The Complete Hammer's Slammers Vol 2

by David Drake

  "You got some people killed, you know," the major added. His voice sounded cheerful, or at least amused."Your lieutenant and his driver, because nobody was dealing with the shells from Hill 504."

  He smiled coquettishly at Des Grieux. "I won't blame you for the other one. Hawes, was it?"

  "Hawes, sir," Broglie muttered.

  "Since Hawes was stupid enough to leave his position also," Steuben went on. "And I don't care a great deal about Federal casualties, except as they affect the Regiment's contractual obligations."

  The pause was deadly.

  "Which, since we have won the battle for them, shouldn't be a problem."

  "Sir," Des Grieux said, "they were wide open. It was the one chance we were going to have to pay the Reps back for the three weeks we sat and took it."

  Major Steuben turned his head slowly and surveyed the battered Federal encampment. His tongue went tsk, tsk, tsk against his teeth.

  Warrior was parked alongside Broglie's Honey Girl in the center of the hill. Warrior's bow skirts had cracked as well as bending inward when 170 tonnes slammed down on them. Kuykendall had earned her pay, keeping the tank moving steadily despite the damage.

  Des Grieux's gaze followed the major's.Honey Girl had been hit by at least three buzzbombs on this side. None of the sun-hot jets seemed to have penetrated the armor. Broglie had been in the thick of it, with the only functional tank remaining when the Reps blew their way through the bunker line . . . .

  The Federal gun emplacements were nearby. The Fed gunners had easily been the best of the local troops. They'd hauled three howitzers up from the gun pits to meet the Republican assault with canister and short-fused high explosive.

  That hadn't been enough.Buzzbombs and grenades had disabled the howitzers, and a long line of bodies lay beside the damaged hardware.

  "You know, Sergeant?" Steuben resumed unexpectedly. "Colonel Hammer found the relief force's progress a bit leisurely for his taste also. So he sent me to take command . . . and a platoon of Alpha Company, you know. To encourage the others."

  He giggled. It was a terrible sound, like gas bubbling through the throat of a distended corpse.

  "We were about to take Hill 541 South," Steuben continued. "In twenty-four hours we would have relieved the position here with minimal casualties. The Reps knew that, so they made a desperation assault . . . which couldn't possibly have succeeded against a bunker line backed up by four of our tanks."

  Joachim's eyes looked blankly through Des Grieux.

  "That's why," the delicate little man said softly, "I really think I ought to kill you now, before you cause other trouble."

  "Sir," said Broglie. "Slick cleared our left flank. That had to be done."

  Major Steuben's eyes focused again, this time on Broglie. "Did it?" the major said."Not from outside the prepared defenses, I think.And certainly not against orders from a superior officer, who was—"

  The cold stare again at Des Grieux. No more emotion in the eyes than there would be in the muzzle of the pistol which might appear with magical speed in Joachim's hand.

  "Who was, as I say," the major continued, "passing on my orders."

  "But . . ." Des Grieux whispered. "I won."

  "No," Steuben said in a crisply businesslike voice. Moods seemed to drift over the dapper officer's mind like clouds across the sun."You ran, Sergeant.I had to make an emergency night advance with the only troops I could fully trust—"

  He smiled with cold affection at the nearest of his White Mice.

  "In order to prevent Hill 541 North from being overrun.And even then I would have failed, were it not for the actions of Mister Broglie."

  "Broglie?" Des Grieux blurted in amazement.

  "Oh, yes,"Joachim said."Oh, yes, Mister Broglie. He took charge here after the Federal CP was knocked out and Mister Lindgren was killed. He put Susie Q's driver back into the turret of the damaged tank and used that to stabilize the left flank. Then he led the counterattack which held the Reps on the right flank until my platoon arrived to finish the business."

  "I don't like night actions when local forces are involved, Sergeant," he added inafrigid voice."It's dangerous because of theconfusion.If my orders had been obeyed, there would have been no confusion."

  Steuben glanced at Broglie. He smiled, much as he had done when he looked at his White Mice. "I'm particularly impressed by the way you controlled the commo net alone while fighting your vehicle, Mister Broglie," he said. "The locals might well have panicked when they lost normal communications along with their command post."

