by David Drake
"Hey?"said Cooter. He lifted his commo helmet slightly with one hand so that he could knuckle the line of his sweat-darkened auburn hair."Major? What the hell's happening, anyway? Is this all over?"
Danny Pritchard smiled a great deal; usually it was a pleasant expression.
Not this smile.
"They hit the three firebases and all but one of the line companies," the major said."We told everybody hold what they got; and then the hogs—"Pritchard nodded;a howitzer slashed the sky again from beyond the field of view"—scratched everybody's back with firecracker rounds. Each unit swept its circuit before the dust settled from the shellbursts."
The smile hardened still further."Kinda nice of them to concentrate that way for us."
Ranson nodded, visualizing the white flare of precisely directed cluster bomb-lets going off. The interlocking fields of fire from Firebases Red, Blue, and Purple covered the entire Strip. Guerrillas rising in panic, to be hosed down by the tribarrels in the armored vehicles . . . .
"Yeah,"said Sergeant Wylde in a husky whisper. The wounded man's face didn't move and his eyes weren't focused on the hologram. "But how about the Yokels? Or is this a private fight fer us 'n the Consies?"
"Right," said Pritchard with something more than agreement in his tone of voice. "Hold one, Junebug."
The sound cut off abruptly as somebody hit the muting switch of the console at HQ. Major Pritchard turned his head. Ranson could see Pritchard's lips moving in profile as he talked to someone out of the projection field. She was in a dream, watching the bust of a man who spoke silently . . . .
What's your present strength in vehicles and trained crews?
Junebug?
Captain Ranson?
Ranson snapped alert. Cooter had put his big arm around her shoulders to give her a shake.
"Right," she said, feeling the red prickly flush cover her, as though she'd just fainted and come around. She couldn't remember where she was, but in her dream somebody had been asking—
"We've got—" Cooter said.
"We're down a blower," Ranson said, facing Pritchard's worried expression calmly. "A combat car."
"Mine,"said Wylde to his bandaged hands. Ranson wasn't sure whether or not the sergeant was within the hologram pickup.
"My crews,two dead,"Ranson continued. "Three out for seven days or more. Sergeant Wylde, my section leader, he's out."
"Oh-yew-tee," Wylde muttered. "Out."
"Can you pick anybody up from the Blue side?" Pritchard asked.
"There's the three panzers," Ranson said. "Only one's got a trained crew, but they came through like gangbusters last night."
She frowned, trying to concentrate. "Personnel, though . . . Look, you know, we're talking newbies and people who're rear echelon for a reason."
People even farther out of it than Captain June Ranson, who nodded off while debriefing to Central . . . .
"Look, sir," Cooter interjected."We shot the cop outa the Consies. I don't know about no' five thousand dead' cop, But if they'd had more available, they'da used it last night. They bloody sure don't have enough left to try anytime soon."
"I believe you, Lieutenant," Pritchard said wearily. "But that's not the only problem." He rubbed the palms of his hands together firmly. "Hold one," he repeated as he got up from the console.
Colonel Alois Hammer sat down in Pritchard's place.
The hologram was as clear as if Hammer were in the TOC with Ranson. The colonel was madder than hell; so mad that his hand kept stabbing upward to brush away the tic at the corner of his left eye.
"Captain . . ."Hammer said.He fumbled with the latches of his clams hell armor to give himself time to form words—or at least to delay the point at which he had to speak them.
He glared at June Ranson. " We kicked the Consies up one side and down the other. The National Army had problems."
"That's why they hired us, sir,"Ranson said. She was very calm. Thick glass was beginning to form between her and the image of the regimental commander.
"Yeah, that's why they did, all right," Hammer said. He ground at his left eye.
He lowered his hand. "Captain, you saw what happened to the structure of Camp Progress during the attack?"
"What structure?" Cooter muttered bitterly.
Ranson shivered. The glass wall shivered also, falling away as shards of color that coalesced into Hammer's face.
"Sir, the Consies were only a battalion,"Ranson said."They could've done a lot of damage—they did. But it was just a spoiling attack, they couldn't 've captured the base in the strength they were."
