by David Drake
"Yeah," said Albers, now manning the right wing gun. He spoke in a similar rasping whisper. "Narrow streets and every curst one a' those places built like a bunker. Woulda been a bitch."
"We'd've managed," said Cooter.
I doubt it, Suilin thought. But we would have tried.
The Compound's ornamental iron gates had been blown away early in the fighting. The makeshift barricade of burned-out cars which replaced them had already been pushed aside in the cleanup. Soldiers in clean fatigues bearing the collar flashes of the 23d Infantry stood aside as Task Force Ranson entered the courtyard.
Flamethrower settled wearily to the rubble-strewn cobblestones. The car gave a deep sigh as Rogers shut down its fans. The other vehicles were already parked within.
Blue Three listed to starboard since Kawana. The tank had brushed a stone gatepost to widen the Compound entrance, then dragged a sparking line across a courtyard-sized mosaic map of Southern District with all the major cities and terrain features described.
Flamethrower stank of burned plastic and blood. Gale's body was wrapped in his air-tight bedroll and slung to the skirts, but the part of him that had splashed over the interior of the fighting compartment didn't take long to rot in bright sunlight.
They took off their body armor. Suilin's fingers didn't want to bend. All three men were fumbling with their latches. Cooter gripped the edge of the hull armor and shivered.
"Blood and martyrs," he muttered tiredly. Then he said, "Tootsie One-five, this is Three. Take over here till I get back, Tillman. Colonel wants me to report t' Governor Kung."
Suilin heard the electronic click of an answer on a channel the AI didn't open to him. Surely assent. Nobody had the energy left to argue.
Cooter looked at the reporter. "You coming?" the mercenary asked.
Suilin shrugged. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, sure. That's what I came for."
He didn't sound certain, even to himself.
"Albers," Cooter said as he climbed over the back of the combatcar."See if you can help Tillman line up billets and rations, okay?"
Albers nodded minusculy. He was sitting on the beer cooler. He didn't look at the big lieutenant. Except for the slight lift of his chin, he didn't move.
Suilin slid down the last step and almost fell. His legs didn't want to support him. They seemed all right after a few steps.
"The Consies 're asking for a cease fire," Cooter announced as he and the reporter walked toward the entrance to the Governor's Palace, the middle building of those closing the Compound on three sides."Not just here.Their Central
Command announced it."
"From the enclaves," Suilin said, thinking aloud.
The soldiers at the entrance thirty meters away wore fatigues with the crossed-saber collar tabs of the Presidential Guard Force. They eyed the newcomers cautiously.
A buzzbomb had cratered the second floor of the Palace, directly above the entrance. Other than that, damage was limited to broken glass and bullet-pocks on the stone. The fighting hadn't been serious around here after all.
Dick Suilin now knew what buildings looked like when somebody really meant business.
"Will they get it?" he said aloud. "The cease fire, I mean."
Cooter shrugged. "I'm not a politician," he said.
Now that the reporter had taken off his clamshell armor, the sling holding his grenade launcher was too long. He adjusted the length.
The pink-faced captain commanding the guards blinked.
Cooter looked at his companion. "I'm not sure you'll need that in here," he said mildly.
"I'm not sure of anything," Dick Suilin replied without emotion. "Not anymore."
* * *
"The hole in the skirt," said Warrant Leader Ortnahme in a judicious tone as he walked slowly toward Blue Three, "we can patch easy enough . . . ."
"Yes sir," said Tech 2 Simkins through tight lips.
When a Yokel tank blew up three meters from Simkins' side of Daisy Belle, he'd been spattered with blazing diesel fuel. Bandages now covered the Spray Seal which replaced the skin of the technician's left arm.
He wasn't hurting, exactly;nobody carrying Simkins' present load of analgesics in his veins could be said to be in pain. Still, the technician had to concentrate to keep his feet moving in the right order.
"The bloody rest of it, though . . ." Ortnahme murmured.
Hans Wager had managed to find a can of black paint and a brush somewhere. He was painting something on the tank's bow skirts. His driver, a woman Ortnahme couldn't put a bloody name to, watched with a drawn expression.
