"Sort of." Conroy looked uncomfortable, then shook her head. "I can't tell you any more. Just accept that for mission planning purposes the enemy sensor net in that area will be blind."
Stark bit back an angry rebuttal, fighting to keep his expression composed. Sanchez, though, face now calm to the point of apparent boredom, cleared his throat, then began speaking in dispassionate tones that suggested that some other Platoon had been receiving the brief. "Lieutenant, a vital precept of mission planning is to ensure essential knowledge is shared among those most likely to need it. If something should happen to incapacitate the Lieutenant or even to disrupt her communications with the rest of the Platoon, the Squad leaders will need to be aware of tactical information that seriously impacts on their ability to successfully accomplish the mission."
Stark fought down a smile, wondering if Sanchez had long ago memorized a mission planning text just so he could use the words like this someday, or had simply kept a copy of the relevant verbiage scrolling across his own screen, ready to verbally download it if necessary. I may never know what that guy is thinking, but he is one sharp grunt.
Lieutenant Conroy started to reply, chewed her lip for a few moments, then nodded slowly. "I. . . guess that's right. You guys need to know this background if you're going to carry this op out." A more experienced officer, one with more self-confidence in her job, would have told Sanchez to shut up and do his job anyway, but Conroy was new enough to be manipulated a bit. "About three months back," Conroy continued, "we managed to insert a new worm in the opposition sensor net in that sector. Since then, it's been laying low and monitoring activity to build up a bank of events. When it's activated, it'll block the real sensor readings for the area we're in and draw on the event bank to project a believable picture of what's going on there to the alert circuits."
"Clever," Sanchez noted approvingly, echoing Stark's thoughts on the matter. Worms had been around for years. Problem was, so had watchdogs, and the watchdogs had gotten very good indeed. A worm that simply blanked sensor readouts would be spotted and overridden in milliseconds. More sophisticated worms had mimicked the proper sensor picture to create the impression that all was well, but in a net monitoring every fall of gravel, the watchdogs had quickly learned to spot the faked inputs. Months of real readings, drawn on to build the bogus picture, would keep the watchdogs fooled for quite a while. One hoped.
"How did they find something good enough to do that?" Vic wondered out loud. "The only thing tougher than the enemy bunkers is the defenses they've got against information attacks."
"Urn . . ." Conroy looked even more uncomfortable, belatedly realizing that after disclosing the worm's existence she'd have to discuss other details. "I've been told it's a variation on the Mitchell Virus."
"Oh, hell!" Stark exclaimed. "Isn't that the junk that's been screwing up our own systems for the past several decades?"
"Right," Vic confirmed. "Developed by the Air Force as an information weapon, but it escaped during testing, contaminated friendly systems, and we've never been able to completely wipe it out because it was designed to mutate."
"It didn't escape, Sergeant Reynolds," Conroy corrected sternly. "It exceeded mission testing parameters."
Whatever you want to call it, Stark thought, but it still adds up to the worst case of information fratricide anybody has ever heard of. Which didn't mean there hadn't been worse cases, just that anything worse might have been kept quiet. "Well," he noted out loud, "anything that's given us so much trouble ought to screw up the enemy a bit, too."
"So it's supposed to blind the enemy sensors. How long will the worm hold and how much will it hide?" Reynolds demanded, focusing on the key issues while the rest of them were still absorbing the surface data.
Conroy looked even more uncomfortable. "They wouldn't say how long."
"Which means they don't know." Stark's statement earned a glare from the Lieutenant and a wry smile from Reynolds.
"Probably not," Conroy eventually admitted. "As to how much, there're limits. Too strong a signal will burn through. At that point the enemy information defenses will identify the false reporting problem and either kill the worm or bypass it." She indicated a point on the map on their side of the dust plain. "That's why we can't ride all the way in. Transport would put out too strong a signal to hide. The APCs will take us to here and then we have to walk in and back out."
Reynolds nodded. "That's why timed charges? To keep events down until we're clear?"
"Right, Sergeant." Conroy indicated a fortification symbol about a kilometer forward from the refinery. "With the dust plains around the site, the enemy hasn't worried much about surprise attacks. The only fixed defense is this bunker. Intelligence says it probably only holds three sentries, but it's got decent flrepower and also controls two remote firing pits here and here." Heavy weapons symbols glowed brightly to the left and right of the fortification.
"Who's inside, Lieutenant?" Stark asked. "Pros or wannabes?" The position seemed both too small and too isolated to be part of the regular enemy defensive line, but there still could be well-trained defenders there. Despite the employment guaranteed by the apparently endless lunar war, several militaries were still hiring out units, often damned good units, but professional grunts were expensive as well as skilled. Hiring civilian mercenaries cost a lot less, which looked like a good deal to those who didn't realize that people don't put their lives on the line for paychecks. There had to be something more driving them, some higher sense of duty, something the mercs with their fancy uniforms and military playacting lacked.
"Mercenaries, Sergeant, hired by the foreign corporation that owns the refinery." Conroy suddenly smiled. "Intelligence reports they're from some outfit calling itself the Black Death Battalion."
