The War for Profit Series Omnibus (9 page)

“Good choice. Have him wake me up at zero two hundred. I want to get to know him before we move out.”

“When are we supposed to move next?”

“Zero three, but that could change,” Galen added the last part to sound more like a veteran.

“I know what you mean.”

The bluff worked, that time. Galen found a flat spot on the forest floor and lay on his back. As an afterthought he put a small log between himself and the most likely angle of enemy attack and then dozed off into natural sleep for the first time in almost a week. Galen slept all the rest of that day and through the night until he was awakened by Clay in the wee hours of the morning.

“Yes?” said Galen.

“You wanted to see me?”

Galen could see nothing. It was absolute darkness in the forest. “Yes. Tell me about yourself and why I should promote you to Corporal.”

“I’m good. Well seasoned and experienced. I’ve been part of a team knocking out real tanks in real combat, and I’ve also trashed a Mosh in full battle armor, with my bare hands.”

“Tell me why you left the Norguard.”

“They suck. One faction lies on its back to please the monarchial state and the other faction is a bunch of superstitious fanatics. I had all I could take. The battle on Lux, that was a joke. The beating they took there cost them dearly. They’ll never have the resources to defeat the Mosh after that fight.”

“But they won on Lux.”

“Ha! They got a truce. The Mosh can rebuild quickly, the Norguard can’t.”

“Okay, so why are you here?”

“To make some money for myself.”

“Fine. You’re now a Corporal and you’re in charge of the rocket team. The other two guys who came with us, they’re your troops.”

“Sergeant, yes Sergeant,” said Corporal Clay. Then he was gone, moving without a sound into the darkness.

Galen sat up and checked his communicator. He shielded its dim light with a cupped hand as he read the display. Zero two twenty in the morning. He tapped another button. Fifteen thirty six in the afternoon back on Ostreich. He stood and looked around, peering into the darkness. Finally he noticed a faint glow and started walking toward it. Soon he came upon the medics’ environmental bubble, its location marked by a pile of rotten tree bark glowing with a luminous fungus.

“Who’s there?” a whisper came from inside.

“Sergeant Raper. Which way to the Chief?”

“Stand with your back to the foxfire, make a half left, and go straight ahead twenty paces.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me, thank your agent.”

Galen stifled a laugh as he walked toward his intended destination.

“Halt, snapper scum!” Spike’s voice.

“Okay, assistant platoon daddy. Where are you?”

“Right by you.” The voice was only a meter away now, “Check out these goggles.”

Galen felt a set of night vision goggles thrust into his hands. He held them up to his face. Night was turned into monochrome day. Depth perception was demolished and tunnel vision was all he had, but it was a zillion times better than being blind.

“Put the lens cap on,” said Spike.

Galen did. His peripheral vision spread by about fifty mils each way, and nearby objects became clear. He could see every line and crinkle on the palm of his hand, “Cool, I can see right through the lens cap with these. What’s the spectrum and energy output?”

“Well, there’s a pinhole in the lens cap. You use it to see better in confined spaces and read stuff like maps or reports. Take the cap off.”

Galen did.

“Now, find the knob on the left side. Push it in and turn it one click.”

The field of vision became shaded with red. The troops in the distance glowed brighter than their surroundings. Galen said, “Infrared.”

“Good guess, Sherlock. Now turn it another click.”

The goggles went blank except for the outline of rifles and pistols in the distance. Magnetic resonance.

“And the next click?” asked Galen, turning the knob once more. Spike didn’t have to tell him. The forest around him was lit up as bright as fire, red and green and blue images merging to give full color, and depth perception seemed exaggerated.

“Full daylight reality. Now twist that knob all the way back.”

Glen did.

“By twisting the knob the other way, you change the magnification. By pressing in, you get a readout of the range, in meters, to the target, as well as a magnetic azimuth. Works by starlight, infrared and magnetic resonance combined. Also works in the daylight.”

Galen said, “Handy equipment, but over-engineered for grunt work, don’t you think?”

