The War for Profit Series Omnibus (11 page)

“Those hotshots are the mechanized infantry platoon,” said Mortinson.

The company commander’s skimmer hustled in at a good clip and slowed just enough for the Lieutenant to jump out and jog to a stop. Galen wondered if the running dismount were his signature move or if he were imitating some historical figure. The officer centered himself on the company formation and yelled, “Bring your units to attention!”

The Chiefs faced their platoons. The headquarters Chief ordered his platoon to attention, followed by the combined maneuver Chief, then Mortinson and finally the mechanized Chief. The Chiefs then faced the Lieutenant.

“Gentlemen,” began the company commander, “I have been given a somewhat irregular mission. Because you did such a good job last night, our higher-ups and the employer thinks we can put down this worker revolt all by ourselves. There are people a lot smarter than me and with a lot more rank on their collars who say it will work. They also say we need to use tranquilizer rifles.”

He paused, gazing around at all the mercenaries. Galen hoped the Lieutenant was smart enough to continue the briefing before the troops could start heckling. Finally the Lieutenant spoke again.

“I know we can do it. We’re here, were ready and we can nip this thing in the bud. And I will remind all of you, there is a lot of money at stake. Money for you. We will be some of the richest foot troops in Panzer Brigade history after we pull this off. We’re already splitting salvage from these enemy tanks, plus hazardous duty pay, plus mission bonuses. Hell, I might just retire after this one.”

Galen wondered if he’d ever get a chance to spend the money.

“As for the mission: we will gain control of the tank factory and the industrial compound surrounding it. It is imperative we do this as benevolently as possible. That is the reason for the tranq guns. Of course you have back-up weapons, those pistols, because the right to defend yourself with deadly force is a part of your contract.”

The officer paused again, gathering his thoughts. “Why not just let the Mandarins do it? We know they could. We know they would come in here with about ten thousand scrubby militia thugs supported by hobbling, ragged tanks. They would trash the place, level the towns, round up hoards of civilians and execute them and stamp out anything that resembles a rebellion. Then they would rebuild everything and re-populate the area with good little factory workers from somewhere else.”

The Lieutenant looked behind him for a moment, then back at the formation.

“The old man says we can do better. He says we can end the rebellion with a minimum of damage, and have these same people happy and building vehicles again in less than a week. So we will. I don’t have enough rank to authorize me to make a liar out of the Colonel, and neither do any of you. So we better make this mission come out the way he says.”

He paused again then said, “Chiefs. I need to see you right after this. Take charge of your platoons.”

The Chiefs saluted to acknowledge the order and the commander returned the gesture before relaxing his posture.

“Stand easy, men,” said Mortinson. “Wait here until I get back from the meeting with the Lieutenant. Go ahead and fall out but don’t go more than twenty meters away.”

“Second squad, over this way,” said Galen. He led his troops to a relatively undamaged patch of grass by the shoulder of the road. “Sit down and rest, sleep if you feel like.”

He walked to the river’s edge and sat peering across the water. The fog was gone. The river flowed slowly by, carrying a tree branch at about half a meter per second. The far bank was approximately two kilometers away, marked by an eroded drop-off bank three meters high. The
grayish-brown water lapped at the bank in little wavelets, the translucent water washing over the gravel. Galen picked up a flat stone and skipped it across the water, counting six splashes before the rock sank.

“Damn it’s hot,” said a troop in Galen’s squad.

“Can’t believe we’re pacifying rebels,” said another.

“Shut up,” said Galen. He studied his tranquilizer rifle. It was a weapon designed to incapacitate rather than kill an opponent. The magazine held ten rounds tipped with a packet of needles containing a powerful sedative. Galen knew the weapon was ineffective beyond the range of thirty meters. He also knew the needles wouldn’t penetrate body armor. However, scoring a hit anywhere the needles could find their way into the blood stream would take an opponent down. The needles would eventually dissolve in the victim’s body, making it relatively harmless compared to conventional weapons.

“Fall in!” yelled Mortinson.

