by David Drake
“One, two, make that three ships launching shuttles, Sir.”
Another voice, “Two ships have entered descending orbit, Sir . . . it appears they intend to land.”
And the first voice again, “Two ships headed out-system, Sir. They’re a lot faster than they should be . . . and it looks like they’re overtaking our tin can.”
Merikur absorbed the incoming data and began issuing orders. “I want projected landing zones on the shuttles ASAP. Ditto the two ships. Warn the destroyer. Two ships in pursuit. Speed suggests warships rather than merchant vessels.”
“Acknowledged, Sir.”
“Good. Now send the tin can this message: ‘Governor Windsor. Rebel problem solved. Coalition government in place. Corruption in high places. Under attack by combined Haiken Maru and Cernian forces. Intend to win. Please send ships along with a case of champagne. Signed, Merikur.’ As soon as they acknowledge, tell ’em to jump.”
The com tech grinned. “Yes, Sir!” Merikur’s message would soon spread and do more for morale than a hundred pep talks.
But Merikur was worried. Days would pass before a relief force could arrive assuming other pressures, political or military, permitted the governor to send one.
In the meantime, Merikur’s forces were badly outnumbered. Rankoo claimed only a thousand troops, but the size of her ships suggested a much larger force, probably five to six thousand. That meant his three thousand rebels and marines could be outnumbered two to one. Not very good odds. And the Cernians weren’t amateurs either. They were well-trained and led by officers like Jomu. Victory wouldn’t come easily, if at all.
Eitor Senda appeared by his side. “I was on the radio with my brother. The Cernian commander, a crusty old war monger called Unolo, ordered him to attack your forces.”
“And what did your brother say?”
Eitor smiled. “First he told Unolo what he thought of the war party’s treachery and then he told the old geezer to sit on his own swagger stick.”
Merikur laughed.
“Excuse me, Sir,” interrupted one of the com techs.
“Yes, Corporal?”
“Our tin can just destroyed one of the pursuing vessels and jumped for Augustine. The commanding officer sent you this just prior to the jump.”
The tech handed Merikur a short printout. It said, “Sorry, Sir, but I just couldn’t resist,” signed Captain Siskens.
Merikur tried to frown. There were a number of junior officers around. “Siskens had no right to take unnecessary chances. When this is over, I’ll have a word with him.” And buy him a drink. But Merikur didn’t say that out loud.
Shortly thereafter, the flow of incoming reports grew from a trickle to a stream and then a flood of information. As it washed over and around him, Merikur became a machine. Absorbing data, sorting it, searching for patterns and opportunities. Some of his decisions were based on accepted military tactics and others were little more than educated guesses. Some of his decisions would be wrong as a result, but that very randomness explained why computers hadn’t replaced but could only advise human generals. Though better equipped to manipulate facts, computers can’t deal with emotion and emotion is an important part of war. Without emotions like love, hate, and fear, war wouldn’t exist. Perhaps two robot armies, each led by computers, could wage the perfect scientific war. But without emotions, why would they? So as long as soldiers can feel, generals will be required to do likewise.
###
“Orders, Lieutenant,” called Corporal Singh, dug in about twenty feet away. “Hold as long as you can then fall back into the jungle.”
Rain spattered against Lieutenant Shaffer’s visor as his light blue eyes scanned the sky. He looked even younger than he was because of the freckles sprinkled across his nose. “So what else is new,” he muttered. “Those are the same damn orders we had before. Silly bastards.”
Even though the Haiken Maru was popping surveillance satellites like party balloons, a few were still in operation. They said an enemy shuttle was headed Shaffer’s way and should break through the cloud cover any moment. Assuming the shuttle was Pact standard, it would hold about a hundred troops plus equipment. His twenty marines would be facing five times their numbers. Sure there were about thirty trolls in the surrounding jungle, but Shaffer didn’t know if he could count on them or not.
A cold hand closed around his stomach and squeezed hard.
Can’t let it show, he told himself. The troops are just as scared and depending on me to pull them through. Unlike their lieutenant, most of his troops were veterans. He didn’t know if they were scared or not.
He sure hoped they were.
It wasn’t a bad position, though. Thanks to the Haiken Maru, station 032 was well-fortified against conventional ground attacks. Heavy equipment and chemical defoliants had cleared a free-fire zone all around the compound. Tons of earth had been scraped up into sloped embankments and topped with razor ribbon. But the Haiken Maru wanted the place back . . .
Damned if Shaffer could see why. It was just a jumble of collapsed pre-fabs, a rusty derrick, and an overturned crawler.
He shrugged. “Ours is not to reason why, ours is to do or die. Or something like that.” He couldn’t remember who’d written the line, but chances were the poet had served in someone’s army.
His AID spoke in his ear. “Sorry to bother you, Sir, but the shuttle will break through the clouds in thirty-one seconds and its present approach suggests a strafing run. I wouldn’t want to speak out of turn, but it seems to me that some sort of defensive action might be appropriate.”
The damned thing’s servile personality drove him crazy.
Shaffer activated the command channel. His fear was temporarily forgotten now that he had something to do. “Incoming aircraft. Into the tunnels everybody.”
