The War for Profit Series Omnibus (14 page)

They ran past the jogging trail to the opposite side of the compound. The tac and the troop ran after them every step of the way, the tac shouting abuse and orders. The troop kept his weapon trained on Galen and Tad. They ran to a tin shack in a wooded area in a remote part of the compound. It was a twelve by twelve meter square building with a sloping roof and three walls and an open front.

“Inside, Sergeants. Inside and sit on your foot lockers.”

The tac stared at the communicator on his wrist and let them rest for exactly one minute. “Do some pushups! Do some pushups with your feet elevated on your trunk!”

Galen and Tad laid face down, their feet on the edge of their foot lockers and the palms of their hands on the ground below their shoulders. Then they pushed, raising their bodies until their elbows locked, then lowered their chests to touch the ground.

“Faster! You can go faster than that! Knock ‘em out, do some pushups! Don’t make me void your contract, don’t piss me the hell off, Sergeants!”

After two minutes Tad slowed down. His body quaked and then he collapsed on his face, unable to push himself back up. The tac knelt and whispered to him. Tad rose up halfway and then collapsed again.

“Stand up, you!” Tad stood. Galen slowed his pace, tried to conserve some strength. The tac took Tad’s weapon and laid it on Tad’s foot locker, “Lay down there, you! Lay there on your back! On top of your weapon! Put your feet straight up in the air. Put your hands straight up in the air! That’s the dying cockroach! That’s the dying cockroach, Sergeant! When I tell you to do the dying cockroach, that’s what you do!”

The tac turned his attention to Galen. He knelt and whispered to Galen, “The longer you hang in there the longer your buddy does the dying cockroach. Keep doing pushups.”

Galen was finally getting tired. His body quaked as he pushed up, quaked as he lowered back down. Searing, burning pain surged through his triceps. His chest muscles burned too. His back hurt. He managed to push up again.

“Come on, you can do more than that. Are you a pussy? You can’t do just one more pushup?”

Galen collapsed.

“Dying cockroach, Sergeant! You, the ugly one, your turn! Sit ups, knock ‘em out!” The tac had them alternate like that for thirty minutes, each doing an exercise to the point of collapse while the other held the dying cockroach position.

“Let’s see. Both of you get at parade rest. That’s right, at order arms parade rest. Okay, Dinner time. Why is it called dinner time?”

Tad started to make a guess, “Sir, it’s--”

“Shut the hell up!” The tac backhanded Tad across the face. “It’s called dinner time because you eat only one meal a day. One field ration is enough nutrition, if you eat the whole thing, for an entire day of rigorous combat duty.”

The tac walked over to the troop and pulled two field meals and two canteens from his pack. He threw them at Tad and Galen. “That’s good, real good. Just stand there and let that trash bounce off you and hit the ground. Discipline. Maybe you two really are academy graduates. Now break ranks, sit on your foot lockers, take that cover off your grapes and have dinner.”

The tac pulled a training manual from the troop’s pack and stood in front of the tin shack. He read the entire first paragraph. “Now you, repeat what I just said.”

Tad started to get to his feet.

“No, just sit there. Repeat what I just told you.”

“Sir, I can’t remember.”

“Oh, a stupid ass. Fine. Listen closer this time.”

The tac read a sentence, Tad repeated it. Then the tac read another sentence and Galen repeated it. It was a manual about platoon-level leadership. After an hour and a half the tac said, “Okay, that’s the day-one training. You, the tall one, summarize in your own words what you just learned.”

“Sir, our mission always comes first. However, taking care of our troops is always the top priority. We take care of our troops by accomplishing the mission.”

“Right. Now, that chow you ate and that water you drank, who got that for you?

“Sir, you did.”

“Shut the hell up! Trooper Jenkins took care of you! That chow was in his pack! You owe that troop your life! Don’t forget it. All combat leaders owe those troops their life! So what are you going to do to take care of that troop?”

“Sir, I will-”

“Then do it! Get your gear on, go check out your troop! Go inspect your troop, take care of him.” The tac took the submachine gun from Jenkins and held it at the ready while the Sergeants approached the troop.