The troops of antitank platoon formed back up in front of their Chief. He faced the mercenaries and said, “This is the deal. The company will liberate the factory and secure the major buildings of the town beside the factory. Our job will be the jail house. We’ll take it over and get the prisoners ready to be shipped out. All the prisoners. That means the ones we take, the political prisoners held by the rebels and the common criminals who were in jail before all this started. The Mandarins will sort out who’s who. As far as we’re concerned, we treat them all like scum because we don’t know one from the other. Don’t believe a thing any one of them says, and if one gives you a hard time, shoot ‘em with the tranq gun, in the ass. Right now we rest until sunset, then mount up on the combined maneuver platoon’s APCs and ride in to attack the rebels. Any Questions?”

No one spoke.

“Good. Fall out until nineteen hundred.”

Galen went back to his place by the river. He sat down and placed his night vision goggles on the ground, facing the small solar panel towards the sun so the batteries could recharge. He peered out at the river and eavesdropped on a conversation between two troops. One he knew, the other was a recent replacement.

“Horst, man, why’d you stay out here?”

“I didn’t want to rotate in last time. We were a troop short so I volunteered.”

“That’s crazy. You have to go in to get training to get promoted.”

“Who cares about promotion?”

“What about pass time? When you go in you get a week off plus weekends off and five day passes every month. Plus a week off before you come back out to the field.”

“Well I’m not taking my pass time; I’m letting it build up.”

“What for?”

“I’ve been here eight months so they owe me about two months off. My last three months here I’ll go to garrison so I can be a Corporal when I go out to the fleet. Then I’ll skip all my pass time out there.”

“Why?”

“I want to cash in all my accrued pass time so I can finish my five year contract in four years.”

“You’re nuts.”

“I’m saving up enough money to go to the Ostwind Military Academy. But to get in the academy I have to be under the age of twenty-seven. The only way I can do both is by cutting my enlistment short by a year. To do that, I have to skip most of my pass time.”

“Why not just do like me and make an enlisted career in the Panzers? I’ll be retired when I’m thirty eight.”

“I want to be an officer.”

Galen stopped listening and thought about how lucky he was. Sure, he didn’t do very well at the academy but he did graduate. Unlike most of his freshman class, he actually made it to graduation. Although he didn’t make the cut for acceptance to the Ostwind officer corps, he did get a job. In about ten months he would be assigned a tank platoon. He would make his mother proud and pay her back for her sacrifice. After he finished his obligation to the Panzers, maybe he would become a gladiator and make a fortune in the arena. Or he would take a civilian job doing something safe. Maybe he would be a janitor or an apartment manager or something.

Spike and Tad joined him on the river bank. Galen skipped a rock. His friends also skipped rocks. None of them spoke, just sat there skipping rocks. Finally Tad stood and walked away. Galen skipped another rock.

“Later,” said Spike, standing to walk away.

“Later,” said Galen.

Spike walked away. Galen skipped another rock. It splashed only twice.

***

At eight o’clock in the evening local time, Galen was standing in the commander’s hatch of the same APC he had commanded during his ride from the welcome center to the company headquarters. The engine growled and the tracks rumbled as the vehicle pushed through the forest north of the factory. Galen heard Mortinson’s voice over his personal communicator. Mortinson was commanding the first vehicle and leading the heavy weapons squad.

“When we burst from the tree line, we’ll be fifty meters from the prison fence. Drivers, be prepared to flip on your headlights, on high beam, when I give the command.”

Galen ducked to avoid a low tree branch. Suddenly his vehicle was tearing across open ground at full speed. Two APCs were on line to his left, the other was twenty five meters to his right. The driver kept the vehicle at full speed as it approached the outer fence of the prison. The chain link fence was five meters high and topped by a triple row of razor wire. Two meters inside that fence was a lower chain link fence with a single roll of razor wire along its top edge.

The track on Galen’s right side fired a burst of twenty millimeter rounds into the nearest guard tower. Galen sent a stream of bullets just over the top of the flat prison roof, aiming a meter above it to discourage enemy gunmen from showing their faces. Galen ducked into his vehicle to avoid being injured by the fence as his APC crashed through. Just as the vehicles hit the fence, Galen noticed a muzzle flash from a first-floor prison window. The track to his left, immediately after hitting the second fence, fired a six-round burst into the window. Tad was a good shot.

