School of Fire

by David Sherman

  "Oh, by the way, report to the FIST surgeon right after this meeting. I want to be sure you two are in tip-top shape for this visit." The brigadier smiled cryptically.

  Colonel Ramadan, who had not recovered from the announcement that the brigadier was offering himself as a decoy, spluttered, searching for words. Chief Long drummed his fingers nervously on the tabletop while the other officers in the room glanced apprehensively at each other. There was an uncomfortable silence that seemed to last a long time.

  "Well, we've got to be sure he's there," Ambassador Spears said, gesturing with open hands. Nobody responded.

  "I decided," the brigadier said, laughing, "to lure him with the most reliable and at the same time the most expendable members of my command." There was a slight pause before the other officers responded with nervous chuckles. "There is no other way," he continued. "If we don't bag the bastard first time out, we won't get him at all. He'll retreat into the mountains over there and then we'll have to give up. We don't have the time or the resources to track him in his own land. I have my hands full with training the Feldpolizei, and if we fail in this and the Confederation still orders me to divert men and resources to capturing this guy, the guerrillas will kick our asses. This is definitely a one-time shot, gentlemen."

  "We can't get him to Brosigville," Ambassador Spears added. "He thinks he can sit us out in Porcina, and he's probably right. But he feels safe there right now, so secure he's agreed to meet with the brigadier and me. I have led him to believe we can work out a deal on the weapons charge. That deal will be, 'Come along quietly or we'll fry you.' " Ambassador Spears grinned. It was evident he considered the upcoming raid an exciting diversion. Colonel Ramadan just shook his head.

  "Gentlemen, we meet with Multan day after tomorrow," the brigadier concluded. "Let's get with it. We'll meet here again tomorrow and approve the final details. Dean, Claypoole, report to the FIST surgeon after we break up here."

  After the staff bustled out, leaving the two enlisted men sitting forlornly against one wall, Claypoole turned to Dean. "Whew!" he exclaimed. "We're in the shit now, Dean-o!" Dean gave a lopsided grin.

  "Why the hell does the brigadier want us to report to the surgeon?" Claypoole asked.

  "Testosterone shots?"

  "Yeah, like you really need a dose," Claypoole replied. He was pensive for a moment, staring at the wall. "Dean-o," he said at last, "this Multan guy, if he does get us, you know what's gonna happen, don't you?" Claypoole could not forget what the Siad had done to McNeal on their last deployment. Neither could Dean.

  "Yeah, the ugly bastard's gonna have a real fight on his hands."

  The attack plan was very simple. Fifty men would compose the assault team, twenty-five Marines—Team One—from the security force provided by the Denver's, captain, and an equal number of policemen—Team Two—from the Brosigville Stadtpolizei. The police officers would back up the Marines by securing a perimeter around Multan's fortress while Team One fought and blasted its way inside. While the odds would be two-to-one at best, more like four-to-one in reality, the assault party would have the advantage of surprise and firepower. They would also have the laser batteries of the Denver if needed, and four Dragons on the ground. Everyone would have preferred a battalion-size landing force, but an under-strength Marine provisional platoon was all that was available. The assault teams would be launched from orbit upon receipt of a signal from Brigadier Sturgeon.

  Since Multan's living quarters were underground, one minute before the assault force was scheduled to land, the Denver's, batteries would sweep the surface clear around the entrance shafts, eliminate any resistance, and even the odds for the landing force. Once on the ground, while the Marines breached the shafts and entered Multan's quarters ten meters below the surface, the police would secure the area. The quarters were reached by stairwells and elevators. One element of Team One, specially trained in the use of explosives and rappeling techniques, would enter through the elevator shafts. The rest of the assault force would use the stairwells, fighting its way down if necessary. These men would use special stun weapons, to reduce the threat of reflected heat radiation, although all carried plasma weapons, to use if needed.

  As an added precaution, the brigadier, Ambassador Spears, Dean, and Claypoole would each have a microtransmitter surgically implanted just under the skin of each man's right buttock, so the assault force could locate them once they were inside Multan's fortress—which the latter two discovered when they reported to the surgeon.

