Prisoners of Tomorrow

by James P. Hogan

  “Ready and standing by,” the voice replied neutrally. “Nothing to report.” Outside, the pinpoint of light vanished abruptly.

  “Remain at ready. Out.”

  Colman grunted to himself, made one final sweep of the surroundings, then dropped the flap back into place and turned to face inside. Behind Driscoll, Maddock was examining the bottom of the gorge through the image intensifier, while in the shadows next to him the expression of concentration on Corporal Swyley’s face was etched sharply by the subdued glow of the forward terrain display screen propped in front of him.

  The image that so held his attention was transmitted from an eighteen-inch-long, infantry reconnaissance drone that they had managed to slip in a thousand feet above the floor of the gorge and almost over the enemy’s forward positions and was supplemented by additional data collected from satellite and other ELINT network sources. The display showed the target command bunker at the bottom of the gorge, known enemy weapons emplacements as computed from backplots of radar-tracked shell trajectories, and the locations of observation and fire-command posts from source analysis triangulations of stray reflections from control lasers. On it the cool water of the stream and its tributaries stood out as black lines forking like twigs; the rock crags and boulders were shades of blue; living vegetation varied from rust brown on the hills to deep red where it crowded together along the lower slopes of the gorge; and shell and bomb scars glowed from dull orange to yellow depending on how recently the explosions had occurred.

  But what Corporal Swyley was concentrating on so intently were the minute specks of brighter reds that might or might not have been imperfectly obscured defensive positions, and the barely discernible hairline fragments that could have been the thermal footprints of recent vehicle movements.

  How Swyley did what only he did so well was something nobody was quite sure of, least of all Swyley himself. Whatever the reason, Swyley’s ability to pick out significant details from a hopeless mess of background garbage and to distinguish consistently between valid information and decoys was justly famed—and uncanny. But since Swyley himself didn’t understand how he did it, he was unable to explain it to the systems programmers, who had hoped to duplicate his feats with their image-analysis programs. That had been when the “-ists” and the “-ologists” began their endless batteries of fruitless tests. Eventually Swyley made up plausible-sounding explanations for the benefit of the specialists, but these were exposed when the programs written to their specifications failed to work. Then Swyley began claiming that his mysterious gift had suddenly deserted him completely.

  Major Thorpe, Electronics Intelligence Officer at Brigade H.Q., had read somewhere that spinach and fish were sure remedies for failing eyesight, so he placed Corporal Swyley on an intensive diet. But Swyley hated spinach and fish even more than he hated being tested, and within a week he was afflicted by acute color-blindness, which he demonstrated by refusing to see anything at all in even the simplest of training displays.

  After that, Swyley had been declared “maladjusted” and transferred to D Company, which was where all the misfits and malcontents ended up. Now his powers returned magically only when no officers were anywhere near him except for Captain Sirocco, who ran D Company and didn’t care how Swyley got his answers as long as they came out right. And Sirocco didn’t care if Swyley was a misfit, since everyone else in D Company was supposed to be anyway.

  It probably meant that there was no easy way of getting out of D Company again let alone out of the regular service, Colman reflected as he watched in the darkness and waited for Swyley to deliver his verdict. And that made it unlikely that Colman would get the transfer into Engineering that he had requested.

  It seemed self-evident to him that nobody in his right mind would want to get killed, or to be sent to places he’d never heard of by people he’d never met in order to kill other people he didn’t know. Therefore nobody in his right mind would be in the Army. But since the Army was full of people whom it had judged to be acceptably sane and normal, it seemed to follow that the Army’s ideas of what was normal had to be very strange. Now, to transfer into something like Engineering seemed on the face of it to be a perfectly natural, reasonable, constructive, and desirable thing to want to do. And that seemed enough to guarantee that the Army would find the request unreasonable and him unsuitable.

