The War for Profit Series Omnibus (7 page)

“Infantry. I should have known something like this was bound to happen,” said Spike, emerging from his changing booth. He looked okay, but somehow less impressive without his high boots and leather jacket. Coveralls just didn’t do much to make the short man look better.

“Don’t sweat it, I’ll keep the enemy off you,” said Tad, performing a martial-arts roundhouse kick with ease. “Hey, it’s only for a year. Then we get tanks.”

They went back to the welcome center and waited for the convoy to arrive.

“Look at you,” said the Corporal behind the counter. “You Sergeants look ready to conquer the whole Mosh invasion force single-handed. Mind if I tag along?”

“I think I hear some disrespect coming from somewhere,” said Galen.

“More like insubordination.” said Spike.

“I wonder what the penalty is?” said Tad.

“Probably death. Yeah, disrespect and insubordination often lead to desertion, so we could nip the problem in the bud and just kill him now,” said Galen.

“Hold up, I was just kidding. Lighten up, Sergeants. You got to have a sense of humor around here.”

“Okay, we’ll forget about it this time. So where’s that convoy you promised us, Corporal?” said Galen.

“Due to arrive in about twenty mikes, Sergeant. They made better time than expected, the last checkpoint said. So you can get on out there and stomp some bad guys into snail snot sooner than I thought.”

“Watch your mouth,” said Tad.

“I.D. Cards,” said Galen.

“What?”

“We forgot to get our I.D. cards.”

They stepped outside and walked directly across the quadrangle to the administration building. They could hear the distant sounds of an approaching armor column, the pop and squeak of tracked vehicles on the move.

“Better make this quick, I hear the convoy,” said Galen.

They went in the building, consulted the directory, and then headed to the second floor.

“Greetings, Sergeants. You here for I.D. cards?” A Troop sat behind her desk in her office, door open to the hallway, facing the top of the stairs.

“Yes.” said Galen.

“Come right in.” She stood and waved them towards the holo booth. Her light blond hair was in a tight French braid. She wore conservative flat-soled shoes, dark brown slacks and a khaki blouse buttoned all the way up. A small brown woman’s tie was clipped to her throat. Galen admired her figure. Breasts larger than her fists, a trim waistline and hips as wide as her shoulders. He couldn’t see any panty or bra lines, but no part of her body jiggled when she walked. The beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes showed she was no spring chicken. Galen assumed she had one of those body forming ultra-sheer things on under her class B uniform. She was just over two meters tall and looked like she could handle a big man.

“Give me your orders and step into the booth one at a time so I can get your hologram, and I’ll have you out of here in a couple of minutes.”

“Yes, recruit, uh…” said Galen, trailing off in hopes of getting her name.

“Not recruit. Troop. Trooper Harover.”

“But you wear recruit rank.”

Spike was just stepping out of the booth. Tad smirked at him and made a subtle gesture toward Galen and Trooper Harover. Spike grinned and nodded and patted Tad on the back as he entered the holo-booth.

“Oh, that Mandarin stuff. We use their insignia because it helps us to work with them. The liaison thought up the idea when the Panzers first came to Mandarin space. But we go by different tittles, ones that fit our TO&E. I’m a Troop. We drop the ‘lance’ from Corporal and Sergeant, ‘Gunny’ is called ‘Chief’, and he’s in charge of a platoon. ‘Master Gunny’ is called ‘Master Sergeant,’ and he’s in charge of a company,” She paused for breath, “and a ‘sub commander’ is called ‘Sergeant Major.’”

“And officer rank?”

“Who cares? We just call them all ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ anyway. Don’t see a lot of officers here in the infantry. I think your company is led by a Lieutenant, and the battalion is led by a Captain right now.”

“Next!” said Tad, stepping out of the booth.

Galen stepped in and shut the door. A red indicator light went out, an electronic buzzing sound came from the holo camera, and then a green indicator light came on. All finished, Galen stepped back out and noticed that Trooper Harover was bent over a workbench attached to the booth. He admired her haunches while she prepared the I.D. cards. She shifted her body’s orientation to give Galen a direct view of her behind. Whether the action was deliberate or not, he wasn’t sure. She stood and turned around, handing each warrior his new card. She saved Galen’s for last, gazing into his eyes as she handed it to him. “Look them over for any mistakes, then come to my desk and sign for them.”

