School of Fire

by David Sherman

  "Watch out for Multan," she repeated, then turned and walked down the corridor.

  Sitting in a nearby alcove just off the main corridor, obscured by some large potted flowers, Kalat Uxmal sipped his own cool drink and smiled.

  Ambassador Spears caught up to the Marines in the parking lot outside. "I think you can trust the Keutgens woman, Brigadier," he began without preamble, "but don't trust Multan—and for the life of the sainted martyrs of N'ra, don't trust Arschmann."

  Sturgeon looked hard at the ambassador, wondering if he'd drunk too much wine.

  "I've been here four years, Brigadier," Spears said, "and I know you can't trust these oligarchs..." He ticked the names off his fingers. "And as far as Kurt Arschmann is concerned, well, as your Marines might say, he's dirtier than the south end of a northbound kwangduk."

  With a wave. Spears jumped into his own car and left the two officers staring after him. It was not the obscenity of the metaphor that astonished the Brigadier as much as the fact that a senior member of the Confederation diplomatic corps could talk like a Marine.

  "Whatcha smokin'?" Claypoole asked as he sauntered up to the drivers lounging around their vehicles. They looked uncomprehending at first and then one smiled and said, "English!" Claypoole nodded. "Thule!" one man answered, and offered the Marines a drag on the cigarette. The smoke from their cigarettes was pleasantly aromatic, tinged with a very faint sharpness that reminded Dean vaguely of burning grass.

  "No thanks, fellas, on duty we aren't allowed," Dean said. The man looked bewildered and then smiled and put the butt back into his lips.

  "You. Marine. You smoke?" a short, burly man with closely cropped black hair and several nasty scars on his head barked. He stuck his jaw out aggressively at the pair, as if challenging them. One hand rested lightly on the butt of an old fashioned handheld blaster, an ugly, inefficient weapon compared to the ones the Marines carried, but still deadly. Between his shoulder blades hung a machete, its rugged handle sticking up above his left shoulder. To the Marines it seemed an awkward, uncomfortable thing to be carrying around, but evidently the man took much pride in it.

  "Yeah," Claypoole answered, producing a fresh cigar from a cargo pocket. "Best 'bacca they grow on 'Finni's. Smoke?" The rough-looking man turned his lips down and waved the cigar away. Claypoole generously offered it to the other two, who politely declined. He shrugged and lit up, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs. The three Wanderjahrians watched him curiously. "Tobacco kill you," the ugly one muttered darkly. "Thule no hurt."

  "You drivers?" Dean asked, pointedly ignoring the unwanted medical advice.

  "No, we whores!" one of the men answered, and began to laugh loudly. The other two laughed along with him and slapped him on the back.

  Dean grunted and made a wry face. "Guess that's one for him," he said to Claypoole out of the side of his mouth. He tried again: "Whom do you drive for?"

  "Mistress Keutgens," one of the men answered. Dean had compiled a dossier on her for Commander Peters. Seventy-five, five grandchildren; two girls, three boys, eldest a granddaughter, nineteen. Husband and only child killed five years ago in an aircraft accident. Reportedly the richest woman on Wanderjahr. Her holdings were in the southern hemisphere of the planet, about an eight-hour flight by suborbital from Brosigville. Good-looking woman for her age. Solid reputation all the way around.

  "Me Multan," the ugly one said proudly, thrusting his chin forward again.

  Claypoole suppressed an urge to land a fist on that arrogant chin. "Nice name," he said.

  "No!" the man barked. "Multan my master!" He said it as if Claypoole were a complete idiot. "I am Garth. I drive much and well for him."

  "Nice haircut you got there. Garth. Ever been in the Marines?" Dean said, trying to lighten the tension. Garth just stared at him in stony silence. "Well," Dean went on, "what brings you guys up here?"

  "Meeting. Much talking," the Keutgens driver replied. He shrugged as if what was being discussed by his mistress was too far beyond his comprehension to be of interest.

  "You. Marine. You work for redhead guy?" Garth asked, obviously meaning Brigadier Sturgeon. The guy was observant.

  "Yes, our brigadier. Tough man," Claypoole answered.

  "You, Marine, you tough too?" Garth asked. He grinned broadly. The two Marines were startled to see that his teeth had all been ground to sharp points.

