Captain

by Rick Shelley

  "Nolan?"

  Lon was surprised to hear Colonel Black call his name. He looked up. "Sir?"

  "You look as if you've just bitten into a rotten gav-vie."

  "Sorry, sir. What you said brought something back to me. Military history, sir. Iraq. Vietnam.

  Korea. Restrained warfare."

  Black nodded. "I know the references, Nolan." He looked around the room. "For any of you who might not know what Lieutenant Nolan is talking about, I suggest CAPTAIN

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  you log on to the database and check them out. He is referring to three wars that took place on Earth in"—he looked at Lon as if for some confirmation—"the twentieth or early twenty-first century."

  "Second half of the twentieth, sir," Lon said.

  "Yes," Black said, nodding. "The point I want to make here is that the limitations on one side in each of those wars were imposed by civilian political leaders, not by military commanders on the scene. In this case, any limitations will be designed and overseen by Colonel Flowers on the advice of his CIC"—Combat Intelligence Center—"and the battalion commanders.

  We are not going to allow our men to be placed in unnecessary jeopardy to satisfy the whims of civilian politicians. We will use such restraint as possible without those complications. We place the safety of our people first." He focused on Lon then. "I trust mat satisfies your concerns, Nolan?"

  "Completely, sir," Lon said—not too much of an exaggeration. Nothing, short of leaving Aldrin to its own devices could do it completely.

  Intelligence on conditions on Aldrin came in almost hourly as the DMC fleet approached.

  Some came from the government of Aldrin West. More (and more reliable) information came from the Dirigenters who had been on the world to secure the contract. Lon logged on several times each day to keep track of the latest changes, and passed on some of that information to his platoon sergeants and squad leaders.

  "We get down there, I want to make sure we're as prepared as we can be," he told Girana and Jorgen. "This could be a touchy contract. We don't want mistakes that might complicate matters."

  "I've got no argument with that, Lieutenant," Girana said. "I looked up those wars on Earth you told us about." Lon had mentioned them to his platoon sergeants after bringing them up at UK officers' briefing. "Scary, the things that happened because the civilians were tying the army's hands."

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  "Well, Colonel Black promised that we won't have anything like that, Tebba. But we don't want to screw things up on our own, either."

  "We'll do our best."

  Lon nodded. "We all will." And hope it's enough.

  Seventh Regiment was twelve hours from shuttle launch. There had been no changes in the announced plan. The regiment would land in safe areas, well away from any chance of fighting. The only threat—seen as minimal—was that Aldrin East might stage an air raid, trying to catch the shuttles on the way down. But Aldrin West promised to have its air force up, and Colonel Flowers planned to have the fleet's squadron of Shrike fighters out to provide protection for the shuttles as well.

  The last day before grounding on a contract was always free of duty, except for those with command responsibility. Men slept and ate, fortifying themselves against the possibility that both food and slumber might be in short supply. Squad leaders tried to make sure that the rookies, men who had never been on a combat contract before, did not get too nervous.

  Officers and noncoms took time to study the operational orders. But they, too, tried to get in as much food and sleep as possible.

  Lon was lying on his bunk, eyes closed, but he was not sleeping. He had given himself a schedule. Ten hours before the programmed launch of the shuttles, he would put on a sleep patch to make certain he got six hours. Now he was going over the files on Aldrin again, working to keep from forgetting anything that might prove vital later. Like cramming for a test at the academy, he thought during one break in his concentration.

  The knock on his door was soft, as if whoever was on the other side did not want to wake him if he were asleep. "Come in," Lon said. He did not open his eyes until he 67

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  heard the metallic noise of the door latch. Then he swung around to sit up on the edge of his bunk.

  "Hello, Phip," Lon said, smiling as Steesen came in and shut the door. "Something on your mind?"

  "Just checking, Lon. You going to be all right on this?" There was no mistaking the concern in Phip's voice—concern of a soldier for his commander, and the concern of a man for his friend. "I mean, you've got Sara on your mind now."

