Dogsoldiers

by James Tarr

  “Our intelligence is pretty much useless. Nothing actionable out of our so-called sources in the city for months. We’re getting near zero human intelligence out of the city now that I no longer have the funds to pay for real-time intelligence from informants. Interrogations of what few people we’ve arrested recently have provided negative results. I’ve been reduced to waiting for the…rebels to strike and then chasing after them.” They’d tried decoy convoys, and a few other tricks, hoping to lure the guerillas into ambushes, but with little success. Their intelligence, apparently, was better than his. Or their luck was. He looked out the window of his office at the buildings visible in the distance. He wondered how many guerrillas were out there, surveilling the base, logging every arrival and departure, the numbers and types of armor and aircraft…“Like I said, the problem is, the majority of our losses are due to snipers. One man here, another there; I lose soldiers every week, summer or winter. With all its vacant buildings this city is a sniper’s paradise, but to be honest we take just as many casualties from snipers out in the country as we do inside the city. And most of the time the shooter gets away.”

  Barnson sounded angry. “I have addressed your concerns, Colonel. And I’ve brought them to the attention of my superiors. I and everybody else down here are aware of the shortages you’re suffering. They are not worried. Intelligence reports enemy numbers in your area are low, and that they’re very disorganized.”

  “General, are they aware I’m losing ten men a month to these disorganized few? They’re organized enough to aim rifles and disappear when we give chase. I know ten casualties is a paltry few to what’s going on elsewhere, but we are still steadily losing men. The local population, thin as it is, has to be supplying them aid and comfort, as your intelligence specialists like to say. We’ve had very little luck disrupting their support infrastructure, or even identifying it. My men…I haven’t actually been sent any new troops in two months. I’m as short-handed as I’ve ever been. As I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “I was under the impression four sniper teams just arrived there this morning.” Now Barnson was getting irritated. He’d had to move heaven and earth to get those teams for Parker.

  “Yes Sir, and I welcome their arrival, as almost all of my snipers were reassigned to the heavy conflict zones months ago. I’m sure they’ll perform admirably, Sir, but eight men are a fraction of what I need. Eight men in hundreds of square miles of territory.”

  “Parker, you know as well as I do that snipers are force multipliers, and these men are Special Forces. Once they bag a few terrorists, and word gets out, I’m sure you’ll see enemy activity in your sector drop right off. Those traitorous criminals with their damned deer rifles will either run off in terror or find themselves shot in the head.” He paused and sighed. “The straight fact of the matter is we can’t spare anything right now. Men or machines. In fact…I’ve come very close to requisitioning some of your tanks. Shipping some of them back to the front. The only reason I haven’t is that I’m not convinced, due to the distance involved, and the fact they would have to go by rail, which is a very risky form of transportation these days, that they’d even make it back here.” He sighed again. “In fact, the shipments of food that you’ve been getting for distribution to the local populace? Expect them to be cut, and sooner, rather than later. And not by a small percentage.”

  Parker cleared his throat. “Sir, just wondering if I should report the food riots now or just wait until they actually happen. Because they will.”

  “Every rioter that you shoot is one less mouth begging you for food,” Barnson said coldly. “One less potential enemy sympathizer. Rioters, just like looters, should be put down like the disobedient dogs they are, and that falls clearly within your ROE.” Then the General cleared his throat. “Look, I know you’ve got a tough job, that place was a Third World-level hellhole before the war began. Don’t think everyone doesn’t know that. But there’s nothing keeping those people from leaving any time they want.”

  Parker was shaking his head. “Sir, you’ve got me treading water in a sewer. Morale…” he muttered. Barnson’s sharp voice cut in.

  “Don’t speak to me about morale, Sir. The morale of your men is your responsibility, no matter what the situation is.”

  “Yes Sir, you’re right. I’m just tired.” The night before he’d been writing a letter to the family of just the latest of his soldiers to be killed by a faceless, nameless sniper. He didn’t doubt it was some farmer, idiot, or nutjob with a deer rifle, it had happened near dusk outside rural Armada when one of the long-range “force projection” patrols had stopped for an overnight bivouac. The truth was most hunting rifles packed more punch than the carbines his troops were carrying even with the hot new ammo they were fielding. The Corporal had been hit in the face by whatever powerful rifle the sniper was using, and his head had literally exploded inside his helmet. The rest of the men there weren’t even sure from which direction the shot had been fired. Searches of nearby houses had turned up nothing. His men had burned a few of the houses down, as an object lesson.“I just wish I could give the men some good news for once. How does it go on your end?” In the real war, he wanted to add.

  “The fact that your supply ship has turned around, and that we’re cutting your food allotment, should give you a good indication of where things stand.”

  “That bad?”

