"Yeah," she agreed. "So?"
"So how come so many M-16s are still working good enough to throw lead at us?"
"Simple, Ethan," Reynolds said with a laugh. "We sold all the good ones to other countries. Probably made a lot of money. By the way, how's your ammo quota holding up?"
"Lousy."
Technically, the country benefiting from the peace enforcement ops was supposed to be paying for the soldiers, but that assumed the country either had a functioning government or that most of the available money wasn't being dumped into untraceable bank accounts. Since there wasn't enough funding to support much ammunition expenditure, the requirement usually got wished away. "It's a peace operation, not a war," one of the American officers lectured sternly. "You don't need excess ammunition. It will only encourage unduly aggressive actions."
Stark glowered at the ground. Lectures seemed to be as inevitable a part of war as bullets and beans. This one, derisively labeled Peace 101, covered the very important Rules of Engagement. Stark liked knowing the circumstances under which he could legally shoot back at allegedly pacified natives armed with heavy weapons and hostile attitudes. "If you are fired upon," they were ordered, "it is probably an attempt to provoke some military action that would discredit our mission. Therefore, you are not—repeat, not—to return fire unless and until actual damage has been inflicted."
It took a moment to digest all that. Then Stark raised one hand, his face stubborn. "So you're telling us that if the indigs shoot at us and miss, we can't return fire. We gotta wait until they hit us."
"That is correct."
"So, what if we're dead at that point? Are we allowed to, you know, bleed on them? Or are we supposed to die in a way that doesn't bother anybody?"
"You are completely missing the point," the officer declared with every evidence of exasperation. "You will not die, Sergeant. This is a peace enforcement mission."
A soldier in First Squad had raised her hand at that point. "If it's so peaceful, why do they need us here at all?"
Captain Disrali, their Company Commander of the moment, stood long enough to face his company, his expression put-upon. "There will be no more questions. Or comments. From anyone. Just listen to the damn briefing." He sat down again, back to the troops.
Stark leaned toward Reynolds. "Guess he won't be leading any patrols in person," he whispered.
"He wouldn't know how," Reynolds sniffed. "He's only here for his war-hero tour so he can pin on a Bronze Star he didn't earn and get promoted to Major."
"Just so long as he stays out of our way. We got enough problems with this op without adding obstacles."
Vic nodded. "Speaking of obstacles, did you notice the inhibits they've placed on our weapons?"
"Yeah. They'll only fire one clip per week. Not a round of ammo more. As if."
"Bullets cost bucks, Ethan."
"So do bandages and body bags. Anyway, the corporations pulling oil out of this rotting heap of dung they call an island are making plenty enough to fork over a few more dollars for ammo. I already got the work-around so we can fire on auto all week long if we want. That Corporal in Sanchez's Squad hacked it up yesterday. You need a download?"
"Yeah," Vic chuckled. "Thanks. You ever follow the rules, Ethan?"
"Only when they make sense to me."
"That must not be too often."
The only thing worse than the lectures were the patrols, trying to pacify chunks of territory where villages now consisted of marks on their maps that simply memorialized burned-out foundations and lost lives. Oil pipelines were blown up with such regularity that headquarters produced a standardized form to report the damage, every incident increasing the oil company demands for soldiers to be placed on guard every two meters along the lines, demands that headquarters had so far resisted, not out of any pure motives but simply because there weren't enough soldiers available to implement the ridiculous scheme.
Stark found himself covering twice as much territory as the rest of his Squad, trying to keep them dispersed enough to avoid providing tempting targets but close enough together that stragglers couldn't be picked off unnoticed in the thick vegetation. "Murphy, you worthless excuse for a soldier, if you drop behind again I'll shoot you and save the in-digs the trouble."
"I think I got a blister, Sarge," Murphy complained.
"You want me to call your mother so she can carry you for the rest of the patrol? Keep up with the Squad!" Stark checked the other soldiers' positions on his HUD, slamming a fist against the side of his helmet in exasperation as the display froze momentarily. The rudimentary field maintenance apparently jarred the right components as the symbology flickered, then jumped into current data. "Billings! I told you to patrol on the right flank. That doesn't mean heading for the damn beach six klicks in that direction! Get back in with the rest of us."
"Sergeant?" Corporal Desoto called. "My readouts keep breaking up, and comms with the Squad are erratic. You read me?"
"Yeah. I got you that time, Pablo." Desoto, up on point ahead of the rest of the Squad, had good reason to worry. The heavy, wet vegetation seemed cleverly designed to block the web of communications circuits that knitted the Squad together. The problem made patrolling even more hazardous than usual, besides generating hysterics among the officers sitting in the rear who wanted to watch the war go down from first-person perspective by monitoring the vid from individual soldiers.