Her eyes were blue, a deep, clear blue with no flecks or speckles of any other color. She must have been wearing makeup, but Galen didn’t notice any. Just good, clear skin. He examined his I.D. card. The holo picture seemed to stand out of the card half a centimeter. On the front was his name, rank and the expiration date, one year away. On the back was a magnetic data strip as well as printed information about Galen’s height, weight, blood type and date of birth. “My card’s perfect, Harover.”

“Then sign here. When you rotate out to the fleet, come see me again for your new card.”

“I’m looking forward to it. But I’d like to see you again sooner than that, though. Socially?”

“That suits me fine. When you rotate in for pass, look me up. I stay in building three six oh nine. Buzz the main door and ask for Inger.”

“You can count on it. See you in about three months.”

She smiled and waved at him as he left to join Spike and Tad outside. The rumbling of the approaching armor column was louder, closer. The purr and churn of the internal combustion engines was audible over the clank, pop and squeak of the tracks. Suddenly an armored personnel carrier rounded the corner of the in-processing building and lurched to a halt. Three more came and parked on line, dress-right-dress with the first one.

“What the hell is that?” said Tad.

Spike answered his question, “Those are fully tracked vehicles powered by turbine engines using liquid organic fuel. They’re armed only with a machine gun mounted on a traversing ring in the track commander’s hatch. They’re impervious to small arms fire, can take a direct hit one time from most handheld missiles, but are a sitting duck for automatic cannon fire. Their purpose is to serve as basic transportation for infantry in tactical situations.”

“Please don’t quote the entire mounted infantry manual,” said Galen.

“Organic fuel,” said Tad. “I hate that stuff. A fireball waiting to happen, that’s all it is.”

“Well, maybe. But it helps us earn our pay. I just hope I’m not in one of those cans when it takes a hit from a thermal round,” said Spike.

Troops, clean and fresh, emerged from nearly every building and converged on the vehicles. Tired and dirty troops dismounted from the Armored Personnel Carriers and walked into the welcome center. A Corporal dismounted from the top hatch of the first APC and stood about ten meters in front of his vehicle.

“Fall in,” he ordered.

Galen, Tad and Spike walked over and stood behind the formation. There were four ranks of nine each.

“You three in the back. You all deaf or something? I said fall in.”

“We’re Sergeants, you’re a Corporal,” said Tad.

“At ease, men. Rest in place,” ordered the Corporal. He then walked to the rear of the formation to have a talk with the three Sergeants. He was in his late twenties, dressed in field coveralls and combat gear, and looked like a competent veteran. He also looked upset. Restrained anger dominated his dark brown face. His fists were knotted in frustration.

“Does the term ‘in charge’ mean anything to you Sergeants?” He spoke into Galen’s chest, standing only ten centimeters from him. The Corporal was nearly a half meter shorter than Galen but refused to look up.

“Maybe you better explain things,” said Galen, giving the unruly Corporal one last chance to redeem himself.

The Corporal stepped back, relaxed his posture and said, “You snapper Sergeants need to understand, I’m in charge of this convoy. It’s my job. If you don’t like the way I do it, you’ll have to take the matter up with my Chief. Now I ain’t just making this up as I go along, I have certain things I have to accomplish, guidelines to follow and objectives to meet. So if you can’t handle being treated like a troop, fine. Just suck it up and do what I tell you until you’re released from my command. That’s right, command. I’m running this show and have the full authority of a commander.”

“Oh, we didn’t know all that,” said Spike, breaking the tension between Galen and the Corporal.

“Then fall in on the right. I’m making you Sergeants my track commanders. You take second, you take third and you take fourth track.” He pointed at each Sergeant as he made the assignments. Galen moved to the right end of the second rank of troops. He looked to his left and saw nine young troops, all dressed in field uniform and ready for battle. None of them had side arms, only rifles. Corporals and Sergeants had pistols and the choice between rifle or submachine gun. The Corporal moved down the first rank, performing a pre-combat inspection on each troop. Finally he came to the second rank and started its inspection with Galen.

“Canteen’s empty, rifle ammo is on the wrong side, your pistol isn’t loaded, rifle sling’s too tight, and chin strap of your helmet’s not fastened.”