“Not at all. Remember, we’re an anti-armor platoon.”

Galen shrugged and started to hand the device back to Spike.

“Oh no, they’re yours. All the troops in anti-armor get them.”

“NVGs, rockets, heavy machine guns. What else do we get?”

“Three sniper rifles for each suppression team,” said Spike

“Loaded for bear. So how does all this work?”

“You mean our tactics?” asked Chief Mortinson.

“Yes.” Galen wasn’t aware the Chief was within earshot, but wasn’t startled either.

“You’re trained as a can man--I mean, a tank commander--so you know what they can and can’t do. What’s the farthest one of those things can shoot?”

“Long range missiles can mess you up at almost seventeen thousand meters.”

“And how far does a sniper rifle shoot?”

“About four thousand meters, effectively.”

“Our machine guns are effective at eleven hundred meters. Our rocket launchers are good out to almost three hundred meters. So we have a disadvantage when it comes to range. Now what’s the most devastating weapon, the one with the most one-shot punch?”

“The tank main gun, the heavy gun like the ones on the Ostrich Foreign Corps’ Hercules Heavy Tank. It can flatten most light and medium tanks out to a range of three klicks. A high explosive shell from one of them could take out our whole platoon in one shot.”

“And our heaviest weapon is the rocket, doing just enough damage to knock the tracks off a main battle tank. It would take two dozen direct and perfect hits to chip away the armor on the front of a heavy tank.”

“So we lose on firepower, range and mobility. How do we compensate?” asked Galen.

“Heat,” said Chief Mortinson.

“Heat,” said Spike.

“You mean, gelignite launchers?”

“Yes. But we call them flamers here. We use a locally-produced generic version of gelignite. Also you probably noticed we use home-grown slug throwers too.”

“Yes. Why?” said Galen.

“Open the butt of your weapon and pull out that adapter. Notice how it snaps into your rifle’s magazine well. Now work the bolt. That puts a breech adapter into your rifle’s breech. Now you can chamber and fire ten millimeter rounds from either a submachine gun or a pistol, using magazines from either. However, the reverse isn’t possible. There’s no way to shove ten millimeter rifle ammo into a submachine gun or pistol.”

“How ballistic is this rifle when using the pistol rounds?”

“Good out to two hundred meters. Great for urban combat, and a good way to conserve rifle ammo for longer shots.”

“Now back to our tactics, if you’re ready,” said Galen.

“Oh yeah, knocking out tanks. We outnumber them. Our suppression teams fire on them at extreme range, to get their attention and make them button up. Our machine gun crews do the same, firing at every opportunity. The rocket teams crack off shots as best they can, making sure the tank commander doesn’t take his victory for granted.”

“Flamers?” asked Galen, wondering if Mortinson wasn’t playing a joke on a snapper.

“Oh. Well, we preposition them. We bait the tanks, stay at extreme range and make use of concealment and cover to ensure they don’t kill us. Then, with them warmed up good from using their weapons, we nail them with flamers until they overheat and cook off.”

“It would take a stupid tank commander to fall for a trick like that.”

“You’d be surprised how over-confident they get in battle,” said the Chief.

Galen could feel the smile radiating from the Chief’s face. Some things didn’t need to been seen, they showed through the darkest dark.

“Anyway, you’ll see some tomorrow night. We hump out of here in thirty mikes, tactical all day then start setting up our ambush right after dark. In about twenty four hours, you’ll see some dumbass tanks.”

“Next question. What’s the big picture?” Galen sensed the presence of the other two squad leaders and knew it was Tad who stood closest to him.

“Slave revolt. A bunch of disenchanted factory workers on strike. They’ve declared independence and they also have about a dozen tanks. Brand new ones, right out of the factory where the strikers work. Hornets, I think.”

“Wasps, Chief. Light recon tanks,” corrected Spike.