  It took some convincing, but ultimately Commissioner Landser was permitted to accompany his men on the assault. Landser understood that he and his men would be subordinate to the orders of the Marine officer in charge of the operation, a captain named Merrit Thomas, III. As he sat in field uniform with his officers during the briefings and rehearsals on board the Denver, the once resplendent commissioner of Brosigville's police force looked like nothing more than a diminutive policeman wearing a uniform a bit too big for him. But his eyes glittered with excitement. He even deigned to chat with his subordinates.

  Since the policemen had never been on an orbital assault in an Essay, this procedure was covered thoroughly, but the coxswain in charge of the craft they would occupy was prepared for quite a mess. "It'll be the longest twenty minutes in your lives," he warned the policemen. He smiled. Marines were no fun on landings since they were used to assaults from orbit, but the coxswain was counting on quite a few laughs from this group.

  Satellite and RPV reconnaissance plus agent reports—Commissioner Landser, not to be outdone by a mere criminal, had had a man in Multan's security for some time—gave Captain Thomas a very complete picture of their target. When the signal from Brigadier Sturgeon was received, the assault party would be launched. The party would be combat loaded, in Dragons, already aboard the Essays one hour before the brigadier landed at Thigpen.

  "I was in a situation like this once before," Brigadier Sturgeon was saying. "Forty years ago. I was an ensign with the 4th Fleet Marine Landing Force during one of the Silvasian wars, I forget just which one now." They were lounging in the passenger compartment of a hopper as it prepared for suborbital descent to Thigpen. The tension was very high among the four men, and the brigadier was trying to relax them by telling stories. This one ended with the young ensign commanding a platoon surrounded by a vastly superior enemy force, out of touch with his company, and completely on his own. "They demanded our surrender," he said at last.

  "What did you do?" Ambassador Spears asked.

  The brigadier shrugged. "We surrendered."

  There was a moment of silence. That did not sound like anything a Marine, even an ensign, would do. "And then what, sir?" Dean asked.

  "They killed us."

  Claypoole laughed so hard he choked. Dean started laughing too, and Ambassador Spears cracked a smile. The brigadier leaned back and stretched his legs.

  "Well," Ambassador Spears said, getting back to the matter at hand, "this is a lot like attacking under a white flag. It is not what diplomatic protocol would require." He shrugged. "Fuck protocol."

  "Sir," Dean asked the ambassador, "were you ever a Marine?"

  "No, Lance Corporal Dean, I never had that honor. But I learned how to shine my shoes in the army, many, many years ago. I was a clerk in the 347th Engineer Battalion during that same campaign where the brigadier was killed. We were attached to the 3rd Infantry Division in the assault on Mansara during the Third Silvasian War. The 3rd went up the Mansara-Cremonea Road, and the Marines went up the Mansara-Ilyong Road. The Marines beat us into Mansara by a full fifteen minutes. We never got over it."

  "We kicked some ass," the brigadier said.

  "Yes, we did, Ted, we certainly did."

  Listening to the old veterans reminisce, Claypoole began to feel much better. Their nonchalance about what was going to happen was infectious. He knew the brigadier would bring this thing off. Brigadier Sturgeon winked surreptitiously at Ambassador Spears, who, despite his out
ward air of confidence, was nauseous.

  "Strap yourselves in, gentlemen," the pilot announced over the intercom, "we are about to land."

  "You men leave all the talking to the ambassador and me," the brigadier said. "I want you two to remain alert. Let me remind you again, the signal for the landing is X-ray, and whoever transmits it will launch the assault party. Any of you can do it. If anything happens, shoot first." Dean and Claypoole wore side arms, but no one else in the party was armed. The brigadier did not add that if they had to shoot, it would be all over for them in a few seconds. The success of the operation depended on overwhelming surprise, not two enlisted men with side arms.

  A grim and heavily armed escort met the party at the port. The officer in charge, a burly, unshaven man festooned with weapons, grunted, "I am Captain Ramses," as he showed them to a waiting landcar.