The Sergeants laughed quietly. Professional soldiers had learned the more grandiose a merc unit's title, the less actual threat it presented.
The Lieutenant singled out Reynolds with a gesture. "First Squad goes in to take out that guardpost. It'll be blinded by the worm, but you'll have to move very carefully that close to enemy personnel."
Reynolds eyed the map, absorbing every detail even though it would be available in her Tactical throughout the mission. "And very quietly that close to implanted sensors."
The Lieutenant nodded back. "Yes, Sergeant. Very quietly. Second Squad, Sergeant Sanchez, will enter the refinery and place the charges in accordance with the orders in your Tactical. Sergeant Stark, your Third Squad will take up covering positions along this corridor." Symbols flashed on the map, detailing planned soldier positions and movements. "Just like in your Tactical," Conroy added with extra emphasis as she stared straight at Stark. "No deviations."
I guess Conroy got warned about me by the last Lieutenant. Or maybe the one before that. "Of course, Lieutenant," Stark agreed. "Subject to new tactical developments, of course, right?"
Lieutenant Conroy hesitated, obviously thinking through Stark's statement for implications and unable to come up with reasons not to agree with it. "Well, yes," she finally agreed reluctantly, as Vic Reynolds stifled a smile and shook her head at Stark in mock exasperation.
Stark studied the map carefully. "How big is the threat we're worried about covering against, Lieutenant?"
"Unfortunately," Conroy continued, picking up the thread of her brief again, "there's a professional military base a dozen kilometers north of the refinery. Normal manning is at least," she emphasized the last two words, "a reinforced mechanized company. It's the quick reaction force for their whole sector. They can get to the refinery area fast."
"So if they get alerted too early," Reynolds noted, "we're going to have a hot time trying to get away. Once the worm's been neutralized, they won't have much trouble tracking us."
Stark traced the Platoon's path across the plain. "Any support on the way back, Lieutenant? Any heavies going to move up?" APCs or tanks would be really nice to have on hand if a mech company happened to be snapping at their heels.
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The Lieutenant frowned. "The raid is supposed to be carried out swiftly enough that we can exit the area before the enemy responds."
"Yes, sir," Sanchez interjected smoothly. "But if something should go amiss, heavy support could be crucial to successful egress."
Conroy spoke slowly, choosing her words with care. "We'll get additional support once we're under the perimeter defense umbrella. Brigade headquarters has indicated it doesn't want to risk heavy armor under . .. unfavorable circumstances."
Sanchez somehow kept his expression bland, but Reynolds was frowning now, too. Stark fought down a wave of anger. She means the brass knows grunts are a lot cheaper than hardware. They aren't going to risk getting their expensive weapons systems trashed. The viewing public didn't like watching their taxes go up in fireballs in almost real time on their vids, especially after having been told how invincible those expensive weapons would be in combat. More than one commander had been sacked following a few spectacular equipment losses, even if the result had been technically a victory.
"So," Reynolds spoke with equal care, "almost all of the way back we'll be on our own. If the enemy gets active fast, we're in for a long walk home."
Conroy bit her lip, then nodded once more. Stark studied the Platoon's withdrawal route again, the lunar dust plain sprawled across the path like a sheet of ice back on the World, apparently an easy route but actually a possible death trap. It could be a really long walk.
Most of the mission details were downloaded to the squad bunkers after the face-to-face. Stark made a habit of screening the files sent to Corporal Gomez and the rest of his soldiers to make sure they got everything they needed. The brass often assumed the less the grunts knew, the better, but Stark figured they had the right and the need to know most details. If he got waxed or they got cut off, they'd require that information, and a tactical crisis was no time for headquarters to be downloading new mission data to a soldier. He abided by security on the worm, though. If that information got compromised, he didn't want to be on the receiving end of either enemy fire or "friendly" officers.
Technically, of course, you didn't need to brief the troops at all. They just had to follow the plan presented on their Tactical Displays: Go here now, do this now. Headquarters staff and their civ bosses back at the Pentagon were almost always complaining that mission preparation times were too long. Just download plans to the battle armor Tacs and go. Grunts in the field would have none of that. No one Stark knew depended solely on the Tac timeline, if for no other reason than the troops should know what the hell they were doing on the mission. Bad enough being on ops, without wondering what the next order from your Tac would be. Difficult enough being surprised by the enemy, without being surprised by your own plan.
Then came After. After you've got the mission brief and memorized your parts. After you've briefed your people in turn, and made sure the dense ones wouldn't screw up and the too-smart ones wouldn't try anything they thought might be brilliant. After you've checked your gear and preinspected their gear. After all that, then there's not much left to do but wait. Stark hated After, the time when there was temporarily too much time.
Some grunts wrote letters during the lull, ticking carefully away on their palmtops, frowning over the unfamiliar effort of putting words into writing, or peering with feigned confidence into a cam port to record a vid message. Dear Mom and Dad, or Dear Sweetheart, or Dear Darling and Kids. What do you say when this might be the last letter, the last words they'd ever hear from you? Nothing could be good enough, so no one ever tried, instead talking of everyday matters or idle dreams of a future that might or might not be canceled this night.