"They can capture Kohang, Captain," Hammer said. "And if they capture a district capital, the National Government is gone. The people who pay us."
Ranson blinked, trying to assimilate the information.
It didn't make any sense. The Consies were beat—beaten good. Multiply what her teams had done at Camp Progress by the full weight of the Regiment—with artillery and perfect artillery targets for a change—and the Conservative Action Movement on Prosperity didn't have enough living members to bury its dead . . . .
"Nobody was expecting it, Captain Ranson," Hammer said. The whiskers on his chin and jowls were white, though the close-cropped hair on the colonel's head was still a sandy brown. "The National Government wasn't, we weren't. It'd been so quiet the past three months that we—"
His eye twitched. " Via! " he cursed. " I thought, and if anybody'd told me different I'd 've laughed at them. I thought the Consies were about to pack it in. And instead they were getting ready for the biggest attack of the war."
"But Colonel,"Cooter said.His voice sounded desperate."They lost. They got their butts kicked."
"Tell that to a bunch of civilians," Hammer said bitterly. "Tell that to your Colonel Banyussuf—the bloody fool!"
Somebody at Central must have spoken to Hammer from out of pickup range, because the colonel half-turned and snarled, "Then deal with it! Shoot 'em all in the neck if you want!"
He faced around again. For an instant, Ranson stared into eyes as bleak and merciless as the scarp of a glacier. Then Hammer blinked, and the expression was gone; replaced with one of anger and concern. Human emotions, not forces of nature.
"Captain Ranson," he resumed with a formality that would have been frightening to the junior officer were she not drifting again into glassy isolation. "In a week, it'll all be over for the Consies. They'll have to make their peace on any terms they can get—even if that means surrendering for internment by the National Government. But if a district capital falls, there won't be a National Government in a week. All they see—"
Hammer's left hand reached for his eye and clenched into a fist instead. "All they see,"he repeated in a voice that trembled between a whisper and a snarl,"is what's been lost, what's been destroyed, what's been disrupted. You and I—"
His hand brushed out in a slighting gesture."We've expended some ammo,we've lost some equipment. We've lost some people. Objectives cost. Winning costs."
Sergeant Wylde nodded. Blood was seeping from cracks in the Spray Seal which replaced the skin burned from his left shoulder.
"But the politicians and—and what passes for an army, here, they're in a panic. One more push and they'll fold. The people who pay us will fold."
One more push . . . . Ranson thought/said; she wasn't sure whether the words floated from her tongue or across her mind.
"Captain Ranson," Hammer continued, "I don't like the orders I'm about to give you, but I'm going to give them anyway. Kohang has to be relieved soonest, and you're the only troops in position to do the job."
June Ranson was sealed in crystal, a tiny bead that glittered as it spun aimlessly through the universe."Sir,"said the voice from her mouth,"there's the 4th Armored at Camp Victory. A brigade. There's the Yokel 12th and 23rd Infantry closer than we are."
Her voice was enunciating very clearly. "Sir, I've got eight blowers."
"Elements of the 4th Armored are attempting to enter Kohang f
rom the south," Hammer said. "They're making no progress."
"How hard are they trying?" shouted Cooter. "How hard are they bloody trying?"
"It doesn't matter," Ranson thought/said.
"Lieutenant, that doesn't matter," said Hammer, momentarily the man who'd snarled at an off-screen aide. "They're not doing the job. We're going to. That's what we're paid to do."
"Cooter," said Ranson, "shut up."
She shouldn't say that with other people around. Screw it. She focused on the hologram. "Sir," she said, "what's the enemy strength?"
"We've picked up the call signs of twenty-seven Consie units in and around Kohang, company-size or battalion," Hammer said, in a tone of fractured calm. "The data's been downloaded to you already."
Bestwick glanced up from the console behind the projected image and nodded; Ranson continued to watch her commanding officer.
"Maybe three thousand bandits," Ranson said.
"Maybe twice that," Hammer said, nodding as Ranson was nodding. "Concentrated on the south side and around Camp Victory."