  "Ummm, well, fellas," Claypoole began, staring at Garth's teeth, "we don't go around lookin' for fights, but one comes our way, yeah, we kick ass."

  The look on Garth's face indicated he did not quite understand the meaning of the expression. He motioned at Claypoole's bolstered blaster. "You show me. Marine."

  Claypoole rested his hand on the holster flap and leaned close to Garth's face. "Sorry, shitbird, but regulations say if I draw this weapon, well, I'd just have to kill you with it." He pronounced each word very carefully. Startled, Garth stepped backward and bumped his rear hard against the side of his vehicle. Claypoole smiled fiercely.

  "Well, fellas," Dean said with feigned heartiness, "been good talking to you. We gotta go now!" He grabbed Claypoole's elbow and pulled him in the direction of their own car.

  "Jesus X. Muhammad," Claypoole hissed, "Elneal all over again!"

  "Well, at least we're not back in the desert."

  "Yeah, but that ugly bastard back there belongs in the desert, and I bet if there's one anywhere on this planet, that's where you'll find him hiding out."

  Behind them the man named Garth straightened up slowly and glared after the Marines. Then he smiled with real amusement and spit on the ground.

  Back at the brigadier's vehicle, Claypoole slid in behind the driver's console. "Let's go to Juanita's tonight," he said to Dean.

  "Rachman, we've only been here about a week and you already found a place?" Dean asked. He'd been too tired the few nights they'd been off duty to do anything but sleep.

  "Yep. They have beer there, and the girls..." He rolled his eyes and laughed.

  "Lemme drive," Dean said. "Come on, Rock, don't hog all the fun."

  "Nope. Brigadier designated me as the driver and—"

  "Move over. Marine!" Brigadier Sturgeon shouted, startling Claypoole. "I'm driving this thing. You can't hog all the fun for yourself. You men climb in back," he said as he punched his PIN number into the computer. "And keep a sharp lookout. I think some people real close by don't like us very much."

  "You got that right, sir," Claypoole muttered as he climbed into the back, undoing the flap to his blaster. He turned and grinned fiercely at Dean, who stuck his middle finger out at him.

  Chapter Five

  "Aren't they pretty," MacIlargie said under his breath from the end of first squad's rank.

  Dornhofer and Van Impe, next in line, ignored him, but from where he stood in formation on the other side of Dornhofer, Godenov whispered back with awe, "I never thought I'd see uniforms brighter than our officers'."

  "Quiet in the ranks," Chan stage-whispered. If he'd been standing closer to Godenov, he'd have given him an elbow in the ribs.

  Ratliff flicked his eyes left toward Chan and thought the lance corporal was going to be a good influence on his new man. Now if only Van Impe would help Dornhofer the same way.

  "Gorgeous," MacIlargie said softly. "And they stand at attention so nicely too."

  "Knock it off!" Van Impe said.

  Sergeant Hyakowa didn't seem to move a muscle, but his soft voice came clear to first squad from where he, as senior squad leader, stood at ease in the platoon sergeant's position to the front of the platoon. "Don't make me turn around, people." Second and third squads, in their ranks behind first, knew Hyakowa wasn't speaking to them.

  MacIlargie thought a few moments of silent admiration of the Feldpolizei might be advisable.

  Three companies of Wanderjahrian Feldpolizei faced third platoon from the other side of the parade ground of the 257th Feldpolizei Grafshaftsbezirk—police precinct. The "pretty" that made MacIlargie spea
k up was the combination of orange tunics over sky-blue pantaloons of their uniforms. The leaders of the two units met midway between the field police formation and the Marines. The uniforms of the Feldpolizei battalion commander and his staff, with their flouncing plumes, glittering fourrageres, sparkling silver pantaloon stripes, and gleaming saber scabbards, contrasted sharply with the dull-green garrison utility uniforms of Ensign vanden Hoyt and Staff Sergeant Bass.

  "Your men make a magnificent spectacle on the parade ground. Commander," vanden Hoyt said, with no trace of irony in his voice.