The pair of 'em looked like they'd sweated off five kilos in the last two days. Maybe they had.
The tungsten-carbide shot that holed the skirt must have been so close to the muzzle that its fins hadn't had time to stabilize it. The shot was still yawing when it struck, so it'd punched a long oval in the steel instead of a neat round hole.
Ortnahme estimated the shot's probable further course with his eyes and called, "Did ye lose a bloody fan when that hit you?"
Wager continued painting, attempting a precision which was far beyond his present ability.
The driver turned slowly toward the pair of maintenance personnel. She said, "Yeah, that's right. Number 3 Port went out. That was okay, but the air spilling through the hole here—" nodding toward the gaping oval "—that was bad."
She paused for memory before she added, "Can you fix it?"
"Sure,"the warrant leader said."As soon as they ship in a spare."He shook his head. "A whole bloody lotta spares."
Simpkins nodded without speaking.
"What, ah . . . are you doing?" Ortnahme asked.
Wager turned at last. "We're putting the name on our tank," he croaked.
Wager's vacant expression turned to utter malevolence. "She's ours and we can call her anything we bloody please!"he shouted hoarsely."They're not takin' her and givin' us some clapped out old cow instead, d'ye hear? Not even the Old Man's gonna take her away from us!"
The warrant leader looked at the tank that had only been a call sign until now.
The turret had taken at least a dozen direct hits, most of them from armor-piercing shot. Ortnahme wondered if any part of the sensor array had survived.
One round had blasted a cavity in the stubby barrel of the main gun. It hadn't penetrated, but until the tube was replaced, firing the 20cm weapon would be as dangerous as juggling contact grenades.
Even a layman could see that the tribarrel's ammunition had chain-fired in its loading tube, vaporizing the weapon, the hatch, and the cupola itself. The warrant leader knew what a layman wouldn't: that when the bloody ammo went, it would've reamed its tubeway as wide as a cow's cunt, seriously weakening the turret forging itself. The whole bloody turret would have to be replaced before Ortnahme would certify this mother as fit for action.
Plus, of course, the fan nacelle. Pray Lord it was the only one gone when he and Simkins got underneath to look.
"No argument from me, snake," Henk Ortnahme said mildly. "I figure you guys earned the right to ride whatever you bloody well please."
Simkins had to keep moving for another half hour or so. Ortnahme nodded to the tankers, then walked on slowly with the technician's hand in his for guidance.
Behind them, Wager painted the last letter of Nameless on the skirt in straggling capitals.
Suzette, Lady Kung, wore neat fatigues and a look of irritation as she glanced over her shoulder toward the commotion by the door.
"Suzi!"Dick Suilin called,past the sergeant major who blocked him and Cooter from the dignitaries milling in the conference room.
His sister's expression shifted through blank amazement to a mixture of love and horror. "Dick!" she cried. "Dick! Oh good Lord!"
She darted toward Suilin with her arms spread, striding fast enough to make her lustrous hair stream back from her shoulderblades.
The sergeant major didn't know what was going on, but he knew enough to get out of the way of the go
vernor's wife. He sprang to attention and repeated in a parade-ground voice what Cooter had told him: "Sir! The representatives of Task Force Ranson."
There were twenty-odd people in the room already, too many for the chairs around the map-strewn table. Most were officers of the National Army. A few civilian advisors looked up from the circle around Governor Kung.
Everyone was in fatigues, but several of the officers wore polished insignia and even medal ribbons.
Suzi hugged her brother fiercely, then gasped before she could suppress the reflex. Suilin had forgotten how he must smell . . . .
"Oh Dick," his sister said. "It's been hard for all of us."
The reporter patted her hand and let her step away.
He pretended that he hadn't seen the look of disgust flash across her face. Couldn't blame her. He'd lived two days in his clothes, stinking of fear every moment of the time . . . and that was before the shell hit Gale beside him.
Cooter walked toward the conference table, parting the clot of advisors with the shockwave of his presence.
Governor Kung shoved his chair back and stood. He looked like a startled hiker who'd met a bear on a narrow trail.