  Lon stood face-to-face with Phip. "I'll be okay. Thanks for asking. But I've had time to get my head straight. I think." He grinned. "Anyway, I've got ninety-eight of the best men in the Corps looking after me."

  Phip grinned back. "Sometimes I forget you're no rookie anymore. We've been through a lot, on contract and on pass."

  "We have that, Phip."

  "I see that cadet that Lieutenant Hoper is training, and I remember what it was like when you first came to us." Lon laughed. "Yes, I know I was once that raw. But once we get home from Aldrin, Officer Cadet Esau O'Fallon will get his lieutenant's pips, like I did after Norbank."

  O'Fallon had been with the company eleven months, waiting his chance to earn his commission in combat.

  Phip started to say something but bit it off. He had nearly mentioned that it was on Norbank that Lieutennant Arlan Taiters—Lon's mentor during his apprenticeship— had been killed.

  Not at all the thing to say now, Phip told himself. But mentioning Norbank had brought the same memory to Lon.

  "I'll be okay, Phip," he repeated. "I have every intention of staying smart and alert, to make sure I get back to Sara. You can tell the others that I've got my head on straight."

  "I think everybody knows that. I just figured I'd better come in, see was there anything distracting you. Anyway, compared to what we've been through before, this looks like it might be a far sight smoother."

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  "I hope so, but don't count on it. There are thirty million people on Aldrin, and the two colonies don't like each other. We could end up smack in the middle of that, like getting between a couple of lovers who are having an all-out brawl."

  Phip shook his head. "We've seen a couple of those, too, haven't we? That one in the Purple Harridan, the one the MPs had to come in to break up?"

  "I remember." That had been a year before, the worst incident of violence that Lon had seen on Dirigent... apart from the mock violence of combat exercises. A man and a woman had gotten into a knock-down, drag-out fight, the kind that breaks furniture and totally disrupts business. The other soldiers in the bar would have broken it up, except that the woman—a civilian—was clearly able to defend herself, giving as good as she got. That had not saved her boyfriend, a private in 3rd Regiment, from court-martial, conviction, and discharge with prejudice from the DMC after receiving a dozen lashes in front of his regiment. "Whatever happened to that gal?" Lon asked.

  Phip shook his head. "I don't know. Haven't seen her in six months. Probably back with her boyfriend by now, or training recruits in hand-to-hand fighting." He laughed. That was unlikely. The Dirigent Mercenary Corps did not have any female soldiers, and all boot training was done by combat veterans.

  A meal, sleep, another meal. Two hours before his men were scheduled to board their shuttles, Lon was dressed in camouflage battledress, ready. In a few minutes he would go to spend lime with his men, stopping briefly with each squad, chatting, trying to spot potential problems, and trying to reassure his men—both about the coming work and his own calmness. If his men saw that he was easy about what was to come, they would be, too. As long as I don't run around like a chicken with its head cut off, he reminded himself, recalling how he had been the first time in—until Captain Orlis put him straight.

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  "W
e're not going to have anyone shooting at us first thing," he reminded his men. "We've got good intelligence on the ground, and we're going to land far from the enemy. We won't be going in with rounds in the chamber and safeties off."

  "They gonna have dancing girls to meet us?" someone in fourth platoon asked.

  "I don't know. It's not on the program," Lon replied.

  "We're in good shape, Lieutenant," Tebba Girana said, "the best I can remember going in on a combat contract." Lon was with his two platoon sergeants in his cabin. They still had forty-five minutes before moving to the shuttles.

  Weil Jorgen nodded his agreement. "The idea that we're not going to have to fight our way off the shuttles makes a big difference," he added. "I've had a couple of men suggest that they might not feel so good if that was coming. 'Been so long we might be rusty,' one of them told me. This way, everyone figures they'll have a chance to ease into anything."