  “We were having trouble in the West before the enemy ever got organized. And, to be honest, we’re suffering through the same kind of situation as you have there, only on a vastly larger scale. It’s like fighting water; push in with armor and airstrikes, take control of one small town, and either the enemy disappears entirely to hit us somewhere else we’re not expecting or every mother one of those townspeople pulls out a rifle and starts letting loose. Those small arms casualty figures I’m sure you heard about were not exaggerated. I always thought the ‘400 million guns in the country’ number was exaggerated if not impossible, but I’m beginning to suspect I was wrong. And the people we’re fighting, at this late date, know how to use them. Apparently the only people out there who weren’t raised with a rifle in their hands are our men. And the bastards all seem to be experts at lobbing Molotovs, we’re lost more vehicles to fire than we have anything else, and getting new vehicles, much less parts, has been…problematic. Union work slowdowns, assembly line sabotage, shoddy workmanship, every complication you could imagine. If it wasn’t for our new allies we wouldn’t have any fuel to send you.”

  “It’s really that bad?” Parker had noticed more and more of their supplies were coming in from Russia, China, or Cuba, based on the writing on the crates.

  “After eight years of this meatgrinder there’s still no end in sight. In fact, we seem to be giving up ground.”

  “We’re getting pushed back?” That had been the rumor he didn’t want to believe. He noticed Barnson said eight years, which meant command had once again changed the date of what they considered the start of this war that wasn’t a war, against enemies that still weren’t “soldiers”.

  “And paying a steep price for the privilege as well. Your ten men a month, I’m sorry to say, are nothing compared to the figures rolling in from around the country. That’d be a slow afternoon. As I said, just be glad they haven’t called and told me to order you to send more of your tanks south. Or all of them. Risky rails or not.”

  Parker ground his teeth. If that happened again he’d promised himself he’d resign. He might not have had an active front, but his men were still fighting for their lives. Take away their armor, their biggest advantage, and a lot more than ten of them would be dying every month. Air power was nice, but there hadn’t been a war yet that had been won or lost anywhere but on the ground.

  Barnson breathed in his ear for a bit. “Speaking of setbacks, I’m getting whispers that diplomacy may be rearing its ugly head again.”

  “What do you mean, Sir?”

  “I mean I’m hearing rumors of a sitdown be
tween the two sides. A ‘conference’, they’re calling it. And when I reached out to my political contacts they did not get back to me, which seems to me to be a clear indication that there might be something to these rumors.”

  “They’re…ARF isn’t surrendering, are they?”

  Barnson snorted. “Wouldn’t that be nice.”

  Parker felt cold. ARF enjoying a few simple successes on the battlefield wouldn’t be enough to get both sides sitting down at a conference table. If such a conference was indeed happening, it most likely meant the Army was getting its ass seriously kicked. And had been for a while. And had apparently been concealing the fact, even from its own officers. He was stunned. “There haven’t been even talks of peace talks in…years.”

  “No there have not. I don’t like the timing of this one bit. You just make sure you’ve got a lid on your kingdom over there. We’ve got enough headaches.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  From the abandoned machine shop they headed south on the two-lane surface street. The pitted blacktop was mostly clear of debris, and Quentin accelerated steadily. The men watched the low buildings on either side slide past the muzzles of their rifles. This small industrial area had always been a safe haven for them, but they knew better than to think that meant they could relax their guard.

  The rifle barrels sticking out of all the SUV’s empty window frames made the vehicle look like some sort of giant, mutated, stinging insect. The threat of drones was everpresent, but they were willing to risk the visible weapons for the ambush-repelling instant firepower it afforded them. If they were inside the city limits that would be another story, but up in the suburbs simply driving along in a vehicle wasn’t enough to immediately earn unwanted attention by the military.

  The speed at which the SUV lumbered along, however, was nothing like a quick and darting stinging insect. Even if the old Ford had been up for a high-speed slalom, never mind its soupy shocks and bald tires, Quentin knew better. There were telephone poles across roads, abandoned, burned cars, sinkholes, debris everywhere, even the occasional bomb crater (although officially that had never happened). You never knew what was around the next corner, because it was never the same. Even on straightaways they chugged along at a stately thirty miles an hour—fast enough to cover ground quickly, but not so fast they’d run right into a roadblock or the odd Army improvised checkpoint without time to react.

  Random roadblocks were just another of the hazards they faced; not only did the army like them, but gangs had discovered their merits as well. Armed with whatever weapons they could find the bandits would block a street with cars and dumpsters and rob whoever came along. As the army had an unofficial and technically illegal policy of destroying without warning any unauthorized moving vehicle inside the city limits outside the approved travel corridors the gangs preferred to prowl the bordering suburbs. They took whatever they wanted, or needed—food, water, guns, gasoline—and killed anybody who offered resistance. The gangs tried to avoid preying on anybody too well armed, and stayed out of the way of both the army and the guerillas, but nevertheless there were occasional surprises. The only boring day was yesterday.

  George blinked against the wind blowing over the Ford’s dented hood. He had 20/15 vision, and his eyes continually scanned the street through the ballistic glasses he’d donned; the buildings on the left, windows, alleys and doorways, the buildings on the right, looking for any silhouette of a head, a shoulder, movement, the muzzle of a rifle belonging to a new army recruit overeager for the ambush. The streets were dangerous, every one a potential death trap, but his main focus of attention was the sky. Infantry was a problem they knew how to handle; the only way to deal with aircraft when you didn’t have any missiles was to see them before they saw you and get the hell out of sight. Luckily they were so distant from the front, and so few in numbers, that the Army no longer flew armed drones above the city. The drones were too few in number, the missiles too valuable, to waste on small groups of guerrillas performing “harassing actions” far from the real war. Or so they’d guessed, nobody had reported seeing an armed drone, or drone missile strike, in years. Still, they kept their drone jammer active. It did nothing against the large craft, but it would disrupt the navigation and audio/visual feed of the small bird- and insect-sized drones the military used.