"Sir," Cooter said, halting a meter from the governor in a vain effort not to be physically threatening. "Colonel Hammer—"
"You're Ranson, then?" Kung said sharply, his tenor voice keyed higher than Suilin remembered having heard it before."We were told you were going to relieve us. But I see you preferred to wait until General Halas had done the job!"
Dick Suilin moved up beside the mercenary. The edges of his vision were becoming gray, like the walls of a tunnel leading to the face of Governor Samuel Kung. Suilin's brother-in-law wasn't a handsome man, but his round, sturdy features projected unshakeable determination.
Cooter shook his head as if to clear it. "Sir," he said, "we got here as fast as we could. There was a lot of resis—"
" My troops metalot of resistance,Captain,"growled a military man—General Halas; Suilin had interviewed him a few weeks ago, during another life. "The difference is that we broke through and accomplished our mission!"
The tunnel of Dick Suilin's vision was growing red and beginning to pulse as his heart beat. Halas' voice came from somewhere outside the present universe.
"Sir,"said Lieutenant Cooter,"with all respect—the Consies put the best they had in our way. When we broke that, broke them, the troops they had left in Kohang ran rather than face us."
"Nonsense!"snapped Kung."General Halas and his troops from Camp Fortune kept up the pressure till the enemy ran. I don't know why we ever decided to hire mercenaries in the first place!"
"Don't you know why we hire mercenaries, Governor?" said Dick Suilin in a voice trembling like a fuel fire. "Don't you know?"
He stepped closer; felt the massive conference table against the front of his thighs, felt it slide away from his advance.
"Dick!" called Suzi, the word attenuated by the pounding walls of the tunnel.
"Because they fight, Governor!" Suilin shouted. "Because they win, while your rear-echelon pussies wait to be saved with their thumbs up their ass!"
Kung's face vanished. Suilin could see nothing but a core of flame.
"They saved you, you worthless bastards!" he screamed into the blinding darkness. "They saved us all!"
The reporter floated without volition or sight."Reaction to the Wide-awakes," he heard someone, Cooter, murmur. "Had a pretty rough time . . . ."
A door closed,cutting off the babble of sounds.The air was cool,and someone was gently holding him upright.
"Suzi?" he said.
"You can't let 'em get t' you," said Cooter. His right arm was around Suilin's shoulders.His fingers carefully detached the grenade launcher from the reporter's grip. "It's okay."
They were back in the hallway outside the conference room. The walls were veneered with zebra-patterned marble, clean and cool.
"It's not okay!" screamed Dick Suilin. "You saved all their asses and they don't care!"
"They don't have t' like us, snake," said Lieutenant Cooter, meeting Suilin's eyes. "They just have t' make the payment schedule."
Suilin turned and bunched his fist. Cooter caught his arm before he could smash his knuckles on the stone wall.
"Take it easy, snake," said the mercenary. "It don't mean nothin'."
Bridge Crossing
THE WARRIOR
Part I
The tribarrel in the cupola of Warrior, the tank guarding the northwest quadrant of Hill 541 North, snarled in automatic air-defense mode. The four Slammers in Lieutenant Lindgren's bunker froze.
Sergeant Samuel "Slick" Des Grieux, Warrior's commander, winced. He was twenty-one standard years old, and a hardened veteran of two years in Hammer's Slammers. He kneaded his broad, powerful hands together to control his anger at being half a kay away from where he ought to have been: aboard his vehicle and fighting.
The incoming shell thudded harmlessly, detonated in the air.
Sergeant Broglie had counted out the time between the tribarrel's burst and the explosion. "Three seconds," he murmured.
The shell had been a safe kilometer away when it went off. The howl of its passage to an intersection with Warrior's bolts echoed faintly through the night.
"Every five minutes," said Hawes, the fourth man in the bunker and by far the greenest. This was the first time Hawes had been under prolonged bombardment. The way he twitched every time a gun fired indicated how little he liked the experience. "I wish they'd—"
Lieutenant Lindgren's tank, Queen City, fired a five-round burst. Cyan light shuddered through the bunker's dog leg entrance.A pair of shells,probably fired from the Republican batteries on Hill 661 to the northeast, crumped well short of their target.
