School of Fire

by David Sherman

  From his vantage point ten feet above the ground, now that a rising wind had blown the smoke away, Landser could see a large cloud of dust approaching from the northwest.

  "Team Two, they are too close for us to engage," the communications officer on the Denver announced. "Team One, how are you doing?"

  "Team One Actual," Captain Thomas replied, his breath coming in labored gasps. "Meeting heavy resistance. Inside not secure! I say again, not secure. Hold them off."

  "Team Two, did you copy that transmission?"

  "Yes," Landser replied, forgetting proper communications procedure. "We will engage them and hold them."

  The Dragon commander who had spotted the approaching relief party focused his opticals more clearly. Several dozen vehicles were roaring toward him at high speed. Each was crowded with armed men. "Gunner, engage at one thousand meters," he said into his mouthpiece.

  "Roger that. How about the ones coming up from the southeast?"

  Ambassador Spears spun about at the noise behind him and pointed the unfamiliar weapon at the men coming through the door. The first man took the bullet in his chest and staggered back into the second man. Spears, reverting to his long-ago firearms training as an army recruit, took a boxer stance, leaned slightly forward, and, holding the unfamiliar pistol with both hands, extended at arm's length before him, commenced firing into the men in the doorway. Wood, masonry, and pieces of human flesh sprayed about the entrance as the ambassador fired again and again. When no more men tried to push their way through the doorway, he stopped shooting. Footsteps could be heard pounding off down the corridor outside as survivors fled.

  The brigadier looked at Ambassador Spears with new respect. "I never had to fire a shot!" he exclaimed.

  Spears stood rooted to the spot, his pistol still pointing at the doorway, now blocked by three bodies. Slowly, he lowered it. "Now I need someone to show me how you reload this goddamned thing," he said.

  Shooting and screaming could be heard from every direction as the assault teams fought their way into the complex.

  "Well?" the brigadier said to Multan, who was still spread-eagled on the floor. Dean's pistol leveled at the back of his head. "Do you believe me now? Normally I'd give you time to pack a bag, but we're in a hurry to get you to a safe place. All this shooting going on down here, somebody could get hurt."

  "Brigadier! Captain Thomas here. Don't shoot. We're coming in." The commander of the assault force and several Marines stepped cautiously through the door behind Dean. He lowered his pistol. The captain glanced at Multan and gestured for the Marines to secure their prisoner. "We took some casualties getting in here, sir, and there's a rescue attempt being mounted topside from at least two directions by Multan's men. Let's secure this bastard, get topside, and get extracted."

  "You're in charge. Captain," the brigadier said. They followed him into the corridor.

  At a thousand meters the Dragons engaged the approaching rescue forces with their main guns. Landser ordered his men to take cover and open fire only when they were sure of good targets. They carried only their side arms and Brady shot rifles. The rifles had an effective range of about three hundred meters, so the approaching men were way out of range. But the Dragons' main guns hissed and cracked and sent streams of plasma bolts plunging into the approaching vehicles. Many slagged and instantly went out of control, but others took sharp evasive action and came on.

  "Adam Two," the leader of the party in the southeast quadrant reported, "they are splitting up into multiple targets. We are engaging."

  "Donald Two, same here. I estimate forty vehicles now within range."

  "This is Landser," he told his officers, "hold your positions! You must hold on. Baker, Charlie, support Adam and Donald. Dragons, can you give us fire?"

  "Roger that," all four Dragon commanders replied.

  "Team One," Landser shouted. "We are under heavy attack up here. Are you secure down there yet?"

  "Team One Actual. All secure. On the way up."

  Landser breathed a sigh of relief that was cut short by a gasp as the first incoming rounds from the attackers began to impact within the perimeter. All around him the Dragons' main guns hissed and cracked while the weapons of his own men banged away. The attackers had gone to ground in natural depressions about two hundred meters out and were now taking the perimeter under heavy small-arms fire, despite accurate marksmanship from the Dragons. Fortunately, Multan's men did not have armor-piercing weapons, and Landser's men were using explosive shot shells to good effect, lobbing them accurately into the attackers' positions.