  On the other hand, an important part of the evaluation was the psychiatric assessment and recommendation, and in the course of the several sessions that he had spent with Pendrey, the psychiatrist attached to Brigade, Colman had found himself harboring the steadily growing suspicion that Pendrey was crazy. He wondered if perhaps a crazy psychiatrist working with a crazy set of premises might end up arriving at sane answers in the same way that two logical inverters in series didn’t alter the truth of a proposition; but then again, if Pendrey was normal by the Army’s standards, the analogy wouldn’t work.

  Sirocco had endorsed the request, it was true, but Colman wasn’t sure it would count for very much since Sirocco ran D Company, and anything he said was probably inverted somewhere along the chain as a matter of course. Perhaps he should have persuaded Sirocco not to endorse the request. On the other hand, if anything recommended by Sirocco was inverted to start with, and if Pendrey was crazy but normal by the Army’s standards, and if the premises that Pendrey was working with were also crazy, then the decision might come out in Colman’s favor after all. Or would it? His attempt to think the tortuous logic of the situation once again was interrupted by Swyley at last leaning back and turning his face away from the screen.

  “They’ve got practically all their strength out on the flanks both ways along the gorge,” Swyley announced. “There are some units moving down the opposite slope, but they won’t be in position for about another thirty minutes.” The glow from the screen highlighted the mystified look that flashed across his face. He shrugged. “Right now they’re wide open, right down below us.”

  “They don’t have anything here?” Colman checked, touching the screen with a finger to indicate the place where the bottom of the trail emerged from a small wood on the edge of a grassy flat and just a few hundred feet from the enemy bunker. The display showed a faint pattern of smudges on either side of the trail in just the positions where defensive formations would be expected.

  Swyley shook his head. “Those are decoys. Like I said, they’ve moved practically all the guys out to the flanks”—he jabbed at the screen with a finger—“here, here, and here.”

  “Getting round behind B Company, and up over spur Four-nine-three,” Colman suggested as he studied the image.

  “Could be,” Swyley agreed noncommittally.

  “Looks dead as hell down there to me,” Maddock threw in without taking his eyes from the viewpiece of the intensifier.

  “What do the seismics and sniffers say about Swyley’s decoys?” Colman asked, turning his head toward Driscoll.

  Driscoll translated the question into a computer command and peered at the data summary on one of the com-pack screens. “Insignificant seismic above threshold at eight hundred yards. Downwind ratio less than five points up at four hundred. Negative corroboration from acoustics—background swamping.” The computers were unable to identify vibrational patterns correlating with human activity in the data coming in from the sensing devices quietly scattered around the gorge by low-flying, remote-piloted “bees” on and off throughout the night; the chemical sensors located to the leeward of the suspected decoys were detecting little of the odor molecules characteristic of human bodies; the microphones had yielded nothing in the way of coherent sound patterns, but this was doubtless because of the white-noise background being generated in the vicinity of the stream. Although the evidence was only partial and negative at that, it supported Swyley’s assertion that the main road down to the objective was, incredibly, virtually undefended for the time being.

  Colman frowned to himself as his mind raced over the data’s significance. No sane att
acking force would contemplate taking an objective like that by a direct frontal assault in the center—the lowermost stretch of the trail was too well covered by overlooking slopes, and there would be no way back if the attack bogged down. That was what the enemy commander would have thought anyone would have thought. So what would be the point of tying up lots of men to defend a point that would never be attacked? According to the book, the correct way to attack the bunker would be along the stream from above or by crossing the stream below and coming down from the spur on the far side. So the other side was concentrating at points above both of the obvious assault routes and setting themselves up to ambush whichever attack should materialize. But in the meantime they were wide open in the middle.

  “Alert all section leaders on the grid,” Colman said to Driscoll. “And open a channel to Blue One.”

  Sirocco came through on the compack a few moments later, and Colman summarized the situation. The audacity of the idea appealed to Sirocco immediately. “We’d have to handle it ourselves. There isn’t enough time to involve Brigade, but we could pin down those guys on the other side while you went in, and roll a barrage in front of you to clear obstacles.” He was referring to the Company-controlled robot batteries set up to the rear, below the crestline of the ridge. “It would mean going in without any counterbattery suppression when you break though. What do you think?”

