The War for Profit Series Omnibus (16 page)

“All right, they got it covered. Pull past it and stop.”

Boggs moved ahead and waited for the grunts to get back in behind the vehicle before moving up the valley at a crawl.

“Slow going,” said Boggs.

“Well, that’s how it’s done,” Galen lowered himself into the turret and checked his status screen. The two empty infantry carriers followed him a hundred meters back. Another draw was ahead. Sergeant Boggs stopped and let the grunts clear it. The marker for an enemy ambush patrol disappeared from the screen. Galen stood in his open cupola hatch and fought an extreme case of drowsiness.

After the maneuver training they drove back to the box canyon as the sun set. After he took off his combat suit, Galen turned his turret to the rear, elevated the laser cannon to two hundred mills and stretched a plastic tarp over it. Sergeant Boggs and Trooper Jones secured two edges of the tarp to the sides of the hull. They stretched their bed rolls out on the flat rear deck of the tank and slept. It was still dark when Galen woke up. His thigh still hurt from the auto-injector Tad had stabbed into it. He climbed onto the turret and put his boots on. It was dark but a faint glow lit the sky above the eastern edge of the high box canyon. Tad was awake and climbed onto the turret of Galen’s tank.

Tad said, “So how’s it going, hero?”

“Okay. I just kind of thought we’d be in some heavier tanks.”

“These Hornets haul ass.”

“That’s true but there’s nothing like picking off a target at twenty klicks with the main gun of a Hercules.”

“The Brigade has a heavy tank company. Maybe we’ll get assigned to it.”

Galen stood and stretched. “Maybe. I wouldn’t mind it.”

“You’d have to get in tight with the Colonel. He commands that company personally and uses it as his Brigade headquarters.”

“How does he run the Brigade from there?”

“A Major runs the battle from the Brigade HHC op center. The Colonel leads from the front and relegates the overall battle command to his staff. Logistics, maneuver, fire support, stuff like that. The Colonel gets right in the fight.”

“Guess when you own the Brigade you can do that.”

“He has to. He has to get the respect of the mercenaries under his command. A paycheck inspires only a certain amount of loyalty. If he just sat back in the corner and gave orders the unit might lose heart in a real knock-down battle. That could be fatal to the unit’s reputation and jeopardize future employment prospects.”

“Well, he’s not out on this contract.”

“This is considered low intensity combat, a small contract not requiring the whole unit.”

It was light enough to see. The company commander broke the morning calm when he yelled from the front of his tent. “Chiefs, meeting.”

Tad, Galen, and Chief Dawson walked over to the Master Sergeant’s tent. Inside, two field tables were pushed together with six camp stools placed around it. The commander greeted them. “We haven’t formally met. This is Chief Childress, my XO.”

A short, skinny man with a rag of yellow hair above his face leaned forward in a curt, partial bow.

“Chief Raper, Chief Miller, Chief Dawson.” The commander pointed at each in turn, “I am Master Sergeant Sevin, commander of the reconnaissance company. Have a seat, gentlemen.”

They sat, Galen facing Childress, Tad facing Dawson and Sevin at the head of the table.

“Let’s go over a few things before the Captain shows up. Number one, we’ll stay with three-troop crews. Replacement tanks aren’t available. Two, we will stay with three platoons, three tanks in a platoon. Losses were even across the board so it’s not a shuffle game. Leave the bumper numbers as-is. Three, we discuss the auxiliary gunners.”

“Mine are fine,” said Dawson.

“Me too.”

“Mine are okay.”

“Good. Just make sure the junior ranking man in each vehicle is the driver. Next item, we shoot the bull.”

“Who’s this Captain commanding the battalion?” said Galen.

“Captain Rothschild is the infantry battalion commander, our task force commander actually. He has a first loot as his XO.”

“Not many officers around.”

“That’s a good thing,” said Childress. “They just get in the way. The Captain wanted to lead the charge yesterday but couldn’t because we skid-dropped in.”

Sevin rolled his shoulders and said, “That would have been a cluster, him leading the charge.”

Galen felt ambitious. “So there’s a shortage of officers?”

“Yes. The Brigade’s lack of prestige doesn’t attract a lot of top-notch officers. We do some dirty missions that few mercenary regiments will take. Like now, chasing down raiders. Not much glory or political advancement in it, no headlines in the news. It’s just a job that needs to be done and cash flow to keep the unit operating in the pink.”