He heard the roar of the shuttle dropping through the clouds to begin its strafing run. Cannon thumped and trees shook as explosive shells chewed their way through virgin jungle.
Shaffer waited for the last of his marines to duck into their bunkers then he turned, offered the incoming shuttle a one-fingered salute, and dropped down a ten-foot shaft into his own spacious tunnel.
The dirt under his hands and knees was cool and moist. Up above, the world became a flaming hell.
###
Wing Commander Marjorie Fox-Smith ran through her pre-flight check list with the ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times before.
She had. She’d been a pilot for the last ten of her thirty-five years. During that time, she’d flown everything from gliders to smaller space craft. A halo of sandy brown hair surrounded her oval face, big green eyes scanned the computer checklist, and perfect white teeth bit a full lower lip.
She regarded her looks as a curse sent to punish her for some unknown sin. Women resented her and men threw themselves at her with monotonous regularity. A waste of time, since only one man had ever captured her interest. And he was dead.
Fox-Smith watched her co-pilot from the corner of her eye. Melissa was a little pale, but otherwise O.K.
And, Fox-Smith thought, she’s got every right. After all, were about to take twelve clumsy shuttles and use them as interceptors. Not to mention being outnumbered fifty to one. A nifty little idea from a general who couldn’t fly an aircar more than a hundred miles without crashing into the jungle.
In spite of that, Fox-Smith had a grudging admiration for General Merikur. The idea was kind of clever. Unless you were the one who had to carry it out, of course. But when you’re a general, all snug in your bunker, what the hell do you care?
As usual, the brass had planned for one kind of war and wound up fighting another. No one saw a need for aerospace fighters until the Haiken Maru fleet appeared—and by then it was too late. So, figuring shuttles were better than nothing, Merikur had stashed her wing in the jungle before sending the fleet to Augustine. And now they were supposed to make like an entire air force. If you asked Fox-Smith, which no one had, the whole thing sucked.
At least they’d have the advantage of surprise. And so far there was no sign that the enemy had interceptors either.
“After all,” she’d told her pilots, “the Haiken Maru wouldn’t carry aerospace fighters in their merchant ships. That means shuttle-to-shuttle battles. And while the Haiken Maru has the numerical advantage, our training is better, and that should give us the edge.”
As Fox-Smith checked her harness now, she hoped it was true.
She subvocalized. “Clear the launch area.” Her AID relayed the order and a klaxon began to whoop.
“Cleared.”
Forcing herself to relax, she tilted her acceleration couch back and folded her hands across her stomach. Next to her, Melissa did the same.
Wires snaked from the sensors in their pressure suits into the ship’s computer. They’d fly the ship through the interface between their AIDs and the shuttle’s computer. Through a combination of measured muscle response and verbal commands, each pilot flew his or her ship without touching any controls. As a result, there was almost no lag time between thought and action. The manual controls, such as they were, were more for crashing than flying.
Fox-Smith said in the verbal shorthand pilots used to communicate with their computer controls, “Exterior 180 pan.”
A three-dimensional picture of the crater was projected on the inside surface of her visor. The image began to move from left to right, executing a 180-degree pan. Had she wished to, she could’ve controlled the speed of the pan by tensing one or the other forefinger.
The picture moved across camouflaged maintenance equipment, a couple of missile emplacements, and a crowd of techs waiting for the wing to lift. There were two shuttles in the foreground with the rest partially visible beyond. Everything shimmered in the warm air.
Enough screwing around, she thought to herself. “Command channel. All ships. Lift on me. Watch your wingmen. Let’s do unto them before they do unto us.”
With a mighty roar, the twelve shuttles rode their repellors up and out of the crater. Dust billowed and sand blasted the watching techs. One, a balding non-com called “Pops,” watched them lift and crossed himself. “Good luck, Margie,” he whispered. “You’re gonna need it.”
###
Regardless of race, most soldiers agree that snipers are weird. They have to be.
Going out onto a rooftop or up into a tree all alone with the intention of shooting creatures who can shoot back is an act of intense courage. And it takes a little more courage each time you do it because you know the odds are piling up against you and eventually you will die.
Knowing that, but doing it anyway, has got to make you a bit strange. Buka was very strange indeed.
He was a good deal taller than the average Cernian, a fact which had caused him no small amount of grief in his younger days, and earned him nicknames like “Stretch” and “Treetop.” It wasn’t long, however, before he discovered that his larger size carried certain advantages, among which was the capacity to hurt those who made fun of him. This tendency towards violence, plus his increasingly antisocial personality, caused Buka to spend a great deal of time alone.
By the time he joined the army, he was already a confirmed loner and a violence-prone paranoid. Not the sort of person you’d want for a brother-in-law, but just right for a sniper.
During basic training, alert instructors put one and one together and sent Buka off to sniper school. Needless to say, he took to sniper school like a nodank to water. After all, he had perfect vision and excellent hand-to-eye coordination and, he actually liked to sit in trees. More important was his willingness to kill. It takes a special kind of person to draw a bead on a fellow sentient, coldly compute the ballistics, and squeeze the trigger. A person like Buka.