“That’s right, get him into the shade of the shack and set him on a foot locker. Take his gear off and inspect it. Take his boots off and inspect his feet. Check his scalp for ticks, give him water. Give him a field ration to eat. That’s right, open the pack for him. Is he comfortable? Maybe he’d be more comfortable if the big guy got down on all fours like a bench for the troop to sit on. You with the red hair, give that troop a shoulder massage, that pack he’s been carrying for you all day is heavy. That’s right, take care of your troop…”

They were allowed to sleep at midnight. At four in the morning they were awakened by the same tactical officer but a different troop kept a weapon trained on them. The abuse stopped but the physical exercise and instruction went on for ten days. On day eleven they sat in a holographic theatre and watched combat footage narrated by a monotonous voice for twenty solid hours. After four hours of sleep, they were allowed to shower and put on clean ceremonial uniforms. They were given the same one-hour guided tour of the Jasmine Panzer Brigade museum three times. Finally they were instructed to stand at attention on the front steps of the museum.

Colonel Norbert Theil walked up wearing his full ceremonial uniform. Galen saluted and the Colonel returned the gesture.

“Congratulations, Sergeant. You made it. You are now a Chief.” He shook Galen’s hand and moved to stand in front of Tad and promoted him as well. Then Colonel Theil executed an about-face and walked away.

“That’s it, Chiefs. Congratulations, and remember what I taught you.” The tactical officer offered his hand to Tad, but Tad simply raised a salute. The tac grunted and returned the salute, then walked away. The troop with the submachine gun locked and cleared his weapon and slung it on his shoulder as he walked beside the tac. Galen resisted an urge to kill them both.

“Right there.” Tad stabbed at the assignment orders on the bulletin board with his index finger.

Galen read the orders. “Tomorrow at thirteen hundred hours, we are to be standing by the front gate with all our gear. Good, plenty of time to rest.”

“We have to exchange our uniforms, get new ID cards, check out of the barracks, put our civilian items and ceremonial uniforms in storage, and pick up a new field kit from the armory.”

“A new field kit?” said Galen.

“Yeah. Turn in the Mandarin standard issue and pick up the assigned gear for the contract we’re joining in progress.”

“Good. I can use a new foot locker; mine has a bullet hole in it.”

***

Galen and Tad wore full combat gear and had their new rifles slung over their shoulders as they approached the front gate.

“Hey Chiefs, you can’t go down town dressed like that!”

Galen didn’t know this gate guard. “We have to be here at thirteen hundred to catch our ride to the spaceport.”

“Well you’re early. Have a seat inside while you wait. You might block traffic standing out there.”

They entered the guard shack and removed their packs and sat on the bench built into the back wall.

“That’s some nice gear you got there.”

“Yes,” Galen leaned his rifle against the wall.

“Nice weapon.”

“It’s a good rifle, fires semi-auto or three-round bursts, caseless ammo. The forward tube magazine holds ninety six slugs. The solid propellant feeds up through the stock. When the bolt rides forward it scrapes off a chunk of propellant, picks up a slug and jams them home into the chamber, smashing the propellant tight in behind the bullet. The battery in the handgrip supplies a spark to ignite the propellant. When the bolt is sent backwards by the expanding gasses, it works a cam gear that drives a small generator that recharges the battery. However, the battery holds enough juice to empty the magazine twice, just in case the generator goes out.”

“Very sophisticated. How well does it shoot?”

“Maximum effective range of twenty-two hundred meters, with a ten centimeter drop at fifteen hundred meters on Mandarin. Might do better under less gravity or thinner air. Not bad for a seven millimeter assault rifle.”

“That scope built-in or was it a custom job?”

“Built-in at the factory. Automatic bore sight too.”

“What else did they give you?”

“Just the regular stuff. Regular old pistol, combat knife, field pack...”

“Where are they sending you?”

“Recon armor, a contract to wipe out some raiders near some new colonies.”

“Ah, you’re going to the Rim Job!”

Tad joined the conversation, “The what?”

“Raiders are harassing colonies at the edge, or rim, of the galaxy. The Rim World Confederacy hired the Panzers for the job of getting rid of the raiders. That’s why we call that contract the Rim Job.”

A heavy-duty truck pulled up to the gate. The guard checked the driver’s credentials, raised the barricade and let the vehicle enter the compound. “Chiefs, your ride’s here.”

Galen and Tad left the guard shack. The truck made a U-turn and stopped facing out. The driver leaned out and said, “Chief Raper, Chief Miller?”

“Yes,” said Tad.

“Climb in back.”

They did. A canvas supported by steel bows covered the cargo bed. A canvas curtain hung over the front, shielding them from the wind. They sat on the troop seats opposite each other, towards the front to get a smoother ride. The truck bed was empty except for them. As the truck picked its way along the pedestrian-choked streets of Xongxong, Galen leaned back and dozed off. Two hours later they were at the spaceport.