  "Essays," Landser said into his mouthpiece, "prepare for extraction." Without realizing it, Landser had taken charge of operations on the surface.

  Hunched over and running quickly. Team One came running out of the shafts, carrying its casualties. They began to load into the waiting Dragons.

  Captain Thomas ran to where Landser crouched beside the slag heap from where he controlled the perimeter. "We got the bastard!" he shouted into Landser's ear. "Do you need help here?"

  "No," Landser shouted back. "We are holding them. When you are secure, we will begin extraction." Thomas nodded and ran to the nearest Dragon, which raised its ramp and roared into a waiting Essay. On board the Denver they had practiced extraction under fire. All Landser could remember of the procedure now was that he was to go aboard last. One of the Essays took off with an earsplitting roar.

  "Team Two, we are ready to commence loading," the coxswain of Landser's Essay announced over the net. Landser's Dragon began laying down heavy continuous fire on the enemy positions, despite the welcome fact that the incoming had slackened considerably.

  Landser ran for the Dragon and stood on its ramp. "Adam, Donald, withdraw to the Essays. Baker, Charlie, cover them." The first two parties clambered aboard as Landser counted them. "Baker, Charlie, go!" He counted another twelve men, some of them wounded. "Shift leaders, are all your men accounted for?" Several seconds elapsed before they responded in the affirmative. Only then did Landser strap himself in and tell the Dragon commander all was clear for take-off. The Dragon lurched into the Essay's loading bay. On an adrenaline high, he never noticed the g forces tugging at him as the Essay roared into orbit.

  As the Essays shut down in the Denver's docking bays and discharged the assault teams, crewmen swarmed everywhere, helping the wounded to the sick bay and welcoming the men back. Five men had been killed and eight wounded in Team One; seven of Landser's policemen had been wounded. Best of all, Multan was in the Denver's brig.

  Landser found himself standing together with Brigadier Sturgeon, Ambassador Spears, the Denver's captain, and Dean and Claypoole. Landser's uniform was ripped in several places and his face and hands were covered with dirt and scratches. Through the dirt, little streams of perspiration coursed down the policeman's cheeks. "Commissioner, you look like a combat Marine just now," the brigadier said.

  Landser came to attention, clicked his heels, and bowed. "Brigadier, I accept that compliment with gratitude," he said.

  The brigadier laughed and clapped Landser on the shoulder. "Damn fine combat leadership—for a cop," he said.

  Landser turned to Dean. "Lance Corporal, when your headquarters was bombed, you went into the street to help people. Do you recall assisting one of my officers with a gravely wounded victim?"

  "Yes, sir," Dean answered. This was the first time Landser had ever spoken a word directly to him.

  "Well, that man was my brother, and I have never thanked you for trying to help him." Dean was so surprised he could not answer. Landser turned to Claypoole. "Lance Corporal, you are indeed a brave man." Landser bowed in Claypoole's direction. "Should either of you men ever quit the Marines, I will gladly offer you commissions on my force."

  The small group was silent for a moment, surprised and pleased by this outburst of honest compliments from a man like Landser.

  "Well," the brigadier said, finally breaking the silence, "we fried a big fish today, a very big
fish."

  "Yes, Brigadier," Landser responded. "But now we return to Arschland, and when we get there, I trust that you will all assist Chief Long and me in frying some more of these 'big' fishes, some very, very big fishes."

  Years later, visitors to Landser's office were curious to see a certificate framed and hanging conspicuously on a wall. It was the warrant Brigadier Sturgeon had given him after the attack on Multan, appointing him an honorary lance corporal, in the Confederation Marine Corps.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Life had been hectic in the FIST F-2 section from the very day Dean and Claypoole arrived as Commander Peters's assistants, but things got even busier once Chief Long agreed to take over the intelligence functions for Brigadier Sturgeon.

  First there were the constant staff meetings at FIST HQ. Usually, Chief Long or Lieutenant Constantine conducted the intelligence briefings, but both Dean and Claypoole were required to be present, sometimes after staying up all night to prepare the computer graphics needed for the next day.