Like all Cernian snipers, Buka was issued a rifle made just for him. It was a thing of beauty, a perfect fusion of wood, metal, and electronics. It fit his shoulder like another arm. It was the perfect weapon, but more than that, it was the perfect friend. It never called him names, it never made fun of him, and it never let him down.
From sniper school, Buka went to a meaningless billet on a Cernian moon. The brass asked for volunteers one day and, being bored, he hung his head, inviting their judgment. They found him worthy, put him through another school, and sent him off to kill humans.
He killed lots of humans. Now he was supposed to kill Cernians instead. It didn’t make any sense . . . but hey . . . what did?
He could’ve touched the shuttles as they passed overhead, their drives screaming, the air displaced by their delta-shaped hulls pushing the foliage down and back. He felt naked and exposed in the tree even though he knew that between his camouflage uniform and green skin, he was almost invisible among the leaves.
Not so the two shuttles that touched down in the clearing. They were not only visible, but quite accommodating, landing right where Father Jomu wanted them to.
The shuttles hosed the jungle with automatic weapons, then dropped their ramps. Cernian troops poured out to take up positions around the shuttles.
Sweeping his weapon from right to left, Buka watched the uniforms drift through his crosshairs and whispered “bang, bang, bang,” as he pretended to pick them off. He knew others friendlies were dug in around the clearing, but he didn’t much care. They’d fight their war and he’d fight his.
He touched his amulet and tried to relax.
###
The best way to survive a battle is to avoid fighting in it, and that was Larry’s plan. He’d slipped away from his unit and was about to hole up in his girlfriend’s apartment. Like most of Port City’s citizens, she’d been evacuated to the countryside.
“Too bad,” he thought to himself. “I could’ve used some tender lovin’ R & R.”
Larry was not what recruiters called “prime material.” In fact, the Marine Corps was something of a second career for Larry, the first being cut short by a judge who gave him a choice between enlistment and a vacation on an asteroid.
“Go with the flow,” was Larry’s motto, so he soon found himself in the Marine Corps. Basic was a pain, but once that was out of the way, Larry discovered the little scams which make military life worth living and settled in to enjoy them. Ending up dead wasn’t part of his plan, so he had granted himself some extra time off. He was tall, thin, and given to wry humor.
Shrugging off the rack-pack and leaning his rocket launcher in a corner, Larry lay down on the bed and promptly went to sleep. Eventually, he’d be forced to come up with a story to explain his absence, but like the rest of his life, he’d figure that out later.
###
Cado frowned as Nola Rankoo buckled on her combat harness. His gear was already in place. “This isn’t necessary,” he growled. “We have others to perform such chores.”
Rankoo looked at him and smiled. “I’m surprised, Cado. In the past you took pleasure in my kills.”
“As I take pleasure in all that you accomplish,” Cado replied gruffly. “But I don’t think you should lead this assault.”
Rankoo was pleased, but careful not to show it. Her face was devoid of expression as she checked her personal weapons. “Computer analysis of their radio traffic shows their HQ is located just outside Port City. That’s where we’ll find Merikur and his staff. Kill the brain and you kill the beast. It’s as simple as that.”
“I know all that,” Cado said stubbornly. “It’s not your logic I question, but your presence on the assault team. The firebase will be heavily defended. The loss of your leadership would delay victory.”
Cado loved her and the knowledge made Rankoo warm inside. But she had a duty to fulfill and fulfill it she would. She tucked the last weapon into its holster and looked him in the eye
. “What I eat, I must kill.”
For a long moment they just looked at each other. Then Cado shrugged and forced a smile. “Then let’s kill Merikur and get it over with.”
Chapter 12
Shaffer’s ears were still ringing from the last explosion when he climbed up out of the tunnels. Confident that he’d sanitized the compound, the Haiken Maru pilot dropped his shuttle into the free-fire zone. A ramp fell and Cernian troops poured out.
Shaffer delivered his orders via hand signals. Helmets nodded and bodies went to work.
Keeping low, Shaffer wiggled his way to the top of the embankment and swept the area with field glasses. The Cernians were spread out and advancing in good order, but their officers had decided to land them in the free-fire zone, an incredible mistake for which they were going to pay.
Shaffer looked over his shoulder and got the “go” sign from Sergeant Lang. She had a small console on her lap. A cable ran out the back of it and disappeared underground. Shaffer gave her a “standby” signal and took one more look at the Cernian troops.
The hostiles were damned close. Here and there, troopers exchanged jokes in Cernian and were reprimanded by nervous NCOs. A few more minutes and they’d be sitting in his lap.
Mesker backed away and rolled over. Lang’s eyes met his and he nodded. Grubby fingers tapped out a quick rhythm on the console. Explosions began to shake the ground like a string of Chinese fire crackers, one after another. Geysers of soil were thrown high into the air, Cernians were tossed about like rag dolls. The shuttle’s port landing jack crumpled, causing a stubby wing to hit the ground.
The pilot panicked and tried to lift. Only the starboard repellors fired. The shuttle stalled and flipped over, crushing a dozen troops in the process.