A dull thump echoed among the greenery. Stark dropped into the mat of rotting leaves and mud that made up the ground around here, scanning for any casualties. A small patch of rough-textured grass tufted in front of his faceplate, bringing dark memories to mind and a shine of sweat to Stark's face. He reached to flatten the grass with one armored palm, grinding it viciously into the muck even as he called out to his Squad. "What was that? Anybody hit?" Silence reigned while Stark's HUD sat in the state of frozen idiocy that meant he'd lost comms with the other soldiers. "Ah, hell." Standing despite the possible threat so he could reestablish comms, Stark called again, this time generating a response.
"Land mine." Gomez spat the words. "I tripped it."
"You hurt?"
"Only my pride. The jungle absorbed the blast. At least it's gooid for something besides smelling like hell."
"Sarge?" Carter called. "I got one here, too. Spotted the trip wire while I was down after Gomez's mine went off."
"Let me call in." Stark switched circuits. "This is Third Squad, Second Platoon, Bravo Company. We've encountered a minefield."
"Roger." Headquarters didn't sound excited, which was reasonable given the number of mines lying around the island. "Continue patrol."
"We'd like the path swept for mines first. Our own counter measure gear is on loan to First Battalion."
"We know," headquarters responded in that tone that meant they'd forgotten but didn't want to admit it. "The mine threat is assessed to be minimal in that sector. Continue your patrol."
Sometimes it was hard to tell who was trying harder to kill you, the enemy or your own chain of command. "Request this patrol be aborted until the patrol route can be swept for mines," Stark insisted.
"Negative. Successful patrol statistics are already too low. Complete your mission."
"Sergeant?" Desoto called. "What's the word?"
"The word is we keep going," Stark replied. So the mouse-pushers at headquarters can keep their damn statistics up. "Okay, everybody, nobody's opened fire yet so this isn't an ambush. Get in single file and move real careful." It took a long time to clear the mined area, trying to pick out thin wires buried among all the junk a jungle keeps at ankle level. By the time they reached the supposed midpoint of the patrol, a village that might have been pretty before most of it got pounded into splinters and rubble, the afternoon was so far along that slanting shadows obscured the sullen faces of the few remaining inhabitants.
Weary and footsore, the Squad limped back into camp well after dark, too tired to worry about the snipers who periodically harassed
any moving object. "You're very late." An officer stood there, tapping his hip-mounted mem-pad. "Staying on timeline is critical, Sergeant. Being out past dark can be hazardous."
"So can walking through a minefield," Stark replied in a steady tone.
The officer shook his head. "There aren't any mines along your patrol route. I saw the intelligence estimate this morning."
Stark's troops snarled like a pack of angry dogs, making threatening motions. The officer retreated in a hasty enough fashion to prove he wasn't totally oblivious to real threats, while Stark restrained his Squad. "Gonna frag that guy if I see him in the field," Gomez muttered.
"I don't want to hear it," Stark ordered. "Get back to your quarters and see to your gear. We might have another op tomorrow and I don't want anyone having to drop out because their battle armor is busted." He ignored the ritual under-breath grumbles, then headed for his own quarters, only to find Vic Reynolds waiting for him. "Hi, Vic."
"Hi, Ethan. Long patrol."
"Yeah, they get that way," Stark agreed savagely, pulling loose the seals on his armor with precise care despite his anger. "Coulda gone faster if I didn't care how many people I lost on the way. What's the occasion for your visit?"
Vic raised one eyebrow. "Good news, bad news, Ethan."
"Gimme the good."
"We're leaving the island."
"Hallelujah. Where we going?"
"That's the bad news."
"How bad can it be? There's no place worse than this."
"Oh?" Stark watched as Vic leaned back to stare up through the slit window toward the night sky. "Officially, it's very, very secret."
"Fine. So tell me."
"Guess. We have orders to ensure every suit of battle armor not only holds against bugs, gas, and assorted electronic threats, but also functions properly in an airless environment with no leaks. The environmental systems will be upgraded to operate in a totally hostile environment for an entire patrol cycle. And all the training simulators are being set to reproduce ops in one-sixth normal gravity. Where could we possibly be going, Ethan?"
Stark just stared. "Someplace bad." Then his mind fixed on one of the details Vic had provided. "One-sixth normal gravity? What is that, some other planet?"
"Close," Vic approved. "But not quite. There's only one rock within reach that has one-sixth Earth gravity. It's called the Moon."
"The Moon!?" Stark exploded. "What the hell is on the Moon?"
"Soon enough, you and I'll be."
Preparations matched Vic's predictions. Normally these days the many units that made up the First Division were scattered hither and yon, some on "peace" ops, some openly fighting dirty little wars in obscure little countries, some rented out to nominally friendly countries to do someone else's dirty work and earn a few bucks for the always-too-small military budget in the bargain. But now they came together, working toward an objective that officially remained Top Secret even as its identity became more obvious by the day.
"Sergeant," Desoto asked after one vigorous training session, "the Moon really like that?"