“Let’s go, Chiefs! Your ride is right there!” The loadmaster pointed at an aerospace transport. Galen and Tad climbed out of the truck and walked across the tarmac, following the loadmaster.

“Nice ship,” said Galen.

The loadmaster spoke over his shoulder, “Not a ship, an aerospace transport. A boat. To be a ship it has to be capable of unassisted interstellar travel.”

The boat was seventy meters long. The fuselage was narrow at the front, a point spreading out to a horizontal oval ten meters wide at the tail. Thin triangular wings started at the midpoint of the fuselage and widened to five meters, stopping abruptly a meter before the tail. Three sets of paired wheels thirty centimeters in circumference were the landing gear. A gantry led to an open door in the fuselage, right in front of where the wings started. They ascended the stairs of the gantry and entered the boat.

“Right there.” The loadmaster indicated two seats in the back. There were about twenty other Panzer Brigade mercenaries seated on the boat. Galen and Tad sat, put their packs under their seats and laid their rifles crossway on the floor. Tad used two straps on the floor to secure the weapons against the frame of the seats. The loadmaster checked to make sure their gear was stowed properly. “Good to go.”

The door sealed and Galen felt the pressure inside the boat increase a little. The boat taxied, turned, and then accelerated down the runway. Galen felt himself pressed into his seat. The nose of the boat lifted and Galen noticed the sound of servo motors retracting the landing gear. Then BAM! The boat shot up at a sharp angle, its mighty engines thrusting at four Gs as the aerospace transport shot out of the gravity well of Mandarin. Tad grunted.

The boat went into orbit and rendezvoused with a transport ship. The boat docked in a bay and a docking clamp secured the boat and a boarding collar sealed the area around the boat’s door. The loadmaster confirmed the seal and then opened the door. Galen’s ears popped as the air pressure dropped slightly. Weightlessness bothered him and made him feel like he was falling. Tad helped him float off the boat, down the docking tube and into the ship’s passenger area. Galen could have made it on his own but was glad Tad chose to help him. Tad had no problem with zero-G. The ship steward pulled himself along the seats. “We got any sleepers?”

“Right here,” said Galen.

The steward handed him an auto-injector. “At five minutes before jump, stick this in your thigh. It’ll knock you out cold for an hour.”

Galen nodded and put the auto-injector in his left breast pocket. He strapped himself into his seat. Tad did the same. The pilot’s voice came over the intercom, “We will do a one-G burn for ninety minutes and spend three minutes in zero-G at the turnaround and then a one-G burn for ninety minutes as we decelerate to the jump point. Remain seated during the zero-G portion of the flight. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” said Tad. “Three hours in this bucket?”

“It’s a lot shorter than the last trip.”

“That was on a comfortable commercial transport.”

“When it comes to space travel I prefer brevity over accommodations. They could put me in a sardine can if the trip only took a minute.”

“I forgot you hate space travel.”

“Yes, I hate space travel.”

The ship started moving, easing into one-G acceleration. “Tad, how fast do you think we’ll be going?”

“Huh? Oh, I don’t know.”

“Figure, a one-G burn for ninety minutes.”

“Acceleration of eleven meters per second per second, that’s five and a half meters the first second…hell, I don’t know.”

Galen thought for a moment, “About forty thousand meters a second velocity after the first minute?”

Tad yawned, “Forty klicks a minute. Twenty four hundred kilometers per hour. Hauling ass.”

“That’s just after the first minute. How about after ninety minutes?”

“About two hundred klicks per second?”

“No, the acceleration is constant but the increase in velocity is exponential. It doubles over a given interval.”

“Whatever. I’m sure the pilots can handle it.” Tad leaned his seat back.

“Fourteen, with twenty four zeros behind it, kilometers per hour velocity.”

“Whatever.”

“That’ll be our top speed. What if we hit a piece of dust at that speed?” Galen gripped the armrests of his seat.

“Can’t be,” Tad yawned again. “That’s faster than light. Better check your math.”

Galen relaxed a little after Tad fell asleep. Galen suffered through the sensation of falling when the ship was in zero-G. Tad slept through it. During the one-G deceleration Galen felt better because he knew the ship was slowing down. Tad slept through the deceleration.

When the ship reached the jump point and floated at zero-G, the captain’s voice came over the intercom. “We will be jumping in five minutes. That’s all.”