"There's two hundred thousand people in Kohang," Ranson said. "There's three thousand police in the city."
"The Governmental Compound is under siege," Hammer said coldly. "Some elements of the security forces appeared to be acting in support of the Consies." He paused and rubbed his eye.
"A battalion of the 4th Armored left Camp Victory without orders yesterday afternoon," he continued. "About an hour before the first rocket attack. Those troops aren't responding to messages from their brigade commander."
"Blood and martyrs," somebody in the TOC said. Maybe they all said it.
"Sir," said Ranson, "we can't, we can't by ourself—"
"Shoot your way into the compound," Hammer said before she could finish. "Reinforce what's there, put some backbone into 'em. They got enough bloody troops to do the job themselves, Captain . . . they just don't believe it."
He grimaced."Even a couple blowers.That'll do the trick until G and H companies arrive. Just a couple blowers."
"Cop," muttered Wylde through his bandages.
"Bloody hell," muttered Cooter with the back of his hand set tightly against his mouth.
"May the Lord have mercy on our souls," said/thought June Ranson.
"Speed's essential," Hammer resumed. "You have authorization to combat-loss vehicles rather than slow down. The victory bonus'll cover the cost of replacement."
"I'll be combat-lossing crews, Colonel," Ranson's voice said. "But they're replaceable too . . . ."
Cooter gasped.Wylde grunted something that might have been either laughter or pain.
Hammer opened his mouth, then closed it with an audible clop. He opened it again and spoke with a lack of emotion as complete as the white, colorless fury of a sun's heart. "You are not to take any unnecessary risks, Captain Ranson. It is necessary that you achieve your objective. You will accept such losses as are required to achieve your objective. Is that understood?"
"Yes sir," said Ranson without inflection. "Oh, yes sir."
Hammer turned his head. The viewers at Camp Progress thought their commander was about to call orders or directions to someone on his staff. Instead, nothing happened while the hologram pickups stared at the back of Alois Hammer's head.
"All right," Hammer said at last, beginning to speak before he'd completely faced around again.His eyes were bright, his face hard."The Consies'night vision equipment isn't as good as ours for the most part, so you're to leave as soon as it's dark. That gives you enough time to prepare and get some rest."
" Rest ," Wylde murmured.
"The World Gov satellites'll tell the Consies where we are to the millimeter," Ranson said. "We'll have ambush teams crawling over us like flies on a turd, all the way to Kohang."
Or however far.
"Junebug," said Hammer, "I'm not hanging you out to dry. Thirty seconds before you start your move, all the WG satellites are going to go down, recce and commo both. They'll stay down for however long it suits me that they do."
Ranson blinked, "Sir," she said hesitantly, "if you do that . . . I mean, that means—"
"It means that our commo and reconnaissance is probably going to go out shortly thereafter,Captain,"Hammer said."So you'll be on your own.But you don't have to worry about tank killers being vectored into your axis of advance."
"Sir, if you hit their satellites—" Ranson began.
"They'll take it and smile,Captain,"Hammer said."Because if they don't,there won't be any Terran World Government enclaves here on Prosperity to worry about. I guarantee it. They may think they can cause me trouble on Earth, but they know what I'll do to them here!"
"Yes sir,"June Ranson said. "I'll check the status of my assets and plot a route, then get back to you."
"Captain," Hammer said softly, "if I didn't think it could be done, I wouldn't order it. No matter how much it counted. Good luck to you and your team."
The hologram dissolved into a swirl of phosphorescent mites, impingement points of the carrier wave itself after the signal ceased. Bestwick shut down the projector.
"Cooter," Ranson said, "get the guard detachment ready. I'll take care of the tanks myself."
Cooter nodded over his shoulder. The big man was already on the way to his blower. It was going to be tricky, juggling crews and newbies to fill the slots that last night's firefight had opened . . . .
If Hammer took on the World Government, he was going to lose. Not here, but in the main arena of politics and economics on Earth.
That bothered June Ranson a lot.
But not nearly as much as the fact that the orders she'd just received put her neck on the block, sure as Death itself.