“Oh yeah, Wasps. Anyhow, intelligence says they can’t do automatic air defense. This factory doesn’t make the control components for their air defense guns. They’re installed later at another plant, so we got half a chance against them. Also, I don’t expect their gunnery skills to be too hot either, but these workers have been maneuvering tanks around their factory for years. There are some former soldiers amongst the strikers, I’ll bet you. So we’ll respect their abilities like they were real professionals until they prove otherwise.”

“Good. About time we did something besides chase wild men around the woods,” said Haas, first squad’s leader.

“Okay, enough talking. Give your troops the march order and follow me out of here in ten minutes.”

Galen walked in the middle of his squad, five troops to his front and six to his back. First squad was in a file on his right and third squad was in a file on his left. They maintained a spacing of fifty to a hundred meters between the squads, and an interval of ten to fifteen meters between troops. When they came to a field, one troop sprinted across at a time while the rest of the platoon covered all likely sniper positions from the tree line. The actual going was slow, taking all day to travel just eight kilometers. But because the platoon had to go from on-line to column and back several times, and moved along the most concealing terrain, Galen estimated the troops had actually walked about twenty five kilometers. Anyway, he was exhausted when Mortinson finally called a halt at sunset.

“Take thirty,” said the Chief, using all channels to send the message to everyone’s personal communicator at the same time. Then Galen heard, “All Sergeants, up front for a meeting.”

Galen waited for Tad to catch up and walked alongside him. “So how do you like that? He walks us to death, and then has us walk up to him.”

“I heard that, dumbass.” Mortinson’s voice.

Galen reached up to the side of his helmet and switched off the microphone of his personal communicator. Tad did the same.

“This sucks. I just hope we actually get to trash some tanks,” said Tad.

“I want to capture one. I’m tired of walking. I got blisters on my big toes and my heels. If it weren’t for this meeting, I’d have treated them by now. But no, we got to walk some more, then walk back to our squads, then probably move out right away.”

“It’s the fault of the striking workers. If I get my hands on one, I’ll beat him senseless.”

They came to the head of the column and sat down in a circle with Chief Mortinson, Spike and Haas. Soon all five of them had their boots off. Haas and Mortinson were just airing their feet but Tad, Galen and Spike were draining blisters.

“Radio listening silence from now on, until you hear different, either from me or Spike or higher. Have all your troops shut off their microphones and switch to command voice.”

They knew why. Radio transmissions could be detected by enemy sensors. However, the mercenaries could yell at each other without being heard by crews inside tanks.

“Regular infantry from Charlie and Bravo Company have cleared the area of enemy dismounts and have put a perimeter around it. But the perimeter is spread thin so there may be a handful of enemy grunts that cold have snuck back in there. If you meet some, attack them immediately and fight to the death. With them and the tanks together, you’re dead meat anyway so you might as well make the most of it.”

Chief Mortinson paused to let his words sink in. “We’re going to link up with second platoon and board their three skimmers. They’ll take us to battalion where we’ll pick up some flamers, one for each troop. Then the skimmers will shuttle us around the area so we can set up our ambush. At about zero two hundred, we go to ground and wait.”

***

Former Lance Sergeant Ching, the self-appointed rebel leader, looked at himself one last time to check his reflection in the mirror to make sure everything was perfect. His brown worker’s jump suit was new, starched and pressed. His hair was neatly trimmed and held in place by styling spray. His thin moustache and goatee beard added a vicious look to his Mandarin features. Although he was only a hundred and sixty centimeters tall, he looked menacing. He had to. He was leading the tank company of the revolution. The clock on the wall said it was midnight, time to go.

Ching stepped from his office into the conference room. The management scum who used to inhabit this part of the tank factory were safely locked away in the local jail.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Glad you all came.”

Eleven men qualified to command tanks looked at him and said “Good morning, Lance Sergeant.”

“We’ll make an aggressive maneuver this morning. I hope we are all up to it. Any questions?”

Eleven Lance Corporals. Not real soldiers, not real tankers, but they would do.