  Then Claypoole was assigned to establish a computer link between the Denver, the Brosigville city police, the Feldpolizei headquarters, and the FIST F-3 section, so information could be readily exchanged. This required many face-to-face meetings with his counterparts in all three places.

  Dean, meanwhile, was kept fully occupied screening agent reports, after-action reports, and spot reports from Marines in the field for information on enemy battle tactics and other activities. He also checked newspaper and magazine articles and television reports, gleaning what information could be had about guerrilla activities in the Staats where they were active. All of this information went into the Enemy Order of Battle database that tracked the movements, strengths, weapons capabilities, and, hopefully, intentions of the guerrilla units. This was made especially difficult because the PLA high command occasionally changed unit designations and the individual brigades were constantly on the move from one operational area to another.

  Dean also spent much effort compiling detailed dossiers on the known PLA leaders and sympathizers, which included not only biographical details but information on their personal habits, friends, associates, anything that would be useful to understanding how the minds of the PLA command worked. The most secret work involved organizing an agent database. Both the field and city police were reluctant to share that kind of information outside their own organizations, and Chief Long suspected what they did share did not reflect all the people on their informant payrolls. But what Long was able to glean, had it become known to the PLA, would have spelled death for dozens of Wanderjahrian informants and seriously damaged his intelligence-gathering capability.

  "From now on," Chief Long warned both Marines, "be very careful where you go when off duty, because if you ever fall into PLA hands, they'll pry this information out of you, and you'd better count on it that they know what you're doing up here." Dean resolved that on the rare occasions when he was able to visit Hway, he'd be very careful.

  Daily and weekly intelligence summaries had to be prepared for circulation to the field and among the three headquarters groups, and Chief Long delegated the job to his two Marines. In addition. Brigadier Sturgeon and Chief Long regularly briefed the oligarchs when they were in session. Dean and Claypoole accompanied them to Chairman Arschmann's villa on those trips, although they were never invited inside to participate in the actual briefings.

  And in addition to all these tasks. Chief Long was responsible for monitoring and improving police intelligence operations within the Staat of Arschland, ferreting out criminal activities of all sorts.

  There were trips to the field also, to visit with the Marine training cadre and Feldpolizei commanders, to exchange information, but neither Dean nor Claypoole had yet been fortunate enough to go on any of them.

  Claypoole had taken the sign that once hung over Commander Peters's workstation with him to police headquarters. It summarized in one brief statement what military intelligence was all about:

  Who Knows What Evil Lurks in the Hearts of Men?

  The Two Do.

  The intelligence briefing, given that morning by Lieutenant Constantine, had gone very well. The most titillating bit of news was a supposed high-level meeting of PLA brigade commanders that had been held recently in Arschland, but as yet nobody had been able to figure out where or what the subject of the meeting was.

  By the time the P-4, logistics, briefing was over, Dean had almost gone to sleep, leaning back in his chair in a far corner of the conference room. Claypoole nudged him in the ribs when he noticed the FIST adjutant glaring at him from across the conference table.

  "Gentlemen," Brigadier Sturgeon announced at last, "thank you very much. Now, I know you are all anxious to get back to your duties, but I want everyone to remain seated for a few minutes." He nodded to the Marine from the Denver's shore party who was guarding the door, and the Marine opened it with a flourish.

  In walked Captain Conorado followed by Staff Sergeant Bass.

  "Gentlemen, I promoted Lance Corporals Claypoole and Dean on the spot that night in Morgenluft, when Commander Peters was almost killed. They earned the stripes. Their service on my staff has confirmed the high opinion I've had all along of the men in Company L. Adjutant?" The brigadier turned to the slim ensign who only moments before had been giving Dean the gimlet eye.

  "Attention to orders," the adjutant announced, and then read the promotion orders. Sergeant Major Shiro and Staff Sergeant Bass stepped forward after the reading and pinned the chevrons on, sealing the rite with a stiff punch to each man's shoulder. "Go easy on them," the brigadier said dryly, "I might need them again someday."