  The ride into the hills, surrounded by Multan's men, all of whom smelled heavily of thule and old sweat, took twenty minutes. Multan's fortress home could only be approached by one narrow, winding road blasted out of the sheer face of a mountainside soaring three hundred meters above the plain that stretched from Thigpen to the foothills. Guard posts were situated at intervals all along the road. The men at these posts were alert and well-armed.

  Multan's home had been sunk into the living rock on the plateau above the plain. The buildings on the surface housed his security forces in bunkers with very thick, reinforced walls. Surveillance devices and roving foot patrols covered every square meter within a kilometer of the entrance shaft to Multan's quarters. Multan had not clawed his way to a seat on the Ruling Council by taking chances, but now that he was a wanted man, his obsession with personal security had intensified. That he had permitted the visit indicated, however, that he felt secure in his fortress.

  The four visitors stood silently as the elevator slowly sank into the ground. Captain Ramses stood with his back to them so he would be the first to go through the doors when they opened. Dean marveled at the back of the man's closely shaved head, which was crisscrossed by a network of tiny scars and indentations that looked like old fragment wounds. His right ear was missing its lobe; the lobe in the other sported a huge diamond that sparkled as he moved his head.

  The elevator stopped and the doors hissed open. Ramses wheeled about with lightning speed and buried a fist in Claypoole's solar plexus. As Claypoole doubled over, Ramses slammed his elbow into the side of Dean's head. A dozen armed men rushed in and seized the party. It happened so quickly, all four men were taken completely by surprise. Dean and Claypoole were immediately disarmed and the four were deprived of their wrist communicators. Under heavy guard, they were marched down a corridor and shoved into a large paneled room. The doors were slammed shut behind them and locked.

  "Violation of diplomatic protocol for sure," Ambassador Spears gasped, trying to get his breath back. Brigadier Sturgeon put a finger to his lips. "Goddamnit, I shall protest this treatment most strongly," Ambassador Spears said in a louder voice.

  "You do that," the brigadier said. "You okay?" he asked Claypoole, who was still trying to catch his breath.

  Dean wiped at a thin stream of blood dripping down the side of his head. His vision had cleared by now. "Was I out there for a while, sir?"

  The brigadier nodded. "Multan's boys had to drag you down the hallway." He looked around the room, obviously used for conferences or receptions.

  A door opened at one end of the room and Multan stepped through followed by Captain Ramses. "Gentlemen," Multan said, "you thought you could fool me."

  "Sir, I must protest this—this most unlawful treatment," Ambassador Spears said.

  Multan made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "You thought you could trap me, didn't you?" It was a statement more than a question.

  "Yes," Brigadier Sturgeon answered. "My two Marines and I came here to take you prisoner and escort you to the Denver to hold you there for trial. So let me inform you now, sir, that in accordance with the authority vested in me by the Confederation of Worlds, you are under arrest and my prisoner."

  Multan's mouth dropped open in surprise and then he laughed derisively. "Well, do it, then!" He laughed again and held out his wrists for the handcuffs.

  Captain Ramses stepped forward, drawing a long-bladed knife. "X-ray!" Dean shouted, hoping the microtransmitter embedded beneath his skin would pick up the command.

  "Kill them!" Multan shouted.

  Claypoole snatched a small black object from a holster strapped to the inside of his left leg and pointed it at Ramses, who stopped in midstride and grinned before leaping forward. There was a sharp crack. A small hole appeared in the middle of Ramses's forehead. With a look of surprise, he crumpled to the floor. A tiny wisp of smoke rose above the barrel of Claypoole's small .32 caliber automatic. A tiny brass cartridge spun brightly on the floor. "Teach you to sucker-punch me, motherfucker."

  "Hands over your head and on your knees!" Dean shouted at Multan. A .32 was almost hidden in his hand. Multan sank to his knees. "You are insane. Brigadier, to think this... this kidnapping will work."

  Dean stepped behind Multan and pointed his gun at the back of the oligarch's head. "Now lay flat and spread your legs. Come on, come on!" Multan complied reluctantly. "Spread your arms out, palms up! Turn your head to the left! Stay perfectly still or I'll kill you!" He frisked Multan, removing two pistols from him. He tossed them to the brigadier and Ambassador Spears. The door behind him opened and a man stepped through. Claypoole shot him twice in the head and he fell back into the corridor outside.