  Broglie licked his lips. "It was okay," he said. "Booster did most of it. And it had to be done. I couldn't stop the bastards alone."

  "Wait a minute,"Des Grieux said. "Wait a bloody minute! I wasn't just sitting on my hands, you know. I was fighting!"

  "Yes, Sergeant," Major Steuben said. "You were fighting like a fool, and it appears that you're still a fool. Which doesn't surprise me."

  He smiled at Broglie."The colonel will have to approve your field promotion to lieutenant,Mister Broglie,"he said,"but I don't foresee any problems. Of course, you'll have a badly understrength platoon until replacements arrive."

  Des Grieux swung a fist at Broglie. The White Mice had read the signs correctly. The male escort was already holding Des Grieux's right arm. The woman on the other side bent the tanker's left wrist back and up with the skill of long practice.

  Joachim set the muzzle of his pistol against Des Grieux's right eye. The motion was so swift that the cold iridium circle touched the eyeball before reflex could blink the lid closed.

  Des Grieux jerked his head back, but the pistol followed. Its touch was as light as that of a butterfly's wing.

  "Via, sir," Broglie gasped. "Don't. Slick's the best tank commander in the regiment."

  Steuben giggled again. "If you insist, Mister Broglie," he said. "After all, you won the battle for us here."

  He holstered the pistol. A warrior's frustrated tears rushed out to fill Des Grieux's eyes . . . .

  Part II

  Xingha was the staging area for the troops on the Western Wing: a battalion of the Slammers and more than ten thousand of the local Han troops the mercenaries were supporting.

  The city's dockyard district had a way to go before it adapted to the influx of soldiers,but it was doing its manful, womanly, childish, and indeed bestial—best to accommodate the sudden need. Soon the entertainment facilities would reach the universal standard to which war sinks those who support the fighters; in all places, in every time.

  Sergeant Samuel Des Grieux had seen the pattern occur often during his seven years in the Slammers. He could describe the progression as easily as an ecologist charts the process by which lakes become marshes, then forests.

  Des Grieux didn't care one way or the other. He drank what passed for beer; listened to a pair of Oriental women keen, "Oh where ha you been, Laird Randall, me son?" (Hammers Slammers came to the Han contract from seven months of civil war among the Scottish colonists of New Aberdeen); and wondered when he'd have a chance to swing his tank into action. It'd been a long time since he had a tank to command . . . .

  "Hey,is there anybody here from Golf Company?"asked a trooper,obviouslya veteran but wearing new-issue khaki. His hair was in a triple ponytail, according to whim or the custom of some planet unfamiliar to Des Grieux. The fellow was moving from one table to the next in the crowded cantina. Just now, he was with a group of H Company tankers next to Des Grieux, bending low and shouting to be heard over the music and general racket.

  "Hey, lookit that," said Pesco, Des Grieux's new driver. He pointed to the flat, rear-projection screen in the corner opposite the singers."That's Captain Broglie, isn't he? What's he doing on local video?"

  "Who bloody cares?" Des Grieux said. He finished his beer and refilled his glass from the pitcher.

  If you tried, you could hear Broglie's voice—though not that of the Han interviewer—over the ambient noise. Despite himself, Des Grieux found himse
lf listening.

  "Hey,Johnnie,"chirped a woman in a reddress as shedraped her arm around Des Grieux's shoulders. She squeezed her obviously padded bosom to his cheek.

  She was possibly fourteen, probably younger. "Buy me a drink?"

  "Out,"said Des Grieux,stiff-arming the girl into the back of a ma at the next table. Des Grieux stared at the video screen, getting cues from Broglie's lips to aid as he fitted together the shards of speech.

  "No, on the contrary, the Hindis make very respectable troops," Broglie said. "And as for Baffin's Legion, they're one of the best units for hire. I don't mean the Legion's in our class, of course . . . ."

  A fault in the video screen—or the transmission medium—gave the picture a green cast. It made Broglie look like a three-week-old corpse. Des Grieux's lips drew back in a smile.

  Pesco followed the tank commander's stare. "You served under him before, didn't you?" he asked Des Grieux. "Captain Broglie, I mean. What's he like?"

  Des Grieux slashed his hand across the air in brusque dismissal. "I never served under him,"he said."When he took over the platoon I was in,I transferred to . . . infantry, Delta Company. And then combat cars, India and Golf."