The thought of jumping through a point made Galen uncomfortable. He gripped the armrests of his chair. Goose bumps covered the backs of his hands. His breathing increased, more rapid but more shallow, and ragged. He began to drool and his legs shivered. Galen’s tension woke Tad.

“Galen, what’s wrong? You look terrified.”

“We’re jump, jumping.”

“Oh.” Tad reached into Galen’s left breast pocket and removed the auto-injector, pulled the protective cap off and felt Galen’s thigh for obstructions. Then he pressed the tip of the auto-injector into the meatiest portion of Galen’s thigh. A needle popped out of the injector and stabbed into Galen’s leg to dispense a powerful sedative.

Galen glared at Tad, nostrils flared, eyes wide, teeth clenched. “Damn it Tad that thing hurts!”

Tad grinned at Galen, waited ten seconds and then removed the needle. Tad started reading the instructions printed on the side of the auto-injector. “Hey, I was supposed to stick this in your ass cheek.”

The four centimeter long needle was covered with blood and there was some blood on the injector body and Tad’s hand. Galen blacked out.

After the ship jumped it burned half a G for two hours and went into orbit around Hobart. Galen woke up after the first hour. Four assault boats docked onto the ship. The steward called names and gave instructions. A mercenary floated out of the ship and boarded a boat each time a name was called.

“Chief Raper, exit two, lower cargo hold on the boat.”

Galen released his seat belt and pulled himself along the aisle to exit two. He launched himself through the hatchway, entered the boat, and pulled himself along the gangways to reach the lower cargo hold. There were five Hornet light tanks in the cargo hold. They were on drop skids fitted with drag chutes. The turret of the Hornet held a light laser cannon paired with a coaxial Gauss machine gun. In the commander’s cupola was another Gauss machine gun and another machine gun protruded from the forward glacis plate. A fusion generator produced electrical power to run the tank and the weapons. Each road wheel had its own electric motor and two powerful electric engines drove the rear drive sprockets. The composite armor of the hull and track skirts was covered with ablative coating, protection from energy weapons.

“End tank, nearest the cargo door,” said the load master. “Get the environmental suit out of the turret, put it on and get in the tank.”

Galen put on the environmental suit but left the helmet off for the moment. They called the environmental suit a ‘Combat Suit’ at the armor academy. It was sturdy enough to protect its wearer from most small-arms fire, cooled and heated the body as needed, and with its reserve of compressed air could serve as a space suit for up to twelve hours. The drawback was encumbrance, but that didn’t matter much to a tanker.

“Button up for briefing,” said the loadmaster’s voice over the cargo bay’s loud speakers. “We’re de-pressurizing the cargo bay in five minutes.”

Galen put on his helmet and lowered himself into the command seat of the tank turret. Occupying the driver’s seat inside the tank was another mercenary wearing his combat suit. The driver looked at Galen and pointed at the right side of his helmet. Galen connected a commo spaghetti cord to his helmet and then slammed the turret hatch closed.

“Chief, I’m Sergeant Boggs, your driver.” Boggs’ voice sounded flat through the intercom.

“Glad to meet you.” Galen attached the air hose and power cord to his suit.

“Power up, Chief.”

Galen turned on the turret system main power. The Panzer Brigade regimental crest was displayed on the main status screen. Then a topographical map showed an open plain with only a couple of contour lines running across it diagonally.

A stern male voice came over the intercom. “Gentlemen, they are here,” a sloppy circle drew itself on the map, “We will hit them from here,” a sloppy arrow drew itself from left to right, stopping in the center of the sloppy circle, “and God help their sorry souls. They know we’re coming, know what we have, and they’ll fight because that’s what they do.”

The map was replaced with the face of a Master Sergeant not wearing his helmet. His hair was black, oily and pulled back into a pony tail. His eyes were deep brown, almost black. They stared, the pupils moving in a tiny horizontal figure-eight pattern. The chin was covered in a ragged sandy brown beard and a thick moustache covered the upper lip. The bottom lip was thin. Yellow bottom teeth were visible when the Master Sergeant spoke.

“We’ll kick the guts out of them, kill them all, because nobody leaves Hobart until they’re all dead. We have to. We shot up all their ships and boats. The only way they’ll get off that rock is by taking one of our ships. We don’t take chances like that. We’ll skid-drop off the boat, hit the ground running and smash the objective. There’s no extraction until they’re all dead. Get down there and kill them all. You can do that for me, can’t you?”