“What?”

“You’re all fouled up, snapper Sergeant, but I guess you don’t know better. Are you left-handed?”

“No.”

“Well I am. So I’m the mirror image of how you should look. Pistol on your right hip, with your rifle ammo pouches behind it going on around to your butt pack. You can reach them while lying on your stomach that way. Pistol ammo pouches on you left hip, your canteen right behind them, and snug up against your butt pack. Everything is reversed for left handed troops. Lock and load and put the safety on both of your weapons, fasten your chin strap and fill up that canteen and we’ll be squared away. Oh, and that bayonet goes on your left, in front of your pistol ammo, to make sure you can get to it from the prone position.”

“Fine. I’ll break ranks and square that away now.”

“Pushups first. Not my idea, it is unit SOP. Ten pushups for each gig. Knock ‘em out then go square yourself away.”

Galen did sixty pushups and then dashed off to fill his canteen with water. He stood with Tad and Spike, the three men helping each other reassemble their gear in accordance with the Corporal’s demands.

“Is this for real?” asked Spike.

“If he’s bluffing I’ll mess him up good,” said Tad.

Galen said, “I’ll talk to his boss about this whole incident. They knew three Sergeants were coming. They should have a Chief in charge. Also, all the troops were squared away. No gigs on them.”

“That Corporal in the welcome center set us up, forgot to tell us some minor details,” said Spike.

“Aw, listen to us,” said Tad. “We sound like crybabies. Let’s just write the whole thing off as experience. Hell, most Sergeants have five or ten years experience under their belts. They expect us to know things without being told. With rank comes responsibility. We can’t expect to just walk right in with this rank and be Sergeants. We got to get a little experience. Until then, I plan to bluff it.”

“How?”

“Like just now, when the Corporal was checking out his troops, we could have been checking him out, arranging our gear like his, and double-checking it against the troops.”

“Sounds like a plan.” said Spike.

“Right. We had standards to follow at the academy. No reason this place should be any different.”

The Corporal came over to them. “All squared away now?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Here’s your radio codes. Zero seven one two niner. That’s for the channel between you and me, freq two.”

“Got it.”

“Next, five five one six. That’s the channel between you and your troops. Second, use freq three. Third, use freq one. Fourth, use freq five.”

“And command voice?” said Tad, bluffing a veteran status.

“Nine nine six eight, channel one,” said the Corporal.

They punched the codes into their personal communicators. Galen was pleased at how smoothly the commo briefing went. They could play this by ear after all, using common sense and remembering their basic training.

“Get your troops mounted up, we leave in two minutes.” The Corporal gestured at the vehicles. The drivers started their engines.

The convoy was under way and Galen stood tall in the commander’s hatch of the second APC. He held on to the grips of the heavy machine gun, swiveling it experimentally from one place to another. The ammo can had five hundred rounds of twenty millimeter shells ready to rock ‘n roll. More ammo was handy just inside the lip of the hatch. One can was marked “Incendiary” another was marked “Armor Piercing” and the third one was labeled “Trail Mix.”

They rolled out of the compound main gate, headlights blazing on high beam. On the broad concrete highway leading out of town they accelerated to sixty kilometers an hour. The wind felt good in Galen’s face, cooling his body in contrast to the muggy feeling he had before. Civilian cars and busses and all sorts of other vehicles passed the convoy, most drivers beeping their horns and waving as they went by. An older but well-preserved woman driving an expensive hover car convertible with the top down blew Galen a kiss as she went by. Soon they exited the highway and rolled down a two-lane road. It wound and curved around low hills and generally paralleled the path of a creek bed. They slowed their speed to thirty five KPH, negotiating the back road very well. The track drivers were experienced, the best drivers Galen had ever seen.

Radio silence was finally broken by the Corporal leading the convoy. “Roger, Chief,” was all he said. Galen could only hear half the conversation. The commo net was set up that way, each leader in the chain of command listening to and talking to his immediate subordinates and superiors only. Galen could hear everything said by the Corporal and the three fire team leaders in his squad, and they could all hear him. The drawback was he heard only half the conversation between the team leaders and their two troops, and between the Corporal and the other two squad leaders as well as the platoon Chief.

“What’s up, Corporal?” asked Galen.