  "You've done well up here," the sergeant major remarked. "Keep it up."

  "Don't turn into worthless staff pogues." Bass shook his finger at the two. "Sir," he turned to Brigadier Sturgeon, "you aren't going to keep these two on your staff permanently, are you?"

  "Staff Sergeant Bass, why, I'd rather face the most notorious bandit on Wanderjahr all by myself than cross you," the brigadier said, and laughed.

  Sergeant Major Shiro curled his mustaches and grumbled quietly, "Charlie, we need an ops chief in the Three shop. These birds of yours commandeer any of my vehicles again, I'll pull you outta the field to help with map overlays." Bass, who knew better than to ask for details, recoiled in mock horror while the sergeant major stuffed another wad of chewing tobacco into his cheek. He offered Bass a chew, but Bass declined.

  "How's it going with third platoon?" Claypoole asked.

  "Not easy, but we're making progress. Ever try to teach guys with two left feet how to march? How about up here? I hear you've been into some very bad shit."

  "Fine, Staff Sergeant Bass, we're, uh, making progress too, I guess."

  "I just bet you are, Marine," Bass answered. He was thinking about the incident at Juanita's, which for a while had been the gossip of the company. He also knew all about the attack at Morgenluft and the fight at the warehouse in Brosigville. "You guys lucked out with this duty," he continued, meaning so far they'd gotten more than their share of the action. He looked at the two. "Listen up. We're proud of what you've done up here. I wish you were back with us again. Sorry about Commander Peters."

  Captain Conorado, who had been talking to the FIST executive officer, came over.

  "Sir," Claypoole whispered, "I really don't feel I've earned this promotion. Can't you get us back with the company, Skipper?"

  Dean nodded in agreement and said, "It isn't that we don't like it here, but we're Marines, sir, not headquarters men." As he was uttering the words, he regretted them. Returning to the company would eliminate any chance he'd ever have of seeing Hway again. But he had to stick with Claypoole.

  "Marine, when a FIST brigadier says you earned a promotion, then you earned it, so no more of that from either of you two." The conference room had now emptied out, leaving the four Marines there by themselves. "Look," Conorado motioned for Bass to come close, "a Marine follows orders.
I sent you two here because I knew you'd do a good job. You haven't disappointed me. We all know what happened when you were with the city police that night, down by the river. I'd have promoted you both for what you did then. But your job for the duration of this deployment is right here. And if the brigadier decides he's got other plans for you once we're done here, you'll follow your orders. Remember, you don't 'belong' to me, you belong to the Corps." He clapped a hand on each man's shoulder. "Well," he said, "time to go." He and Bass shook hands with them one last time and then they were gone.

  Alone in the briefing room, the two lance corporals stared wordlessly at each other for a long moment. They'd been wearing their new rank insignia for some weeks by this time, but it somehow hadn't been real. Now that their company commander and platoon sergeant had witnessed the formal promotion, it was real. Only a year in the Corps and they were both lance corporals, a rank it normally took an infantryman three years to attain.

  Claypoole was the first to break the silence. "We gotta find a way to get back to the platoon, where we belong."

  "Got that right," Dean agreed. "So you dislike us that much, huh?" The two spun toward the voice at the doorway. It was the FIST sergeant major. Claypoole swallowed but couldn't speak. Dean tried not to look guilty and failed miserably.

  "I think you're growing soft here," Shiro said. "Maybe you should spend some time with real Marines." He glanced at his watch. "As of eight hours tomorrow morning, you're on temporary additional duty. A forty-eight-hour assignment to the 257th Feldpolizei. Now, get out of my headquarters."

  Their eyes popped. "The 257th," Dean said. "That's... that's..."

  "Where our platoon is," Claypoole finished. "Thank you. Sergeant Major," they both said. Shiro glowered at them. "What are you doing still taking up space in my headquarters? Has the soft life working with the police made you forget how to obey orders? Get out of here!" They ran from the briefing room.