  George didn’t like the street leading through the industrial park; it was too open. No tree cover, no avenues of escape for almost half a mile to the south. The rest of the squad thought of him as unflappable, a rock, but until they got some overhead cover—and it would be a ways out, almost two miles, before their route provided them with some measure of security from the eyes in the sky—he would be a nervous wreck, even if he did hide it well.

  Jason found himself more than a little unnerved at the situation he found himself in. He’d wanted to join the fight, pick a side in the war, sure, but now he found himself packed into a piece of junk car with heavily armed men he didn’t know and who didn’t know him, heading straight into an infamous city that was the stuff of nightmares. The fact that it was a war zone was just one of the dangerous aspects of the urban cadaver they were heading into.

  It was surreal. It was terrifying. It was awesome.

  Looking around the vehicle, he suddenly noticed the string of birds tied to the outside of Weasel’s pack. Were those pigeons? “Where’d you get those?”

  Weasel glanced back to see what Jason was talking about, then went back to scanning out the windows. “I went fishing.”

  “What?”

  “So many decades of being tame city birds, they can’t get rid of the mentality. You start throwing out bread, or corn, they show up and start eating without a thought to predators. You put a fishhook in a kernel of corn or a wadded-up piece of bread, as soon as they gobble it down you give a yank to set the hook and pull ‘em in. By the time you’ve got the hook out the rest of them have forgotten the squawking and have returned and are pecking around again. So you rebait the hook and throw it back out. You can get a whole flock one at a time. I’ve never seen animals so dumb. Hell of a lot easier to bag than squirrels.”

  “Socialism works the same, no matter the species,” Mark said, loud enough to be heard over the wind and engine noise. His belt-fed SAW was pointed out the rear window frame.

  “What?”

  “Mice die in mouse traps because they don’t understand why the cheese is free. Same thing with those pigeons. And all the fuckers out there,” he gestured beyond the vehicle, “who kept voting for more free shit in exchange for less freedom. When the mouse trap finally snaps, when the fishing hook sinks into your mouth, when the boot is on your neck…you suddenly realize the free shit wasn’t free.”

  “Mouths closed, eyes open,” George growled.

  Everyone was sweating as Quentin drove southbound. The golf course’s low clubhouse appeared to their left, then the course itself, bordered by more of the same rusty chain link. A small weed-choked parking lot and more grape vines were next, but beyond the scorched, abandoned clubhouse were two majestic weeping willows, silvery in the sunlight, a reminder that things had not always been as they were.

  The street dipped and ended at a T-intersection, the traffic signal lights still up but dark. The dip meant the ground rose on either side of the road, limiting their visibility. Quentin slowed to a crawl and eased out into the intersection. To the left the street entered a residential area, the same neighborhood where Colleen lived but further to the south. Tall trees, oaks and elms, shadowed the asphalt. Before the war it would have been called a “charming bedroom community” in a middle-class suburb. No one still in the area thought in those terms any more, cities and neighborhoods were deemed more or less dangerous based on how likely you were to be ambushed or killed travelling through them. The only problem was…even if the chances of that were very low, very low was still greater than zero.

  To the right was the reason for the dip: the same set of railroad tracks that ran close behind the shop where th
ey’d spent the night. The tracks were supported by an old concrete bridge that was decorated with graffiti and starting to crumble. Nothing was moving in either direction, on the street or the bridge. Quentin cranked the wheel over and the Ford slowly chugged under the bridge, its exhaust momentarily loud as it echoed off the square bridge columns. Half a mile away, straight west, was another intersection with dark traffic lights.

  Past the bridge the two-lane road rose quickly. More small businesses on the right, some but not all abandoned; even with intermittent electricity some owners refused to close their doors. They had seen entire machine shops operating on bicycle and solar power. A few occasionally ran generators on black market gas. Where there’s a will… On the left were tiny one-story homes, once well maintained but still little more than pillboxes. Some were obviously vacant, but a surprising number seemed to still be occupied. No one could afford gas for lawn mowers of course, but quite a few of the lawns had been hacked down by hand, and a few residents had planted flowers in their front yards in addition to the ubiquitous garden in back. Store-bought vegetables were a thing of the fabled past.

  “Watch the windows, watch the windows!” George barked over his shoulder. No matter where they were, snipers were a real threat. Not necessarily the trained professionals, the men the Army sent out regularly to harass them, but yahoos, drunks and crazies with guns who liked to shoot at anything—or anyone—that happened by. There weren’t so many of those around anymore, though. They’d gotten bored, run out of ammo, or been shot. George kept his eyes locked on the distant intersection, and let the rest of the squad watch the buildings and the road behind them.