  “If we went fast, we could make it without.” Colman answered.

  “Without CB suppression there wouldn’t be time to move any of the other platoons round to back you up. You’d be on your own,” Sirocco said.

  “We can use the robot batteries to lay down a close-cover screen from the flanks. If you give us an optical and IR blanket at twelve hundred feet, we can make it.”

  Sirocco hesitated for a split second. “Okay,” he finally said. “Let’s do it.”

  Ten minutes later, Sirocco had worked out a hastily contrived fire-plan with his executive officer and relayed details to First, Second, and Fourth platoons, and Colman had briefed Third Platoon via his section leaders. Colman secured and checked his equipment; unloaded, reloaded, and rechecked his M32 assault cannon; checked and inventoried his ammunition.

  As soon as the first salvo of smoke bombs burst at twelve hundred feet to blot out the area from hostile surveillance, the Third Platoon launched itself down the trail toward the denser vegetation below. Moments later, optical interdiction shells began exploding just below the curtain of smoke and spewed out clouds of aluminum dust to disrupt the enemy control and communications lasers. Ahead of the attacking troops, a concentrated point-barrage of shells and high-intensity pulsed beams fired from the flanking platoons rolled forward along the trail to clear the way of mines and other antipersonnel ordnance. Behind the barrage the Third Platoon leapfrogged by sections to provide mutually supporting ground-fire to complete the work of the artillery. There was no opposition. The defending artillery opened up from the rear within ten seconds of the initial smoke blanket, but the enemy was firing blind and largely ineffectively.

  In thirteen minutes the firefight was all over. Colman stood on the gravel bank of the stream and watched as a bewildered major was led from the enemy bunker, followed by his numb staff, who joined the gaggle of disarmed defenders being herded together under the watchful eyes of smirking Third Platoon guards. The primary objective had been to take prisoners and obtain intelligence, and the crop had yielded two captains in addition to the major, a first and a second lieutenant, a chief warrant officer, a sergeant major, two sergeants, and over a dozen enlisted men. Moreover, the call-sign lists and maps had been seized intact, along with invaluable communications and weapons-control equipment. Not a bad haul at all, Colman reflected with satisfaction.

  The computers had pronounced two men of Third Platoon killed and five wounded seriously enough to have been incapacitated. Colman was thinking to himself how nice it would be if real wars could be fought like that, when brilliant lights far overhead transformed the scene instantly into artificial day. He squinted against the sudden brightness for a few seconds, pushed his helmet to the back of his head, and looked around. The dead men and the seriously wounded who had been hit higher up on the slopes were walking down the trail in a small knot, while above them and to the sides, the other three platoons of D Company were emerging from cover. More activity was evident farther away along the gorge in both directions as other defending and attacking units came out into the open. Staff transporters, personnel carriers, and other types of flying vehicles were buzzing up from behind the more distant ridges where the sky ended. Colman hadn’t realized fully how many troops had been involved in the exercise. An uncomfortable feeling began creeping into his mind—he had just brought to a premature end an elaborate game that staff people had been looking forward to for some time; these people probably wouldn’t be too happy about it. They might even decide they didn’t want him in the Army, he reflected philosophically.

  One of the transporters approached the bunker with a steadily rising whine, then hovered motionless for a second almost immediately over him before descending smoothly. Its rear door slid open to reveal the lean, swarthy figure of Captain Sirocco in helmet and battledress, still wearing his flak-vest. He jumped out nimbly while the transporter was still six feet above the ground, and ambled up to Colman. Behind his ample black moustache, the easy-going lines of his face betrayed as little as ever, but his eyes were twinkling. “Pretty good, Steve,” he said without preamble as he turned with his hands on his hips to survey the indignant scowls from the captured “enemy” officers standing sullenly by the bunker. “I don’t think we’ll get any Brownie points for it though. We broke just about every rule in the book.” Colman grunted. He hadn’t expected much else. Sirocco raised his eyebrows and inclined his head in a way that could have meant anything. “Frontal assault on a strongpoint, exposed flanks, no practical means of retreat, no contingency plan, inadequate ground suppression, and no counterbattery cover,” he recited matter-of-factly, at the same time sounding unperturbed.