“Yes, I have a question,” asked a tank commander. He was old but his qualifications as a former tank commander overshadowed the shortcoming of old age. So what if he had been dishonorably discharged from the Confederation’s regular army?

“Speak,” said Lance Sergeant Ching.

“Why are we doing this?”

“We do this to make a better life for ourselves and our children and to throw off the oppressive hand of the Confederation. We do this to get better working conditions for our laborers. We want to enjoy more of the fruits of our labors. We also want to have more control over the tanks we build; we want to raise the quality of our craftsmanship so we can have more pride in our work and ourselves. We want control over our local affairs, over the schools our children attend, control of…”

“Not that,” interrupted the old Lance Corporal, “we’re with you on that, brother. I’m asking about this morning’s attack. What do we stand to accomplish?”

“Time. We will buy time. It won’t be long before the Confederation police and military forces come to stamp out our rebellion. They act quickly, but the civil government moves slowly. We must keep the rebellion alive long enough for the politicians to take notice. Our march today will hamper the counterattack of the regular military. By moving west down the valley and taking control of transportation facilities in the seaport city of Chon Gok Op, we will delay our enemy. Perhaps it will slow them down by two or three weeks. That should be enough time to buy us a seat at the bargaining table. Then our leaders can negotiate to get many of our demands met.”

The hodgepodge group of pseudo-tankers looked good enough. Their new jumpsuits had proper insignia and patches on them. A lifetime of hard work made them strong enough. They had enough time in the factory’s battle simulator to make them effective on the field of battle. Ching looked at them again. All the years he spent working in the factory had paid off. He would finally realize his life-long dream of leading a company of tanks in battle. If the Confederation had not thrown him out of the Mandarin Armor Academy, they could have spared themselves all this trouble. No matter, Ching would get his revenge.

“Let’s go!”

The worker-warriors left the conference room and boarded their war machines. This mission would be a one-way trip. Ching would carry the campaign well past its objective. He would march on, alone if he had to, until he reached the planetary capitol. Or until he was killed, the more likely result of the campaign. Regardless, Ching had no intention of living if he lost. Life was too unbearable for him under the Confederation. Change had to come, or else. He locked his cupola shut and performed the startup sequence of his tank. Lights and indicators blinked and glowed. He watched the countdown for the main gun’s gyro stabilization as it blinked with each changing number. Two minutes to go.

“Command lance, check in,” said Ching.

“One, ready in three.”

“Two, ready in two.”

“Three, ready in two.”

“First, are you ready?”

“In three,” said the old Lance Corporal.

“Second?” asked Ching.

“Give me three.” Second lance was led by a former shop foreman. He drove tanks from the main plant to the final de-processing plant for twenty years, before he was promoted to foreman. His gunnery skills were somewhat lacking, but he could hold his own against most of the revolution’s tank commanders. Ching waited a full five minutes. All the blinking lights and indicators calmed down and showed a green status. All the gauges had their needles pointing straight up, a normal reading. The distinctive smell of fresh solder, welding and paint made Ching feel good. Let history say what it will about his company, but at least his troops had experienced the smell of brand new tanks.

“Follow me.”

Ching led the way. The other three light tanks of the command lance were right behind him. First lance followed, with second lance in the rear. The twelve Wasps moved in a column, rolling out of the factory and through the surrounding town. Well-wishers and gawkers lined the streets to cheer on their heroes. Ching wondered why they were there in the middle of the night.

He turned on the external loud speakers of his Wasp. “People of the revolution, we will smite our enemies. Do not lose faith in our dream, no matter what happens. We will prevail.”

His bravado earned him cheers from the crowd, loud enough for him to hear inside the turret. When the last Wasp was clear of the town, he ordered the Wasp behind him to take the lead. The column accelerated to full speed and Ching challenged his troops to keep up. They did. If there was one thing they needed to do, it was move. Time was of the essence.

***

“What the hell is that?” asked Galen. He stood on a hilltop and peered through his NVGs.

“Let me see,” Chief Mortinson snatched the goggles from Galen and peered into the dark. “Where?”