“Headlights on!” ordered Mortinson.

As Galen’s vehicle tore through the second fence, the prison yard was lit up by the headlamp high-beams of the four APCs. Galen’s night vision goggles compensated for the brightness. Twenty five meters closer to the prison building’s wall, and fifty meters to go.

“Headlights off!” ordered Mortinson.

Galen’s goggles dimmed for a moment, and then brightened. He knew the rebels wouldn’t get their night vision back so quickly, they didn’t have night vision goggles. Galen waited anxiously until the last possible moment. When the vehicle was as close to the wall as good judgment would allow Galen said, “Hard right and stop, driver.”

He held on to the rim of the hatch with his left hand and gripped the handle of the heavy machine gun with his right. The APC made a ninety degree turn and slid sideways about a meter, coming to a stop by slamming into the prison wall. “Ramp down! Dismounts post!”

The driver let the assault ramp free-fall. The troops of Galen’s squad sprang out. The first troop blew out the nearest window with a small gob of plastic explosive. The second mercenary tossed a concussion grenade into the room. Galen stood under the window, his back to the wall and his hands cupped to form a stirrup. One by one his troops stepped into his hands and Galen launched them into the room. Galen looked back to make sure the driver was behind the APC’s machine gun, and then jumped up and climbed through the prison window himself.

He heard a few air-hissing pops, the sound of suppressor-equipped tranq guns firing. One troop waited for Galen in the room. The rest were spreading out through the prison. The troop, a new replacement, gave Galen a thumbs-up. Galen waved his gun at the open door and they ran through, turning right in the corridor. Troops were standing in doorways, giving the thumbs-up to show their rooms were clear. The mercenaries held their positions, waiting for the Chief to ask for reports. Galen looked in all the rooms. He counted sixteen incapacitated rebels. All of them had been armed with some sort of weapon. Most had knives, one had a sword and two had pistols. They were the type of pistol a prison guard might use. Galen removed his goggles. It was pitch-dark in the prison, so he put them back on.

Tad’s voice broke radio silence. “Third squad needs a band-aid. One troop has a belly full of buckshot and five rebels injured by a concussion grenade.”

“Roger,” came a medic’s voice. “On my way.”

“Reports,” Mortinson’s voice.

“First, all clear”

“Second, all clear,” said Galen.

“Third, one room to go. Stubborn rebels holed up in an office,” said Tad.

Mortinson said, “Stay put third, I’ll bring in my squad and talk them out. First and second, secure your prisoners and bring them to third’s position.”

“Drag ‘em out in the hall and tie them up,” Galen ordered his troops.

The mercenaries dragged the prisoners into the hallway and tied them to each other in a line with disposable handcuffs. Two troops gathered up the weapons and piled them in the broom closet. After gagging them, they lifted the prisoners to their feet and led them along the hallway. Galen’s squad arrived at the office where the holdouts were just as the men from Mortinson’s squad finished setting up a heavy machine gun. They had it pointed at the solid steel office door at the end of the hallway. Soon there were about thirty troops lining the walls of the hallway, their tranq guns at the ready. Mortinson stood beside the machine gun with his hands on his hips and his feet planted firmly, more than shoulder width apart. The Chief switched off his personal communicator and yelled at the solid steel office door.

“Come out of there and surrender!”

“No! Go to hell!” said a heavily accented voice. It came from the intercom speaker beside the door.

“Come out or I will kill you,” said Mortinson.

“If we come out, promise you won’t hurt us. Promise we’ll get a pardon from the planetary council and free passage off this planet on the next ship leaving.”

“I’m going to kick your ass. Come out and I’ll beat you senseless and shoot you in the ass with a tranq rifle. But you’ll probably survive.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Listen, dumbass. I’m not a police officer, I’m a professional mercenary. Come out or I will kill you.”

A buzzer sounded and the door swung outward, opened by electric motors inside the wall. The interior of the office was dimly lit by an emergency-power light. One rebel came out slowly. Fear showed in his dark eyes. Stress lines distorted his face. He held his hands high over his head. Another appeared behind the first.