“Squad leaders, this is platoon leader. Get ready for some action. We have to hit some snipers and street punks in the town about six clicks up the road.”

While still a kilometer from the town, the Corporal’s track veered left and skirted the edge of a stand of trees. The other three tracks followed. Then they turned right and plunged into the woods.

“Diamond formation. Two, on my left. Three, on my right. Four, behind me.”

“Check,” said Galen’s driver. It made sense for the drivers to be on the same channel as the track commander, to cut down the lag time of their response. Galen marveled at how easily the boxy APCs moved through the woods, snapping off saplings and flattening undergrowth as they went. He had to hunker down in the TC hatch to avoid getting smacked in the face by tree branches. He peered through the dark woods and saw the edge of the tree line, the town just at the edge of the woods.

“Team leaders, get ready. We’re going to hit ‘em soon,” said Galen.

“Right, Sergeant. Ready.”

The Corporal came on again and said, “Okay, we’ll come out of the trees and bust into town from the side. I’ll skirt the perimeter of the objective, drop a machine gun crew at three corners of the block and park my vehicle at the fourth. I’ll have the area sealed in. Two, you got the bank. Park at the entrance and drop your ramp. Your fire teams will dismount and enter the building and fight their way to the top. Three, you got the school house. Do the same as I told two. Four, you got the library. There are heavy weapons on top of it, so just crash into the lobby and then stop. Dismount your troops and send them to take the roof. But your vehicle stays in the building until the attack is over.”

“Good copy,” said Galen.

They burst from the tree line and roared into town at full speed. The Corporal cut hard to the right and waved Galen forward. Track one stopped and three troops jumped out and set up their portable machine gun. Then track one sped off to employ three more troops and a machine gun at the next corner of the objective.

Galen urged his driver on, guiding him to the bank. The track did a sideways power-slide, then backed snug up against the front door. The driver dropped his ramp right through the entrance, smashing the building’s door open so the troops could dismount under cover.

“Fight your way to the roof and take the NVGs with you, first team,” ordered Galen. “Let’s go clear the street, driver.”

Track two circled the bank, Galen firing a burst of heavy machine gun fire at a group of twenty hatchet and axe wielding street punks as he rounded the first corner. Half of them fell, the rest scattered. The driver ran over some of the bodies as he sped along the side street to reach the next corner. Behind it was a hothead with a submachine gun, firing as the vehicle approached. Galen ducked down in the hatch to avoid being shot, then stood up and looked behind. The enemy shooter was a bloody pulp, run over by the APC.

The next street was clear but after his track pulled into the alley behind the bank, Galen saw an enemy machine gun crew set up about two hundred meters away. They were hastily turning their weapon to bear on his track. Galen fired, working his stream of bullets into the target. He continued firing even after the three enemy troops fell. He scored two dozen hits on their machine gun, ruining it. A sudden wash of heat spread across his left side, then a jarring shudder as his track was pushed sideways half a meter. Galen looked left and saw a shadowy figure scurrying off, carrying a missile launcher. Galen chased him with machine gun fire but just missed.

“Fire teams, you up yet?”

“Check.” An affirmative response.

“Punk with a missile launcher, south of you. Talk me in.”

“Roger, switching to infrared.”

“Park it driver, I’m going to get that punk,” said Galen.

“Good luck.” The driver left his seat and climbed behind the heavy machine gun. Galen dismounted and drew his pistol, headed to where he last saw the missile gunner.

“Building ahead, second floor. He’s alone. Should I take him out from here?” asked the first team leader, “I’d only be shooting through a single pane of glass and a curtain.”

Galen considered for a moment, “No, he’s mine. If I get whacked he’s all yours. Keep me covered.”

Galen entered the first floor of the drugstore, found the stairs and started to climb. “Talk to me, can he hit me at the top of the stairwell?”

“Yes. Let me bag him, Sergeant. If he nails you with a missile it’ll make a nasty mess. Probably set the drugstore on fire.”

“You have your orders. Let me do this.” Galen came to the halfway point of the steps. He could see the ceiling of the next floor. Not a sound came from inside. His eyes were just starting to get adjusted to the dark and street lamps outside shined light through the windows lining the walls along the left and right sides of the building. “How far is he from the top of the stairs?”