  "What the hell?" Brigadier Sturgeon exclaimed, staring at Claypoole.

  The room shook violently as the Denver's bombardment commenced. It lasted thirty seconds. Men shouted and ran through the corridors outside the room.

  "How do you work this thing?" Ambassador Spears asked, rumbling with the unfamiliar mechanism of the pistol Dean had taken from Multan. It discharged suddenly with a bright flash and a deafening concussion. The slug plowed a deep furrow in the large conference table at the opposite end of the room.

  "That's how," the brigadier answered dryly. "Where did you get those weapons, Claypoole?"

  "Officer Lanning of the Brosigville Stadtpolizei gave 'em to us, sir," he said without taking his eyes off the doorway behind Dean. "They're reproductions of antique projectile weapons. The Brosigville cops call them a POS and they all carry them. Chief Long had the cops teach us how to take down suspects and all that stuff, sir. Good idea, huh?"

  "What's POS stand for?" Ambassador Spears asked.

  Claypoole hesitated briefly before replying. " 'Positive,' sir. They're .32 caliber Positives."

  A door behind burst open and several men charged through. The room erupted in gunfire.

  Thirty seconds into the assault, as his stomach matched the terrific rate of the Essay's descent, the policeman next to Commissioner Landser vomited profusely. The undulating mess hung weightlessly in the air in front of his face. Commissioner Landser hardly noticed what had happened, as his own stomach emptied itself. Men screamed in terror as the Essay plunged into Wanderjahr's upper atmosphere. They had been warned what to expect, but the actual experience was overpowering.

  "Gentlemen," the coxswain announced calmly, "thirty seconds to landing."

  "Listen up," the commander of the Dragon they were strapped into said over the net, "we'll hit with a bang. I'll drive us outside. When the ramp goes down, you perform a combat dismount just as you did in the mock-up. You know what to do. We'll give you cover. Good luck."

  As the Essay descended deeper into Wanderjahr's field of gravity, the vomit that had been suspended in the air showered down on men fastened into assault modules. Those who had not thrown up in the initial seconds of the descent did now.

  Landser gasped for breath. "Listen to me!" he croaked into his mouthpiece. "Check your equipment!" That was all he could manage to say. It was all he had to say.

  The Essay slammed to earth. The Dragon roared out onto the plateau, the
n screeched to a halt. Its ramp slammed down and a thick cloud of dust enveloped the policemen as they rushed out in four six-man groups. They had been divided into four parties—Adam, Baker, Charlie, Donald—linked to each other by radio and hooked into the Denver's communications system so the commander of the assault team could maintain contact with Landser. Each party was to establish and hold a segment of the perimeter around Multan's fortress until the operation was clear.

  Fires burned everywhere and smoke and ash filled the air outside the Dragon. The remains of the outbuildings and vehicles were smoldering heaps of slag and ash. The entire area above Multan's underground headquarters looked as if it had just been scoured by a huge blowtorch.

  Landser was the first out of the Dragon. "Two Actual. Deploying." Landser spoke into the mouthpiece of his helmet as he ran into the swirling cloud of smoke.

  "Roger, Team Two is deploying," the communications officer on the Denver said, acknowledging the transmission. Team One, the assault element, had already blasted its way into the elevator shaft and the stairwells.

  Landser felt panic as he looked around. He couldn't see anything! He couldn't tell which direction was which from where he was standing. So he sent his four team leaders in what he guessed were the four corners of a compass as they dismounted, hoping once they were clear of the fires, they could see to establish their sectors of the perimeter. He moved forward as best he could, talking all the while to his shift leaders. That calmed him down. Abruptly, the visibility cleared. His teams had emerged from the smoke intact and were setting up defensive positions. The commanders of the two Dragons that had landed with the assault party checked into Landser's net. Now he had four of the monsters if he needed fire support.

  "Team Two Actual, all secure," Landser reported. He was actually beginning to like this military stuff, he admitted to himself.

  The radio inside his helmet crackled. "Heads up!" one of the Dragon commanders shouted. "We have bandits, I say again, we have bandits!"