" Via , Lieutenant!"Des Grieux said in a desperate voice. He stared at his hands, because he was afraid of what he might blurt if he looked straight at the young officer."Look,I oughta be back on Warrior. Anything you gotta say, you can say over the commo, it's secure. And—"
He couldn't help it. His face came up. His voice grew as hard as his cold blue eyes, and he continued. "Besides, we're not here to talk. We oughta be kicking
ass. That's what we're here for."
"We're here—" Lindgren began.
"We're the Federals' artillery defense,Slick,"Broglie said,smiling at Des Grieux. Broglie didn't shout,but his voice flattened the lieutenant's words anyway." And their backbone. We're doing our job, so no sweat, hey?"
"Our job . . ." said Des Grieux softly. Warrior fired three short bursts, blasting a salvo inbound from the Republicans on Hill 504. Des Grieux ignored the sound and its implications. " . . . is to fight. Not to hide in holes. Hey, Luke?"
Broglie was four centimeters shorter than Des Grieux and about that much broader across the shoulders. He wasn't afraid of Des Grieux . . . which interested Des Grieux because it was unusual, though it didn't bother him in the least.
Des Grieux wasn't afraid of anyone or anything.
"We're here to see that Hill 541 North holds out till the relieving force arrives," said Lindgren.
He'd taken Broglie's interruption as a chance to get his emotions under control. The lieutenant was almost as nervous as Hawes, but he was a Slammers officer and determined to act like one. "The AAD in the vehicles does that as well as we could sitting in the turrets, Slick," he continued, "and unit meetings are important to remind us that we're a platoon, not four separate tanks stuck off in West Bumfuck."
"North Bumfuck fiver-four-one,"Broglie chuckled.Broglie's face held its quizzical smile, but the low sound of his laughter was drowned by incoming shells and the tanks' response to them. This was a sustained pounding from all three Republican gun positions: Hills 504 and 661 to the north, and Hill 541 South, ten kilometers southeast of the Federal base.
The Reps fired thirty or forty shells in less than a minute. Under the tribarrels' lash, the explosions merged into a drumming roar—punctuated by the sharp crash of the round that got
through.
The bunker rocked. Dust drifted down from the sandbagged roof. Hawes rubbed his hollow eyes and pretended not to have heard the blast.
The sound of the salvoes died away. One of the Federal garrison screamed nearby. Des Grieux wasn't sure whether the man was wounded or simply broken by the constant hammering. The unanswered shelling got to him, too; but it made him want to go out and kill, not hide in a bunker and scream.
"Lieutenant," Des Grieux said in the same measured, deadly voice as before. "We oughta go out and nail the bastards. That's how we can save these Federal pussies."
"The relieving force—"Lindgren said.
"The relieving force hasn't gotten here in three weeks, so they aren't exactly burning up the road, now, are they?" Des Grieux said. "Look—"
"They'll get here," said Broglie. "They've got Major Howes and three of our companies with 'em, so they'll get here.And we'll wait it out, because that's what Colonel Hammer ordered us to do."
Lindgren opened his mouth to speak, but he closed it again and let the tank commanders argue the question. Des Grieux didn't even pretend to care what a newbie lieutenant thought. As for Broglie—
Sergeant Lucas Broglie was more polite, and Broglie appreciated the value of Lindgren's education from the Military Academy of Nieuw Friesland.But Broglie didn't much care what a newbie lieutenant thought, either.
"I didn't say we ought to bug out," Des Grieux said. His eyes were as open and empty as a cannon's bore. "I said we could win this instead of sitting on our butts."
Open and empty and deadly . . . .
"Four tanks can't take on twenty thousand Reps," Broglie said. His smile was an equivalent of Des Grieux's blank stare: the way Broglie's face formed itself when the mind beneath was under stress.
He swept an arc with his thumb.The bunker was too strait to allow him to make a full-arm gesture. "That's what they got out there. Twenty thousand of them."
The ground shook from another shell that got through the tribarrels' defensive web. Des Grieux was so concentrated on Broglie that his mind had tuned out the ripping bursts that normally would have focused him utterly.