  "The 257th Battalion is the best in the Feldpolizei," Commander Vankler replied haughtily. He was shorter than the Marine officer, yet managed to look down his nose at him. He was deeply insulted that the Ruling Council had saddled his battalion with this platoon of offworld mercenaries—he knew no better word to describe soldiers who meddled in the military matters of an independent world who had no idea of whom his men were fighting, or why. And it galled him to the core that a mere ensign, the lowest possible rank for an officer, even less than a lieutenant, should be placed in training command of his battalion—and that he and his ragamuffin platoon would pass judgment on their fighting ability! This Confederation Marine probably knew nothing of the tactics developed by Commissioner Schickeldorf, to say nothing of the military philosophy behind it. The training of his battalion was properly the responsibility of his operations officer, Inspector von Holfmann, who was doing a splendid job.

  "Permission to speak, sir," Bass said in his best diplomatic voice. He didn't bother to wait for permission, but continued, "As excellent as your men obviously are on the parade ground, we came to see how they perform in the field. We were told we would be given a demonstration of their fighting prowess."

  Vankler glared at the impertinent enlisted man. If this, this... sergeant were in his command, he'd have his stripes—all of them—and the man would spend the next ten years cleaning the stockade latrines with a toothbrush. Preferably the very toothbrush he used to clean his teeth! But Commander Vankler was absolutely forbidden to take any disciplinary action against the Marines, no matter how insubordinate they might prove—some moron had placed the mercenaries completely outside his chain of command even though they were to be given command authority over his men! With effort, he got his anger under control and gave his reply to vanden Hoyt—the man might only be an ensign, but at least he was an officer.

  "We have a demonstration prepared for you. If you will accompany me." Vankler turned abruptly and marched briskly toward one end of the parade ground, his staff rushing after him.

  Bass and vanden Hoyt exchanged glances, then followed, not quite as rapidly.

  "Move your men," Vankler snapped back at them. "They're in the way."

  Bass looked back toward the platoon and waved an arm at Hyakowa in the hand signal that told him to move the formation to the end of the parade ground near the reviewing stand. The Marines picked up their light packs, helmets, and blasters and followed to the side of the reviewing stand.

  The Feldpolizei battalion's parade ground was the size of four soccer fields. For this occasion the reviewing stand, which was normally placed in the center of the barracks side of the long axis, was at the far end, near the entrance to the battalion's camp. A small airfield with pads for four hoppers was at the remaining side.

  The long side of the parade ground, where third platoon had stood watching, was fronted by a forest such as few men of third platoon had ever seen. Thick trunked trees towered one or two hundred meters into the sky. Branches radiated out of the massive trunks in tiers, the lowest beginning more than twenty meters above the ground, the highest spread wide and thick enough to blot out sections of the sky. The smallest saplings of the giant trees seemed to be no shorter than ten meters. Wherever these giants stood far enough apart for sunlight to penetrate to ground level, clumps of smaller trees grew, but the tops of the tallest of those didn't reach the lowest branches of the giants. The trees resembled nothing so much as palm trees from old Earth, palms that had grown fat and lazy from easy living. A fringe of downward-slanting frondlike leaves some two-thirds of the way up their trunks made them look like they were wearing grass skirts. The trees were what the Wanderjahrians called hochbaums and grospalms. What little underbrush grew on the mostly bare forest floor was fuzzy and indistinct in form, vaguely resembled ferns, and varied in height from shoe top to taller than a man.

  Before they reached the reviewing stand, Vankler crisply turned to his operations officer and said, "Prepare the demonstration, Inspector von Holfmann."

  "Yessir!" Von Holfmann saluted his commander's back, then turned and marched to the front of the battalion formation and began barking commands at the company officers.

  From somewhere in the distance beyond the woods came the honking cry of something very large. The Marines on the ground at the side of the reviewing stand cast curious looks in its direction. Vanden Hoyt and Bass tried to classify the sound like old infantrymen: how far away is it, who is it, will it have any immediate effect on us?

  The Wanderjahrians ignored it, so the Marines returned their attention to the parade ground in time to see the Feldpolizei formation begin its maneuvers.

  The 257th's company commanders spun about to face their companies and barked crisp orders. "Form combat ranks!" the commanders of companies A and C shouted.

  "Prepare for reserve!" cried the commander of Company B.