  " . . . Baffin's tank destroyers are first class," Broglie's leprous image continued. "Very dangerous equipment."

  "Yeah, but look,"Pesco objected."With him, under him, it don't matter.What's he like, Broglie? Does he know his stuff, or is he gonna get somebody killed?"

  Near where the singers warbled, "Mother, make my bed soon . . ." a dozen troopers had wedged two of the round tables together and were buying drinks for Sergeant Kuykendall. Des Grieux had heard his former driver'd gotten a twelve-month appointment to the Military Academy on Nieuw Friesland, with a lieutenancy in the Slammers waiting when she completed the course.

  He supposed that was okay. Kuykendall had combat experience, so she'd be at least a cunt-hair better than green sods who'd never been on the wrong end of a gun muzzle.

  Of course, she didn't have the experience Des Grieux himself did . . . .

  "For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie down," the singers chirped through fixed smiles.

  "Slick?" Pesco pressed. "Sarge? What about the new CO?"

  Des Grieux shrugged."Broglie?" he said."He's a bloody good shot,I'll tell you that. Not real fast—not as fast as I am. But when he presses the tit, he nails what he's going after."

  "Either of you guys from Golf?" asked the veteran in new fatigues. "I just got back from leave and I'm lookin' for my cousin, Tip Rasidi."

  "We're Hotel Company, buddy," Pesco said. "Tanks. Why don't you try the Adjutant?"

  "Because the bloody Adjutant lost half his bloody records in the transit," the stranger snapped, "and the orderly sergeant tells me to bugger off until he's got his bloody office sorted out. So I figure I'll check around till I find what's happened to Tip."

  The stranger scraped his way over to the next table, rocking Pesco forward in his chair. The driver grimaced sourly.

  "I don't know if the Hindis are brave or not," said Captain Broglie's image. "I suppose they're like everybody else, some braver than others. What I do know is that their troops are highly disciplined, and that causes me some concern."

  "C'mon, what about him, then?" Pesco said. "Broglie."

  "He'll do what he's told,"Des Grieux said, staring at the video screen. His voice was clear, but it came from far away. "He's smart and he's got balls, I'll give him that. But he'd rather kiss the ass of whoever's giving orders than get out and fight. He coulda been really something, but instead . . ."

  Sergeant Kuykendall got up from her table. She was wearing a red headband with lettering stitched in black. The others at the table shouted,"Speech! Speech!" as Kuykendall tried to say something.

  "Yeah, but what's Broglie gonna be like as an officer?" Pesco demanded. "He just transferred to Hotel, you know. He'd been on the staff."

  "Sure, courage is important," Broglie said on the screen. Though his words were mild enough, his tone harshly dismissed the interviewer's question. "But in modern warfare discipline is absolutely crucial. The Hindi regulars are quite well-disciplined, and I fear that's going to make up for some deficiencies in their equipment. As for Baffin's Legion—"

  Kuykendall broke away from her companions. She came toward Des Grieux, stepping between tables with the care of someone who knows how much she's drunk. The letters on her headband read "SIR!"

  "—they're first rate in equipment and unit discipline. The war on the Western Wing isn't going to be a walkover."

  "Kid," said Des Grieux in a voice that grated up from deep within his soul, "I'll give you the first and last rule about officers. The more they keep outa your way and let you get on with the fighting, the better they are. And when things really drop in the pot, they're always too busy to get in your way. Don't worry about them."

  " . . . from Golf Company?" trailed the stranger's voice through a fissure in the ambient noise.

  Sergeant Kuykendall bent over the table. "Hello, Slick," she said in measured tones."I'm glad to see you're back in tanks.I always thought you belonged with the panzers."

  Des Grieux shrugged. He was still looking at the screen, though the interview had been replaced by a stern-faced plea to buy War Stamps and support the national effort.

  "Tanks,"Des Grieux said,"combat cars . . . I ran a jeep gun once.It don't really matter."

  Pesco looked up at Kuykendall. "Hey, Sarge," he said to her. "Congrats on the appointment. Want a beer?"

  "Just wanted to say hi to Slick," she said. "Me and him served with Captain Broglie way back to the dawn of time, y' know."