“So where do our officers come from?”

“They’re spoiled rich kids with families influential enough to get them through academies, despite their lack of aptitude. The rest come from the ranks, worked up through the Panzer Brigade officer development school. I was offered a commission but I turned it down. I worked too hard for my stripes to give them up.”

Tad looked indignant, “Why wasn’t I offered a commission? I’m a graduate of the Ostwind Armor Academy.”

“You have to be with us a year before you can apply for a commission. What the rich kids do is take a home-guard reserve commission and then apply to join the Brigade. We either have to reject them or honor their commissions. It’s part of our charter with the bonding commission.”

Galen suddenly felt foolish about his decision to turn down the reserve commission offered him when he graduated. He perceived a reserve commission as a career stopper, not a ticket-punch. But it wasn’t a total loss. He would have bragging rights, would be able to say he was enlisted before becoming an officer. If, after being a proficient NCO, he still wanted a commission.

“On your feet.”

The group of NCOs stood at attention while Captain Rothschild entered the tent and sat at the head of the table opposite Master Sergeant Sevin. Captain Rothschild wore a fresh, clean uniform. Starch held creases down the front of his pants and along the outside of his sleeves. His small-featured pink face was clean-shaven, making his upturned aristocratic nose the most prominent feature. The odor of cologne filled the tent. His eyes were pale blue, the whites a clear white, not at all bloodshot like everyone else’s in the tent. His bleached white hair was trimmed into a flat top. His delicate hands were just as soft on the palms as the back. Galen wondered if he even had finger prints.

“Take your seats, men.” They sat. “Okay, are we ready for another mission?”

“Yessir,” in unison.

“Very well. Extraction should be at about eleven o’clock this morning. We’ll stay on the same boats all the way to Rochelle and the ship will jump with us docked. Rochelle is nice, I hear, developing nicely into a beautiful planet. The gravity, I hear, is point nine six. Almost like Earth. I suppose that’s fine with you all?”

“Yessir.”

“Good. There are some more bushwhackers there. The fleet ran them to ground. We’ll be joined by the medium tank battalion. Hellcat tanks, I think.” Captain Rothschild picked at his manicured fingernails. “Men, if there are no further questions?”

Master Sergeant Sevin took a deep breath. “No sir.”

“Very well. I’ll be going now.”

“On your feet!” They stood at attention.

Captain Rothschild stood, knocking over his camp stool as he did so, “Carry on.” He waved over his shoulder as he exited the tent.

“Take your seats.” Sevin waited a few seconds before saying, “Damned punk officer. So you want to be one of them?”

Galen shrugged. “I move to adjourn this meeting and go eat chow.”

Master Sergeant Sevin nodded. “I don’t care what you do as long as you’re ready to roll out for extraction at ten hundred hours.”

***

Galen stood in the hatch of his Hornet and watched the assault boats land. They came in low, their rounded snouts tilted upward as perforated drag flaps dangled from their extended wings. The formation of six boats seemed to hover as it approached the task force. The dust blown up by the boats suggested there was a downward angle to their engine thrust. Galen noticed thrust deflectors changing the angle of their engine exhausts. The boats extended their landing gear, eased to the ground and rolled to the pick-up point. The dull grey exteriors were streaked with black, the result of partial oxidation of the outer ablative coating. Only the parts of the retractable wings not exposed during high-speed atmospheric entry were still a bright, shiny silver color. Finally the boats stopped in a long line.

“So what do you think of those boats?” Sergeant Boggs stood in the aux gunner hatch, his helmet off.

“Kind of ugly,” said Galen, “A cylinder with wings sticking out of the top center, a bubble nose with tiny windows across the top, a big ugly rudder and stabilizer section mounted right above the cargo ramp in the rear. The Liberator is a good bird, but it’s damn ugly.”

Master Sergeant Sevin’s voice came over the turret auxiliary speaker, “Wagons ho!”

Galen put on his helmet and connected the commo cord. The Hornet was already moving. Six tanks, first and second platoon, drove up the ramp of the first boat. Galen’s platoon boarded the second boat, followed by the two tanks of headquarters platoon and a single infantry carrier. Galen checked his status screen and groaned. “The Captain is on board with us.”

Sergeant Boggs said, “He won’t bother us.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He’ll go strait to the cockpit and sit around with the pilots.”