  "When it comes, it may still come in a hurry," Lon said. "I wouldn't encourage that 'ease into it' idea."

  "I won't, but they're ready. It may be a long time since we've been in combat, but we don't let no rust accumulate."

  "I know, Weil. You and Tebba supply all the oil that's necessary. I'm not worried about preparedness. And, with a fair bit of luck, this might turn out to be an easy contract. But we can't count on that. It could turn ugly fast, and there are a lot of Aldrinians carrying weapons, on both sides."

  Both platoon sergeants nodded. They had seen the intelligence estimate that each side had more than a hundred thousand men under arms, more than half career soldiers. East and West each had maintained a standing army for generations. The colonies had never trusted each other.

  "It's a big place, lotta people," Tebba said. "Not like most worlds we get to, not all

  concentrated in one or two places."

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  "No, it's not," Lon agreed. West had a half dozen cities whose population was above a quarter million, and Syracuse, the capital, had well over a million residents. There were scores of smaller cities, as well as the more common towns and villages. The population distribution was similar in Aldrin East. There were probably no more than two dozen colony worlds anywhere with more people. And the amount of tolerable land area was smaller than average. That's the whole problem here, Lon thought.

  Lon inspected his troops again, superficially, in the troop bays before the platoons marched to the armory to draw weapons and ammunition and move on to the shuttle hangar. There was no audible joking. The mood was serious—business-like among the veterans, nervous among the rookies—but not extreme.

  Second Battalion would be landing near the town of George's Gap, three hundred miles east of Syracuse, two hundred from the nearest enemy troops. The other battalions would land near other towns, in an arc roughly centered on the point of the enemy advance across the mountain chain that separated the colonies. Aldrin West had its own troops farther east, with units doing what they could to harass the enemy and slow their advance.

  "It looks as if they've been playing it smart," Captain Orlis had told his lieutenants and Officer Cadet O'Fallon during their last private talk before landing. "Keeping their risk to a minimum while holding up the enemy columns. A damn good piece of generalship, from the reports I've seen."

  "If they're so good, why do they need us?" O'Fallon asked.

  "Maybe West would rather spend money than blood," Carl Hoper suggested. "They have no emotional stake in us."

  Lon thought that O'Fallon flinched at that.

  "As long as we do the job, we're as expendable as bullets," Hoper added, and Lon was certain that O'Fallon

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  flinched this time. / suppose I would have, back when I was going in the first time, Lon thought, trying to be fair to the younger man. He's never been in combat.

  "That's our job, O'Fallon," Orlis said. "That's why there's always going to be a market for professionals like

  us.

  "Yes, sir," O'Fallon said, not quite stuttering.

  The attack shuttles did not attempt a "hot" landing, accelerating into the atmosphere to get their passengers down and out of the boats as quickly as possible, but the ride was not as gentle as a civilian shuttle. The video monitors spaced around the bulkheads of the troop compartment in Lon's shuttle gave them a good view of the town below, and the small hydroelectric dam set up across the river in the gap that had given the town its name, George's Gap. The landing zone was on the north side of the river, away from the settled part of the community.

  There were no dancing girls to meet the soldiers. Until after all the shuttles were on the ground, there was no one at all. Only after the last boat touched down did a car come across the top of the dam. The troops had been formed up by company by then, with their supplies stacked behind each platoon.

  Colonel Black had passed the "stand easy" order.

  "Can't tell there's a war goin' on here," Phip muttered.

  Lon did not turn, but heard Tebba tell Phip to stop talking in ranks. / hope it stays that way, Lon thought.

  The first few hours on Aldrin were an almost giddy experience for Lon. Gravity was 6 percent below Earth normal, 4 percent below what he had become used to on Diligent. The

  atmospheric pressure also was low, but despite that, the air seemed "rich"—higher in oxygen.