“Almost due east, sixty klicks away. On the highway by the river.”

“Oh, I think it’s a dozen dumbass Hornets moving down the road at full speed; we’ve got about forty five minutes to switch to plan B.” Plan A had already undergone about fifty changes. Galen didn’t even know a plan B existed.

“What’s plan B?”

“We spread out by the road and lay some charges. We hit ‘em hard, knock off what we can. Then we just play it by ear.” Mortinson thought for a moment then said, “What are you dumbass Sergeants waiting for? Round up your troops and have them ready to mount up on the skimmers. Converge on point six, that’s where they’ll pick you up.”

The three squad leaders found their troops and had them pick up all their gear and all the flamers. Each man carried over sixty kilograms of equipment and trudged a thousand meters to the pickup point.

“Pack mules, that’s all we are. We’ve been stumbling around in the dark for six hours. When will we get to rest?”

“Not until I say so,” Galen told the troop. “Now just shut up and do your job.”

They boarded the skimmers and rode about three kilometers to the edge of the highway. After the skimmers left Chief Mortinson ordered, “Ground your heavy weapons and come over here. Gather round me for a briefing.” The mercenaries left the heavy weapons piled in the drainage ditch. They kept their rifles with them and gathered around their Chief.

“What we got is twelve dumbass Hornets rolling up this road.”

“Wasps,” corrected Spike.

“Oh yeah, Wasps. Light recon tanks. Anyhow, we have nine teams. That means we’ll have to reorganize. Two troops in a team, twelve of them right here. Actually, I’ll put you fifty meters back off the road, concealed in the brush. One rocket launcher, one flamer per team. Sergeants, give up six troops and two Corporals each. Have them stand over here.” Mortinson indicated his left side, pointing at a spot on the ground about fives meters away.

“You dumbasses pair off and go get your heavy weapons. The rest of you, this is what we’ll be doing.” Mortinson studied the group, counted thirteen troops, “You medics take your broke-dicks and get a hundred meters back. You’re my observation post.” The two medics and the two injured mercenaries left.

“Now, us guys, the nine of us.”

“Ten,” interrupted Spike. “Counting you and me, it’s ten.”

“Like I was saying, us ten guys will be the clincher. We hide here under this bridge. When the enemy column of Hornets is spread out along the firing line, our troops will open up with their flamers and rockets. That’s when we get on line across the road, shoulder to shoulder, and start firing the dumbasses up from their behind. We move right along, giving our ambush an ‘L’ shape, pushing the dumbasses from the rear.”

“That’s it?”

“No that ain’t it, dumbass. Then the skimmers come up and close them off from the front. They stay at maximum laser cannon range and trust in the inability of the enemy to shoot straight. Then the Hornets got nowhere to go but into the river.”

“What’s to keep them from stomping our guts out?”

“A little surprise. You’ll see.”

***

Lance Sergeant Ching slowed his pace to tactical speed. His column of Wasps was getting too spread out. He ordered them to close to a thirty meter interval. When they did, he decided to keep the tactical pace for a while longer, to let his warriors get more accustomed to their machines. Then he would bring them back up to full speed.

Time was of the essence. He had to get to Chon Gok Op before the enemy could react. He had to get there before sunrise. All was going well as the tanks crossed a bridge spanning a tributary of the river. Ching watched his monitor, waiting for the last tank to cross the bridge before looking back to his viewport.

“Dismounts on the left, I read ambush,” came the excited call of the old Corporal leading second lance. Ching didn’t believe him, thought maybe he was having a flashback from some long-forgotten battle.

Then the transparent armor covering the viewport of Ching’s cupola lit up with an impossible brightness. Another rocket slammed into his Wasp, followed by the tip of a tongue of flame.

“Return fire, face left and return fire!” ordered Ching.

The old Corporal was already reacting. He fired at the place where a rocket exhaust trail originated, putting his machine gun and laser cannon right in the target. Then he charged.