Galen said, “Won’t he oversee the tie-down?”

“No. He’s allergic to work.”

“Whatever. Dismount and secure this vehicle.”

Lengths of chain attached to the deck were all along the cargo hold. Galen took one and passed its loose end through the towing shackle on the left front corner of his tank. The loose end had a hook on it and he attached the hook to a turnbuckle bolted to the deck. He hand-tightened the turnbuckle and left it for the loadmaster assistant to tighten with his wrench. Galen got to the left rear corner too late to help Sergeant Boggs and Trooper Jones secure it.

“That’s it, Chief. All four corners secure.”

“Thanks, Jones.”

The Captain and Lieutenant strutted by, the junior officer carrying a black briefcase. Neither seemed interested in their surroundings.

“I’m going to check the officer’s track,” said Boggs.

Galen followed Boggs to the end of the boat. The infantry carrier was parked and the assigned driver was struggling with a tie-down chain. Boggs pushed him aside.

“Like this, Trooper. Put the loose end through the shackle, back to front, take it down and hook it here to the turnbuckle. Then take your dick beaters and twist it as tight as you can.”

Sergeant Boggs and Chief Raper glared at the task force commander’s driver as he secured the other three corners of the infantry carrier. When the troop opened the door built into the assault ramp at the rear of the vehicle, Galen saw two Sergeants and a Chief sitting inside.

Galen stuck his head in the hatch. “What’s going on? You troops think you’re too good to help tie down?”

The Chief and two Sergeants looked at him in surprise. The Chief swiveled his computer operator’s chair away from his terminal and faced Galen. “Who are you?”

“I’m a professional, that’s who!” Galen looked at them. Soft and kind of fat. “Never mind.”

Sergeant Boggs walked with Galen back to their own vehicle, mounted up, closed the hatches and waited for liftoff. The boat trundled along the ground for about five minutes. Galen became concerned.

“Sergeant Boggs, what’s taking so long to get airborne?”

“They have a huge runway. Hundreds of kilometers of dusty flat open plain to use. The pilots aren’t in a big hurry to get off the ground.”

“Why not?”

“Saving fuel and reducing wear on the air frame. They want to stay on the ground to build up enough velocity to get above stall speed without using thrust deflectors or running the engines to full throttle.”

The boat lifted from the ground. Galen heard the landing gear retract. The boat tilted its nose upward about ninety mils and increased thrust. Galen felt the boat lurch and then heard the sound of hydraulic servo motors running for a few seconds.

“What was that?”

“We hit mach one. The wings retracted to reduce drag and allow the boat to go faster.”

The boat tilted about forty more mills upward. Soon it lurched and ran its wings in all the way.

“Mach two?”

“Yes. Now we’re a missile. The rudder and stabilizers are now the wings.”

“How come you know so much, Boggs?’

“I started out as a loadmaster assistant.”

The boat left the atmosphere before reaching mach five. After half an hour, weightlessness let Galen assume the boat was in orbit. Jostling and a metallic clang let him know the boat had docked in a ship’s landing bay. Galen popped his hatch and looked around the cargo bay. Tank crews were floating from their vehicles to board the passenger compartment of the ship.

“Guess it’s time to get on the ship.”

Boggs and Jones took off their combat suits, stowed them in the Hornet and floated off. Galen thought about staying in the tank but didn’t know if it was authorized. He took off his combat suit and secured it in the tank and made sure the turret and driver’s hatches were closed and then made his way to the ship.

“Second deck up,” said the steward.

Galen made his way to the center of the deck and then floated two decks upward. The ship’s decks were built perpendicular to the thrust, for ease of movement during the artificial gravity of acceleration. Boat decks were built lateral to the thrust, for easier loading and unloading while on-planet. Galen didn’t like either, didn’t like space travel at all.

“Over here, killer.” It was Master Sergeant Sevin. Sevin, Childress, Tad, and Dawson sat in chairs bolted to the floor around a table. There was one seat open so Galen floated over. He stowed his assault rifle and field pack under the seat and strapped them in.

“So you’re a sleeper,” said Sevin.

“Yes. The jump puts me in a virtual eternity, complete sensory deprivation for what seems like forever.”

“Me too. I went through it once. That’s enough for one lifetime.” He handed Galen an auto-injector. “Anyway, let’s get down to business. Our next objective is Rochelle. The planet has four major continents. The fleet ran the raiders to ground and the indigs report they’re on just one continent.”