  "A man gets to breathing hard, he could get so lightheaded he'd float away," he commented to Captain Orlis while the men erected tents that had been brought down by supply shuttles.

  The battalion was setting up camp a half mile from George's Gap.

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  "We'll get used to it," Orlis said. "A couple of days and this will seem like normal."

  "I'm not worried about here, but what's it like up in those mountains?" Lon asked. "If we have to meet East's army too high, it could get to be a problem. Back on Earth, operating a mile above sea level took careful acclimation."

  Orlis nodded. "That's one of the reasons we set down here. The plan is to give us two full days here. Then we'll move east, higher, get into position in front of East's line of advance with two or three days in hand. I know it's been covered before, but warn your men against the ultraviolet danger to eyes again. We don't want problems."

  Lon nodded. The men's molecular health maintenance systems would prevent long-term disability from UV exposure, but the medical nanobots needed time to operate. "I'll make sure the word gets to everyone, Cap."

  The captain grinned suddenly. "You weren't with us on Blayne. That was about eight years ago. Blayne's just a little more massive than Mars, minimally breathable atmosphere. Gravity forty percent of normal. Winds over a hundred and twenty miles per hour. Blayne wouldn't have been worth much but for its minerals—gold, uranium, and several transuranic elements. There was a large mining colony, and people who wanted to raid the world to make a lot of quick money. We spent eight weeks there, and a couple of weeks getting readjusted to full gravity when we got home. This is a piece of cake compared to that."

  The real surprise of the first day came an hour before sunset, when the western sky turned lilac, the color deepening as the sun moved closer to the horizon. The sight was novel enough to draw the attention of even the most jaded of Lon's men.

  "Any idea what causes it, Lieutenant?" Phip Steesen asked.

  "Not offhand. Must be something organic in the air, spores or something like that. It wasn't mentioned in the

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  files on Aidrin. I'll check on it." Later, he told himself. For the moment he just wanted to watch it, like most of the other men standing out in the open and staring into the west.

  Two days later, 2nd Battalion was a hundred miles east of George's Gap and fifteen hundred feet higher. The lilac-colored sunsets continued, but with diminished intensity. Lon learned that his guess had been correct. The phenomenon was the result of airborne spores, rising in the afternoon heat of the r
iver valleys. It was an annual event, lasting three to five weeks. The spores were for a native tree that was almost like southern pine in appearance, but the wood was softer, unsuitable for use in construction. According to the report Lon got, its only "saving graces" were the colorful displays the spores provided and the tree's citrus scent.

  The battalion made camp again. Twice daily, the officers gathered to hear the latest updates on the progress of Aidrin East's invading army and the delaying actions the DMC's hosts were taking. More detailed tactical maps were provided of the area where the regiment was expected to be inserted to stop East's advance completely.

  "Two full days here," Colonel Black told the officers as soon as the second camp was established. "Then we bring the shuttles in after dark to move us into position. If East keeps coming, we wait there for them, pick our ground, and prepare. If they change course, we move to intercept them—most likely on the ground, as long as that's practical. We hit them with everything we've got, including Shrikes. Try to score heavily enough that they give up or turn for home."

  The enemy force numbered more than eight thousand, nearly twice the size of 7th Regiment.

  Aidrin West had a battalion, five hundred men, involved in the delaying action. They were moving three more battalions into position to support the mercenaries in what was hoped would be the decisive engagement.

  "If that doesn't settle the matter favorably, Colonel CAPTAIN

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  Flowers is ready to send a message rocket back to Diri-gent to order 12th Regiment here to back us up," Black said. "We will withdraw to wait for them, not try to stay engaged no matter what. The government of West has been notified of that decision, which seems to have had something to do with their decision to put four full battalions of their own troops into the fight."

  There were no civilian communities close enough to the enemy's line of advance to be in early danger, or to complicate matters for the defenders. George's Gap was the nearest large town, and the nearest village was thirty miles west of the battalion's current camp.