Chapter Five
Speedin' Steve Riddle sat by Platt's cot in the medical tent, listening to machines pump air in and out of his buddy's lungs.
And thinking.
They sat on the lowered tailgate of Platt's truck, staring at the sky and giggling occasionally at the display. At first there'd been only the lesser moon edging one horizon while the other horizon was saffron with the sunset.
Lights, flames? . . . streaks of tracers that painted letters in the sky for the drug-heightened awareness of the two men. Neither Platt nor Riddle could read the words, but they knew whatever was being spelled was excruciatingly funny.? . . .
"Speed," called Lieutenant Cooter, "get your ass back to the blower and start running the prelim checklist. We're moving out tonight."
"Wha . . .?" Riddle blurted, jerking his head up like an ostrich surprised at a waterhole. He was rapidly going bald. To make up for it, he'd grown a luxuriant moustache that fluffed when he spoke or exhaled.
"Don't give me any lip, you stupid bastard!" Cooter snapped, though Speed's response had been logy rather than argumentative. "If I didn't need you bad, you'd be findin' your own ticket back to whatever cesspit you call home."
"Hey, El-Tee!" Otski called, sitting up on his cot despite the gentle efforts of Shorty Rogers to keep him flat. "How they hangin', Cooter-baby?"
He waggled his stump.
"Come on, Otski," Rogers said. Shorty was Flamethrower's driver and probably the best medic in the guard detachment as well as being a crewmate of the wounded man. "Just take it easy or I'll have to raise your dosage, and then it won't feel so good. All right?"
The medicomp metered Platt's breathing, in and out.
"Hey, lookit," Otski burbled, fluttering his stump again though he permitted Shorty to lower him back to the cot.
An air injector spat briefly, but the gunner's voice continued for a moment. "Lookit it when I wave, Cooter. I'm gonna get a flag. Whole bunch of flags, stick 'em in there 'n wave 'n wave . . . ."
"Shorty, you're gonna have to get back to the car too," Cooter said. "We'll turn 'em over to the Logistics staff until they can be lifted out to a permanent facility."
"Cop! None a' the Logistics people here'd know—"
Riddle thought:
The parts shed bulged around a puff o
f orange flame. The shockwave threw Riddle and Platt flat on the sloping tailgate; they struggled to sit up again. It was hilarious.
The Consie sapper rose from his crouch, silhouetted by the flaming shed he'd just bombed. He carried a machine pistol in a harness of looped rope, so that the weapon swung at waist height. His right hand snatched at the grip.
"Lookie, Speed!" Platt cackled. "He's just as bald as you are! Lookie!"
"Lookie!" Riddle called. He threw up his arms and fell backward with the effort.
The machine pistol crackled like the main truss of a house giving way. Its tracers were bright orange, lovely orange, as they drew spirals from the muzzle. One of them ricocheted around the interior of the truck box, dazzling Riddle with its howling beauty. He sat up again.
"Beauty!" he cried. Platt was thrashing on his back. Air bubbled through the holes in his chest.
The machine pistol pointed at Riddle. Nothing happened. The sapper cursed and slapped a magazine into the butt-well to replace the one that had ejected automatically when the previous burst emptied it.
The Consie's body flung itself sideways, wrapped in cyan light as a powergun from one of the combat cars raked him. The fresh magazine exploded. A few tracers zipped crazily out of the flashing yellow ball of detonating propellant.
"Beauty," Steve Riddle repeated as he fell backward.
Platt's chest wheezed.
"—a medicomp when it bit 'em on the ass!"
Air from the medicomp wheezed in and out of Platt's nostrils.
"Screw you!" called a supply tech with shrapnel wounds in his upper body.
"Then get 'em over to the Yokel side!" Cooter said. "They got facilities. Look, I'm not lookin' for an argument: we're movin' out at sunset, and none of my able-bodied crew are stayin' to bloody screw around here. All right?"
"Yeah, all right. One a' the newbies had some training back home, he says." Rogers stood up and gave a pat to the sleeping Otski. "Hey, how long we gonna be out?"
"Don't bloody ask," Cooter grunted bitterly. "Denzil, where's your driver?"