He touched a control on his edge of the table and the surface displayed a topographical map of a continent surrounded by ocean.

“Indigs?” asked Galen.

“Indigenous personnel, the settlers. Amateur soldiers in some kind of civil defense militia. Some pretty smart people, damn fine civilians, but they have no business—”

“Anyway,” interrupted Childress, “the raiders are reportedly here.” He indicated a broad valley between two mountain ranges. “The medium panzer battalion and two light infantry battalions have this end closed off.” He ran his finger across the broad end of the valley. “And the heavy panzer company is backing them up, deployed with HHC here.” He stuck his finger at a point about five klicks down the valley from the previous line.

Master Sergeant Sevin cleared his throat. “Right now a light infantry battalion at the top of the valley is working its way down.” He pointed at the area where the valley began. “They’re stopped now, after making contact with raider outposts. Our job is to give them fire support so they can continue down the valley and push the raiders into the medium panzer battalion. It’s eighty klicks of tough fighting from start to finish, on narrow terrain down a valley. I figure it’ll take us two weeks.”

“Why so long?”

“The infantry stays on foot, clearing every nook and cranny. That whole valley could be one big ambush, so it’ll be slow going.”

“Why can’t the medium panzers and their supporting infantry push up from the wider end?”

“Up hill is no way to fight. Maybe after we push far enough the heavy panzers can get dropped in behind us. But don’t hold your breath. The medium panzers stopped where they did because the terrain was too tight for them and too easily defended. See these little draws between the mountains on each side and the river bottom?”

Galen nodded.

“Each of those draws could be a protected firing position.”

“But we’re going into a worse area than the lower end of the valley,” said Tad.

“Somebody put a lot of thought into this. When you go into a fight where you know you’ll lose some armor, you don’t send your most expensive panzers.” Sevin paused, rubbed the back of his neck with both hands. “In that terrain long shots will be impossible so our light lasers are more than adequate for the job. Also considering the close quarters and the quality of the raider’s anti-armor rockets, the Hornet’s thin armor is no more vulnerable than a Hercules’ heavy armor. The Hornet’s mobility makes it the best and most survivable tank for this job.” He paused and looked down. “And remember, survival isn’t guaranteed in your contract.”

The ship started moving, the acceleration causing seven tenths of normal Earth gravity. Galen liked the slower speed and the sense of greater agility and strength that came with point seven G instead of the full G.

A ship’s steward came by. “Five coffees, gentlemen.”

Sevin took a sip and said, “Chief Raper, let me show you a neat trick.” He took out an auto-injector, removed the protective cap and pointed the needle end at his coffee. Then, very carefully, he used the edge of his thumbnail to press on the edge of the tip of the injector. The needle shot out and squirted an amber fluid into the coffee and Sevin used the expended injector body to stir the coffee.

“This will dull your mind enough so you don’t get jump space syndrome. It’ll drug you for three hours but it won’t knock you out.”

Galen gave Tad a nasty look. Tad shrugged and looked away.

“Here, have my coffee.” Sevin traded cups with Galen and then popped an injector into that cup. He stirred it, took a sip and smiled.

Galen sipped his drugged coffee. It tasted bitter but soon his tongue was numb. At first the back of his neck felt hot but soon it was numb as well. He felt good, suspended and uninhibited. The zero-G at the turnaround point didn’t bother him at all. After gravity returned, Sevin put another dose of sedative in his empty coffee cup and drank it straight and then said, “Gentlemen, this is going to be some fight.”

“Shouldn’t be so bad,” said Dawson. “We have the panzer grenadiers with us. They can give decent fire support with their tracks.”

“They can help close out the softer objectives, but we’ll get the tough jobs, the ones requiring laser cannons.” Sevin’s speech was slurred.

“We’ve seen worse. We’ve fought the Mosh,” said Dawson.

Childress yawned and Dawson got up to visit the bathroom. Tad and Galen listened.

Sevin began his story, “So there I was, out there by myself with no commo and out of ammo. But a knife doesn’t run out of ammo. I hid and waited. I knew some Mosh would come looking for me. I waited in a gully and piled Mosh bodies up for concealment. Damn they stank. I found a frag on one of them, a delay fuse grenade. A nasty little Mosh grenade. You know, the kind that throws out glass instead of metal fragments? Damned Mosh sons-of-bitches…”