  Instantly, the front rank of Company A, on the left side of the battalion formation, pivoted to its right and marched until its last man was just beyond the other two ranks. The rear half of that rank faced front, while the front half executed a roundabout to re-form behind it. As soon as the first rank was out of the way, the company's second and third ranks stepped briskly forward so the company was re-formed into two ranks. On the right side of the formation. Company C mirrored Company A's maneuver. When both companies were re-formed into two lines, they faced each other and marched forward until they met, then pivoted back toward the front. At the same time, Company B re-formed into one line ten meters behind the first two companies.

  "A complicated maneuver," vanden Hoyt whispered to Bass.

  Bass thought drums should be beating a tattoo in the background. "Too complicated to do under fire," he agreed.

  While the companies were changing their formation, von Holfmann marched to his position, which was centered behind the two forward companies. The entire maneuver was completed in less than thirty seconds. Von Holfmann sharply looked to his left and to his right, then straight to the front.

  "Firing positions!" he barked. The Company A and B commanders echoed his command. The front rank of Feldpolizei troopers dropped to one knee and the men raised blasters to their shoulders. The second rank took offhand shooting positions. The rear company remained standing at port arms.

  "Prepare for advancing volley fire!" von Holfmann shouted. He looked along the lines of the battalion, then shouted, "Fire by ranks. ADVANCE!"

  The front rank fired a volley from its blasters. The second rank immediately stepped forward so its members were between the kneeling men and fired another volley. Von Holfmann commanded again and the kneeling men stood and stepped forward two paces, dropped to one knee, and fired. The second rank repeated its earlier maneuver. Then both ranks repeated. The reserve company followed in trace.

  The first volley of plasma bolts struck a ragged line a hundred meters wide on the parade ground surface halfway to the trees. The second volley hit ten meters beyond the first. Each successive volley scorched the parade ground ten meters beyond the previous one.

  When the first volley fired, Vankler said condescendingly to the Marines, "Don't worry, they're firing at low power. I have no need to melt the surface of my parade ground."

  Bass and vanden Hoyt nodded noncommittally; they'd already noted the low power of the shots.

  Advancing and firing by alternate ranks, the battalion reached and was firing deep into the forest in less than
a minute. Several small fires started in the undergrowth and a clump of the fat palms had its skirts singed off, but Vankler seemed totally unconcerned about the damage to the ecosystem.

  "Imagine yourself a bandit," Vankler said. "Imagine you see a battalion of such splendidly uniformed men snap into assault formation so briskly and advance toward you firing in disciplined volleys. How do you think you would react?" He cast a scornful look at vanden Hoyt.

  "Well, sir, if I was a simple bandit, poorly trained and ill-equipped, and badly outnumbered, I'd likely panic and run."

  Vankler snorted and looked proudly at his battalion. "That is exactly how the bandits have been responding when they have met my men in the field."

  Vanden Hoyt nodded. "But recently a Feldpolizei company from the adjoining GSB met a large group of guerrillas and was nearly wiped out."

  Vankler jerked as though slapped. He glared at vanden Hoyt. "That was not my battalion. That was the 407th. The company involved was led by an incompetent. It was an isolated incident."

  Bass said nothing, but found it interesting that Vankler felt the need to justify himself. Instead, Bass pretended to be interested in the way von Holfmann was reassembling the battalion into its parade formation.

  Vanden Hoyt calmly looked at the Wanderiahrian officer and said, "Commander, the guerrillas are growing in strength. They are becoming better equipped—with weapons taken from the Feldpolizei. They do not use tactics that lend themselves to defeat by serried ranks firing in volleys."

  "We have defeated them in every instance we have encountered them!"

  "You have faced small, isolated groups that couldn't stand and fight. Still, according to the reports I've seen, in each instance they have caused casualties in your ranks. And it appears they have caused more casualties to you than you have to them. When they mass in any strength, which they will, if you try to fight them this way they will defeat you."

  Vankler sputtered and his face turned deep red. This was exactly the reaction vanden Hoyt counted on. "With your permission, sir, we have prepared a demonstration of our own. We have brought enough fire- and hit-simulators to equip your entire battalion. My platoon," he waved an arm at his Marines, "under the command of the platoon sergeant—that's a total of twenty-six Confederation Marines—will take on your battalion. We may not decisively score a victory, but I believe we will severely injure your battalion while taking few casualties of our own. Simulated casualties, of course."