"How would I know? Besides, you're not supposed to know it's the Moon."
Desoto grinned. "I got a cousin in the Intelligence section. They've been watching the civ newscasts. Everybody knows what we're doing. There wasn't any way to hide building the transports in orbit and all the stuff going on here. But everyone thinks it's some kind of bluff to get what we want. That and some scheme to award big contracts to the space construction corporations."
"That last is real believable. Mil construction contracts are always first about the contractors and second about us, if that."
"Yeah," Desoto agreed. "So none of the foreign governments really believe we're actually going to the Moon."
"I can't quite believe it myself. What's your cousin say the reason for all this is?"
"Lot of money on the Moon, he says."
"Do tell. Maybe I'll pick up a few bucks when I get there."
"Really," Desoto insisted. "You know, we go places all the time because there's some, uh, economic reason."
"You mean," Stark stated flatly, "that there's something there some business tycoons need us to protect so they can milk it instead of some foreigners."
"Right. So maybe they want the Moon now. Since the post-Millennium Crash, everything here is pretty much owned by us. Pax America, right? That's why the other guys went to the Moon, to get stuff we didn't own the rights to. That's what my cousin says."
"He could be right."
"So you think we're really going? To the Moon?"
"Pablo, a word of advice. You've been in the mil long enough to know that you never really know where you're going until you get there."
"Everybody's spending a whole lot of money if they're not serious. Wonder where the mil found enough bucks to afford all this?" Desoto asked.
"Pablo, another piece of advice. Never ask questions you don't really want to know the answer to."
Finally, there were lectures. A military wedded to hi-tech video conferencing, able to link every soldier on every battlefield into a seamless whole, sharing every bit of information, still insisted on gathering large numbers of warm bodies into large, warm rooms to sit while another warm body paced in front of them and delivered large chunks of information in an authoritative and singularly dull fashion. They sat and slept through the latest versions of Rules of Engagement, Laws of War, the Uniform Code of Military Justice, Treatment of Noncombatants, and Military Courtesy, as well as the always dreaded update on Sexually Transmitted Diseases. Now the Battalion Commander himself, Colonel Danzel, usually glimpsed so rarely by the soldiers under his command that sightings of him were tracked like rare celestial events, stood before them with a hearty smile fixed on his face.
"Good afternoon. You've been through a lot of heavy training recently. I just wanted to tell you how proud everyone is of your performance. Especially during the uniform inspections. Everyone looks very good in the parade uniforms. Very good. And the barracks look great, too. Someone's doing a nice job of keeping the wax shiny on those floors. So, um, good job." Danzel shifted his feet, rubbed his nose, then nodded as if acknowledging a comment. "Any questions?"
A hand shot up. Stark craned his neck in an unsuccessful attempt to see who had been foolish enough to take the Colonel's offer seriously. Must be a new guy.
The Colonel also looked bemused, but swung an arm out to indicate the questioner. "Yes?"
Sure enough, a Private stood, licking his lips nervously. "Sir, we have been training a lot, and the equipment seems to be breaking down a lot."
Danzel frowned at the questioner. "That didn't sound like a question to me."
The Private gulped and tried again. "I mean, sir, these suits we've got aren't always reliable. Are we going to get anything new before we go into battle? Are there any fixes coming down the line?"
Colonel Danzel's frown deepened and darkened. "I am aware that rumors have been generated about the reliability of the Mark IV Battle Armor. This is the finest equipment any soldiers have ever worn into battle. There are no—repeat, no—serious problems with the Mark IV There are occasional minor malfunctions of subsystems. That's all."
Yeah, Stark thought sardonically, minor subsystems like the temperature control and the oxygen rebreather. Nothing to get too worried about.
The Private sat with a speed that suggested he'd finally figured out his error. However, a Corporal stood next, face fixed in a defiant challenge. "Colonel, sir, we understand what the Mark IV can do, when it works, but with all due respect, we're heading for the Moon, and when you're operating in a place with no air there's no such thing as a minor malfunction."
The Colonel's frown took on aspects of a thunderstorm. "I thought it was understood that our destination remains classified and has yet to be promulgated. Uninformed speculation about future operations will not be commented on."
The Corporal hesitated, face flushed, then sat back down.
Colonel Danzel sc
owled at his audience. "Any more questions?"
As an awkward silence stretched, Major O'Kane, the Battalion Executive Officer, stood up. "C'mon, soldiers, this is your chance to get answers." She was clearly expecting the troops to continue tossing out problems for the higher-ups to ignore, and seemed surprised at the lack of further takers. "I guess that's it, Colonel."
"Good." Danzel had trouble hiding his relief. "All right, then. Keep up the good work." He scuttled off the stage as O'Kane shouted "Attention!" and the Battalion shot to its feet in an automatic display of military courtesy.
Stark's War Page 4