“One at a time only! Second dumbass, get back in there!”

The second rebel ducked back into the office.

Mortinson pointed at the first rebel, “Come here, you!”

The prisoner approached him. Mortinson grabbed him by the shirt collar and punched him in the stomach, causing the prisoner to double over. Mortinson threw him to the floor and said, “Tie him up. Tranq bullets cost the unit money, so don’t shoot him.”

Two troops drug the prisoner off to third squad’s line of prisoners and tied him to the rest.

“Next!” called Mortinson. The Chief simply slapped the second prisoner across the face and had him tied up like the others.

“Next.” The third prisoner was tied without being abused.

“Next!” A buzzer sounded and the steel door slammed shut. The same voice as before came over the intercom. “No way! Come in and get us!”

“Pistols at the ready,” ordered Mortinson.

The troops drew their pistols and slung their tranq rifles. The sound of pistol safeties being disengaged clicked with the rhythm of popcorn. Mortinson turned on his personal communicator and switched it to another channel. “Haller? Good. I want you to kill the emergency power… yeah, the warden’s office. Thanks.”

He turned the communicator off and yelled at the door. “Now I have to kill you. Don’t try to come out, you dumbass.”

Mortinson reached into his combat vest pocket and pulled out a small explosive device. He walked forward and pressed it firmly in place, stuck at the bottom center of the door. He armed the device. “Clear the hallway.”

The troops ducked into the rooms, the heavy machine gun crew taking the weapon with them. Mortinson pressed a button on the device and then darted toward the nearest open room. He stopped, drew his pistol and turned, aiming the weapon at the steel door. He waited another moment, and then pulled a small radio transmitter from his left shoulder pocket. He stepped sideways into the nearest room and pressed the red button on the side of the transmitter.

The explosive charge detonated. Galen felt a shock wave pass through his body. The noise was intense and deafened him. He looked into the hallway and saw Mortinson charging into the office. The steel door was lying flat, distorted and ripped from its hinges. Galen followed Mortinson, signaling by hand for first squad to follow. To Galen’s deafened ears, the sound of Mortinson’s pistol fire sounded like plastic bubble wrap being popped. When Galen caught up to Mortinson, four bodies with gunshot wounds to their foreheads were laying on the floor at the Chief’s feet. A ringing started in Galen’s ears, his hearing starting to come back. Mortinson said something but Galen couldn’t hear. He was sure whatever the Chief said included the word “dumbasses.”

Two hours later the Mandarin police came with their trucks to haul away the prisoners. Galen noticed that the police officer in charge was the same one he saw at the small town the mercenaries had liberated a few days earlier. The police chief was looking at each prisoner, deciding which ones would be released on the spot, which ones would be trucked away and which ones would go right back in the prison. This time he had a noteputer and two assistants. There was also a team of local medics. They were working on some wounded rebels.

“So what do you think?” asked Spike. “Did we knock this mission right out or what?”

Galen said, “I think I need a big meal, a hot bath, a bottle of ale and a full body massage.”

“I hear you. I could use a break myself.”

Galen grabbed at the front of his coveralls, pinching a fold of the fabric on his chest with the fingers of his left hand, “Yeah, but you don’t stink of river water and dried blood. I need a new uniform and maybe a new line of work.”

“This is our chosen profession. We’re mercenaries.”

“We’ve only been at this for a week and we’ve already seen more dead bodies than most people see in a lifetime. If we keep up at this rate, Mandarin will be de-populated before we finish our year of training.”

“Mortinson told me this isn’t normal. This much action doesn’t come around very often. He said he’d never seen this much happen on Mandarin before, and he’s been here the past five years.”

“Five years?”

“Yes. He did his first contract and then applied for permanent assignment on Mandarin. He does field duty between cycles.”

“Cycles?” asked Galen.

“Training cycles. He’s a drill instructor and trains brand new troops for basic training. He does three months of busting in raw recruits, three months off, three more months of training and then three months of field duty. That’s his annual cycle as a Brigade school instructor.”