  “What about leaving your chin wide open?” Colman asked. “Isn’t there anything in the rules about that?”

  “Depends who you are. For D Company all things are relative.”

  “Ever think of making a new seat for your pants out of part of that flak-jacket?” Colman asked after a pause. “You’re probably gonna need it.”

  “Ah, who gives a shit?” Sirocco looked up. “Anyhow, won’t be much longer before we find out.”

  Colman’ followed his gaze. An armored VIP carrier bearing a general’s insignia on its nose was angling toward them. Colman shifted his M32 to the other shoulder and straightened up to watch. “Smarten it up,” he called to the rest of Third Platoon, who were smoking, talking, and lounging in groups by the stream and around the bunker. The cigarettes were ground out under the heavy soles of combat boots, the chattering died away, and the groups shuffled themselves into tidier ranks.

  “On what did you base your analysis of the situational display, Sergeant?” Sirocco asked, speaking in a clipped, high-pitched voice mimicking the formal tones of Colonel Wesserman, who was General Portney’s aide. He injected a note of suspicion and accusation into the voice. “Was Corporal Swyley instrumental in the formulation of your tactical evaluation?” The question was bound to arise; the image analysis routines run at Brigade would have yielded nothing to justify the attack.

  “No, sir,” Colman replied stiffly, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead. “Corporal Swyley was manning the com-pack. He would not have been assigned to ELINT analysis. He’s color-blind.”

  “Then how do you explain your extraordinary conclusions?”

  “I suppose we just guessed lucky, sir.” Sirocco sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to put it in writing that I authorized the assault on my own initiative and without any substantiating data.” He cocked his head at Colman. “Happen to know anyone around here who makes a good pair of pants?”

  Ahead of them the door of the V
IP carrier opened to expose the rotund form of Colonel Wesserman. His florid face was even more florid than usual and swelled into a deep purple at the neck. He seemed to be choking with suppressed fury.

  “I guess he doesn’t have a nose for the sweet smell of success,” Colman murmured as they watched.

  Sirocco twirled one side of his moustache pensively for a second or two. “Success is like a fart,” he said. “Only your own smells nice.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  A sudden change in the colors and format of one of the displays being presented around him in the monitor room of the Drive Control Subcenter caught Bernard Fallows’s eye and dismissed other thoughts from his mind. The display was one of several associated with Number 5 Group of the Primary Fuel Delivery System and related to one of the batteries of enormous hydrogen-feed boost pumps located in the tail section of the vessel, five miles from where Fallows was sitting.

  “What’s happening on Five-E, Horace?” he asked the empty room around him.

  “Low-level trend projection,” the subcenter executive computer replied through a small grille set to one side of Fallow’s console. “Booster five-sub-three’s looking as if it’s going to start running hot again. Correlation integral sixty-seven, check function positive, expansion index eight-zero.”

  “Reading at index six?”

  “Insignificant.”

  Fallows took in the rest of the information from the screen. The changes that the computers had detected were tiny—the merest beginnings of a trend which, if it continued at the present rate, wouldn’t approach anything serious for a month or more. With only another three months to go before the ship reached Chiron there was no cause for alarm since the rest of the pump-group had enough design margin to make up the difference even without the backup. But even so, there was little doubt that Merrick would insist on the primary’s being stripped down to have its bearings reground, alignment rechecked, and rotor rebalanced again. They had been through that routine twice already in the three months that the main drive had been firing. That meant another week of working in near-zero g and klutzing around in heavy-duty protective suits on the wrong side of the stern radiation shield. “Bloody pump,” Fallows muttered sourly.