a little dazed at the speed with which his life was changing.
“No, all pilots have to have an implant. What’re your feelings about the offer?”
He sat back down. “I feel, I don’t know, kinda betrayed I guess.” He shifted uncomfortably. “But at the same time I’ve wanted to fly a Wasp ever since I first saw one of those suckers.”
Brita smiled. “I wouldn’t have agreed to what Commander Grant did if it wasn’t for that fact. I’ve also kept track of your training time in the Wasp simulators over at the air base.”
Ian was startled. “How’d you know about that? I thought no one knew where I went on my days off.”
“And evenings off, but who’s counting?” Brita said. “The fact that you’ve scored higher on the gunnery simulations, as well as your flying skills improving faster than anyone else’s over the past three years—how’d you expect that kind of shit to stay covered up?”
Ian was astounded. “Huh? Whaddya mean, highest scores? I haven’t been logging anything in. As a matter of fact, I haven’t been using the bio link yet in the simulator.”
Brita looked amused. “Hah. That’ll blow the socks off those training weenies over at Wing. They were impressed with your scores thinking you’d been using your bio link. Wait’ll they see what you can do when it’s hooked in.”
Ian looked pained. “Brita, I don’t want to leave the outfit. I was just getting my fire team whipped into decent shape.”
“Look, dickhead. There are lots of NCOs in the platoon who’d give their left nut, or breast, to get the job away from you. Not only that, you’re forgetting one important thing. We won’t be in the same chain of command any longer. You know what that means?”
“Um,” Ian felt his face grow hot. “We could, uh…”