  "Hey,"Pesco said,his expression brightening."You know Broglie,then?Looks to me he's gota lot of guts,telling'em like it is on the video when they must a been figuring on a puff piece, is all. Likely to piss off Hammer, don't you think?"

  Kuykendall glanced at the screen, though it now showed only a desk and a newsreader who mumbled unintelligibly. "Oh," she said, "I don't know. I guess the colonel's smart enough to know that telling the truth now that the contract's signed isn't going to do any harm. May help things if we run into real trouble; and we might, Baffin's outfit's plenty bloody good."

  She looked at Pesco, then Des Grieux, and back to Pesco. There were minute crow's feet around Kuykendall's eyes where the skin had been smooth when she drove for Des Grieux. "But Broglie's got guts, you bet."

  Des Grieux shoved his chair backward. "If guts is what it takes to toady t' the brass, he's got 'em, you bet," he snarled as he rose.

  He turned. "Hey, buddy!" he shouted. "You looking for Tip Rasidi?"

  Voices stilled,though clattering glass,the video screen,and the singers' recorded background music continued at a high level.

  The stranger straightened to face the summons.Des Grieux said,"Rasidi drove for me on Aberdeen.We took a main-gun hit and burnt out.There wasn't enough of Tip to ship home in a matchbox."

  The stranger continued to stand. His expression did not change, but his eyes glazed over.

  The girl in the red dress sat at the table where Des Grieux had pushed her, wedged in between a pair of female troopers. Des Grieux gripped the girl by the shoulder and lifted her. "Come on," he snarled. "We're going upstairs."

  One of the seated troopers might have objected, but she saw Des Grieux's face and remained silent.

  The girl's face was resigned. She knew what was coming, but by now she was used to it.

  "The tow and the halter," sang the entertainers, "for to hang on yon tree . . . ."

  The gravel highway steepened by a couple degrees before the switchback. The Han driving the four-axle troop transport just ahead of Des Grieux's tank opened his exhaust cut-outs to coax more power from the diesel.

  As the unmuffled exhaust rattled, several of the troops on the truck bed stuck their weapons in the air and opened fire. A jolt threw one of the Han soldiers backward. His backpack laser slashed a brilliant line across the truck's canvas awning.

  The
lieutenant in command of the troops leaned from the cab and shouted angrily at his men, but they were laughing too hard to take much notice. Somebody tossed an empty bottle over the side in enough of a forward direction that the officer disappeared back within the cab.

  The awnings moldered to either side of the lon,blackened rent, but the treated fabric would not sustain a fire by itself.

  The truck ground through the switchback, spewing gravel. Both forward axles were steerable. The vehicle was a solid piece of equipment, well designed and manufactured. The local forces in this contract were a cursed sight better equipped than most of those you saw. Mostly the off-planet mercenaries stood out from the indig troops like diamonds on a bed of mud.

  Both sets of locals, these Han and their Hindi rivals . . . .

  "Booster," Des Grieux muttered as he sat in the cupola of his tank. "Hindi combat vehicles, schematics. Slow crawl. Out."

  He manually set his commo helmet to echo the artificial intelligence's feed onto the left side of the visor. Des Grieux's cold right eye continued to scan the line of the convoy and the terraces that they had passed farther down the valley.

  A soldier tossed another empty bottle from the truck ahead. Because the truck was higher and the road had reversed direction at the switchback, the brown glazed ceramics hattered on the turret directly below Des Grieux.A line of heads turned from the truck's rail, shouting apologies and amused warnings to the soldier farther within the vehicle who'd thrown the bottle without looking first.

  Des Grieux squeezed his tribarrel's grips, overriding its present Automatic Air Defense setting. He slid the holographic sight picture across the startled Han faces, which disappeared as the men flung themselves flat onto the truck bed.

  Pesco shifted his four rear nacelles and pivoted the tank around its bow,following the switchback. They swung in behind the truck again. Des Grieux released the grips and let the tribarrel shift back to its normal search attitude: muzzles forward, at a 45° elevation.

  Des Grieux had only been joking. Had he been serious, he'd have put the first round into the fuel tank beneath the truck's cab. Only then would he rake his bolts along the men screaming as they tried to jump from the inferno of blazing kerosene. He'd done that often enough before.