Others played games, gambled, or read, whatever they'd learned would keep nerves in check. None of that worked for Stark. He'd long ago learned he wasn't any good at hiding his nerves while actually doing something. It didn't do to let the troops see their Sergeant getting jumpy. No, part of his job required showing confidence even when he lacked that inside. So the Squad liked to see him waiting along with them, looking cool and casual in that way that projects calm certainty of success no matter what uncertainties were churning away inside.
Stark had long ago worked out a routine to meet that need. He'd just sit back in the rec cell of the bunker, where everyone could see him, pretending to watch whatever vid entertainment had been officially approved for that day's viewing, while actually zoning out the world. Gomez had told him the Squad was impressed as all hell by the way he'd calmly watch anything on the vid prior to a mission. Morale bonus for his coping mechanism. Go figure.
Private Hoxely pulled Stark out of his nonthinking reverie by jumping up and cursing to a couple of different deities. Frowning, Stark focused on Hoxe's group, three soldiers playing keno as if there were no tomorrow. Which, of course, there might not be for any of them. Craps was impossibly slow up here, dice taking leisurely tumbles for minutes at a time. Even poker played too slow for grunts keyed up for a mission, but you could lose big and fast bucking the tiger. Gomez stood up as well, quietly but fiercely read Hoxe the riot act, then left the chastened Private to watch his buddies split their winnings.
"Nerves." Gomez came up to Stark, speaking quietly. "With the vid ratings down, they know this op has to be high-risk to get the public tuned in again. There's a rumor the action will be seen on vid so close to real time the enemy will be able to target us from it."
"I doubt even our officers are that stupid." Stark raised his voice for the next statement, making sure the others in the room could hear. "If the action ain't a success, our commanders would get canned for losing too many grunts, so they'll keep the time lag long enough to make sure we can do the job." I hope. Just because I know too short a time lag would be stupid doesn't mean our leaders will realize the same thing.
"Makes sense," Gomez agreed. "That'll make the troops feel better."
Stark nodded. "They'll do okay if you and I stay frosty. Got to maintain the image. You handled Hoxe real well. Get him back in line, then leave him without shaking up anybody else. Good job."
Gomez looked away. "Thanks, Sarge."
Embarrassed, Stark realized with some surprise. He'd never gotten used to the fact that his opinion meant a lot to his soldiers. "Yeah. Just how I would've handled it. You'll make a good Sergeant someday."
A smile broke on Gomez's face. "Means a lot from you."
Stark fought down a sudden foreboding, recalling a similar conversation with another good Corporal years before. With some effort he smiled back, attempting an awkward joke. "Of course, that'll probably be ten or twenty years from now. Unless I buy it earlier."
Gomez's smile broadened at the banter. "That's not gonna happen, Sargento. You're, like, invincible. Like you're made out of rock."
"Sure," Stark snorted in derision, "me and the damn Moon. Two big ugly rocks."
"I mean it," Gomez insisted with a wink that denied the words. "Gracias, though. I try. I got a lot to live up to, and these guys, well, they ain't the best soldiers in the world, I guess, but they're pretty damn good."
"They're pretty damn good," Stark agreed, once again pitching his voice just high enough for the words to carry to the others in the cube.
Gomez grinned, noting the gesture. "Like that. Good trick." She looked around for an excuse to change the subject, focusing finally on the music playing over the vid. "You like these guys?" She squinted at the screen. " 'Jackson's Foot Cavalry?' Who the hell are they?"
Stark shrugged. He hadn't been paying much attention, but he'd heard the group several times recently. "Retro-Hill Rock, I think they call it, whatever that means. I heard these guys are really popular on the World these days. I guess the groups that were popular when we left are all gone now."
Gomez stared at the vid. "Yeah. It's different being out here, even with near-real-time comms. The World goes on and we stay where we were when we left."
"Always been that way." Stark found himself reminiscing about earlier deployments and campaigns, something
he rarely did. "Even if you were deployed on the World. Home changed and we didn't. Funny." He waved Gomez to the chair next to his. She smiled in sudden delight at the invitation before sitting at a carefully gauged distance, Corporal to Sergeant. They talked for a while after that, about places they'd been and places they'd heard of in a thousand bull sessions in a score of barracks. Funny thing, each barracks was different, but also the same. You knew people, who also knew people, and everybody knew the places. Maybe his home had always been a bit bigger than he thought, scattered through bases around the World and up here. Or maybe not, maybe it all represented nothing beyond shared familiarity with a very widespread but very limited part of the World. Still, he felt at home in those places, with those people, and that was enough.
The group in the rec cell gradually thinned as individuals went to worry over their gear and start final preps. Gomez excused herself to don her own battle armor, one of her hands worrying finger-over-thumb that way she always did whenever action seemed imminent, as if she were manipulating invisible prayer beads. Stark stayed, having learned he hated standing around in armor even worse than sitting and waiting. Finally the clock worked its way to where it needed to be. Relieved to have purposeful action required once more, Stark rose, instantly becoming the center of attention. He swept the room with his eyes, announced, "All right, people, let's suit up," to the few remaining and headed for his own locker.
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