School of Fire

by David Sherman

  While Constantine talked, the map display behind him continued to change. Each change showed a different precinct on a specific date. While any given map was displayed, black lines of movement turned yellow, blue, green, or red. A few of the red lines had lightning bolts around them.

  "A few weeks ago," Constantine said when it was evident that nobody else had any immediate questions, "a junior petty officer in the Surface Intelligence Analysis section got the idea that if he sequentially overlaid maps of given GSBs, the maps might show patterns of movement that didn't match anything the civilians or combat forces would use—even more if he showed two adjacent GSBs. This was the first composite he assembled." He pushed another button and stepped aside so he wouldn't obstruct anyone's view of the map.

  The display showed a map of the adjoining 114th and 129th GSBs. Like the others, it had black lines that changed color. As soon as all the lines changed color, all but the red ones blinked out. The map flickered and displayed a different set of red lines, representing movement the next time the Denver surveilled those precincts. After a second, it flickered again, and again after another second. In all, there were seventeen different sequential sets of red lines. Constantine looked at the officers. A few looked bemused.

  "That almost looks like it should mean something," murmured Commander Iankee, the FIST'S composite air squadron commander.

  "Look at it this way, sir," Constantine said as he leaned toward the lectern to push another button. Once more the red lines flickered on the display, but at much shorter intervals—this time the display took three seconds.

  Van Winkle drummed his fingertips on the conference table.

  "That does look like it means something," Captain Halsted, the Dragon company commander, said. "But what?"

  "Then the petty officer extrapolated," Constantine said softly, and pushed another button. "He assumed that some lines were continuations of earlier lines and where some lines might have gone had they continued on their known trajectories."

  The red lines appeared afresh on the map. But they didn't jerk about this time, instead they flowed. Some flowed briefly and vanished before the seventeen displays completed, others started after the beginning, a few ran from beginning to end. Some of them crossed the line that divided the two GSBs.

  "Did you see that?" Constantine asked when the display went blank. "Watch it again." The lines flowed. "And then like this."

  This time the lines that ended early stayed on the display. When the seventeenth display was reached, all of the terminal lines remained on the screen. Some terminated at places marked as towns or other kinds of settlements. But there were others that seemed to vanish into an irregularly shaped no-man's-land of about eighteen square kilometers.

  "What's significant about this, gentlemen," Constantine said as he used the laser pointer to draw a circle around the group of lines that led to nowhere, "is that there is no city, no town, settlement, farm barracks, or other reason for a large number of people to congregate in this area. But detailed analysis indicates that more than two hundred people went into there, and fewer than twenty came out." He paused dramatically, then said, "Somewhere in there, we believe, is the headquarters of the Montezuma Brigade of the PLA.

  "Providing, of course, that the petty officer's extrapolations are anywhere near accurate. If they're wrong, this means nothing. At any rate, we have similar displays for the possible headquarters of as many as ten other brigades."

  Brigadier Sturgeon stood up. "Thank you. Lieutenant Constantine." Then to the rest, "We have a job to do on Wanderjahr. We're about to do it. The XO will give you copies of my Commander's Intent. F-2 will provide those of you for whom we have intelligence with the data you need to make your operational plans. The F-3 has basics of the FIST operation plan, which will tell you what kind of support you can expect in your plans. See F-4 for your logistical requirements. If you have any personnel problems—and not having enough people isn't a problem, we're Marines, we never have enough people—see the F-l. Gentlemen, I give you to the XO and my staff. Let's get cracking and do this thing."

  The officers rose to their feet and stood at attention as their commander left the briefing room. Then a babble broke out as the operational unit commanders asked questions of each other and the FIST staff.

  Once Commander Van Winkle had everything he needed from the FIST staff—or everything he could get, which wasn't necessarily the same thing—he returned to his headquarters and called the company and platoon commanders in from the field for a briefing. He deliberately left the Feldpolizei battalion commanders out of the loop.

  The infantry battalion commander didn't indulge in any of the theatrics Lieutenant Constantine had, he simply gave the facts—or speculation, as he also labeled SRA 3d Hummfree's maps. He had stripped the battalion headquarters company of men enough to field two platoons, each of which was assigned to GSBs, as were each of the three infantry platoons of each of the three line companies in the battalion. That gave the infantry battalion eleven GSBs to cover. Eight of the eleven had suspected PLA headquarters within their boundaries or in adjacent ones. All eight had to be hit simultaneously to avoid warnings being given to any that weren't hit. What's more, all eight had to be found. All Van Winkle had was an area for each one—the smallest area was a dozen square kilometers, the largest nearly twice that size.

  The other three suspected HQs were also covered. Brigadier Sturgeon had stripped enough Marines from his headquarters company to field platoons in two more GSBs. The Dragon company had detached enough men for three platoons, and the Raptor section of the air squadron another two, so the entire FIST covered sixteen GSBs.

  The biggest problem the Marines faced was transportation. They needed a lot of it. The FIST had only enough organic transportation to move nine platoons. But two of the Dragon platoons had suspected HQs to deal with, so they couldn't be used. Which meant the entire FIST only had enough transport available to move five platoons of Marines, unless the Dragon GSB that didn't have suspected PLA headquarters pulled out, in which case they could move seven platoons. But even if the Marines had all of their organic transportation available, there still wouldn't be enough to simultaneously move the Marines to all of the suspected headquarters.

  And that didn't even begin to count the transportation needed to move the Feldpolizei.

  Nor did it account for PLA spies' finding out about the sudden movement of Marine and Feldpolizei forces and giving warning to the guerrillas, which was one reason he had left the Feldpolizei commanders out of the loop. The other was a conviction that it was probable the PLA had spies within the field police organization.

  So Commander Van Winkle had to figure out how to move eight Marine platoons and as many FP battalions into position to search eight areas of suspected concentration and destroy or capture whatever units they found there—the eleventh suspected PLA headquarters was covered by one of the platoons from FIST HQ. And he had to move them secretly. There was no way it could be done without organic transportation, which simply wasn't available.

  After briefly telling the company and platoon commanders about how the HQ locations were discovered, and distributing map chips, he told them of the need for simultaneity and secrecy.

  "What do your battalions have in the way of working transportation?" he finally asked, then held up a hand to forestall quick answers. "I know how much transportation the battalions have, I need to know how much you've got that works. Do you have enough that you could move your entire battalions tomorrow if you had to?"

  None of them had enough vehicles to transport their entire battalions. Seven of the eleven, including six of the eight platoons that were going guerrilla hunting, had too many red-lined vehicles.

  "When this briefing is over, tell logistics what you need to get the vehicles you do have up and running by the day after tomorrow."

  Six ensigns and their platoon sergeants exchanged pained glances.

  "Now," Van Winkle looked at his watch, "it's almost 1100 hou
rs. You have your map chips. We will reassemble here at 1500 hours to review your operational plans."

  The officers and NCOs rose to attention as Van Winkle left the briefing room. There was no babble when the battalion commander left. The company and platoon commanders stared at each other, appalled by the amount of work they had to do in only four hours.

  They reassembled at 1500 hours. The company commanders and three platoon commanders who didn't have plans to draw up had helped the eight who did. None of the plans was complete. Everybody with an operation to run was going to have to walk part of their commands into their assigned areas. For some, it was going to be a four-day walk.

  "It's just as well that nobody will see an entire Feldpolizei battalion mount up and head for the field at once," was how Van Winkle brushed aside the objections about not having enough transportation.

  The battalion commander quickly reviewed the plans, then told his commanders, "The people who have the farthest to walk move out the day after tomorrow. Lean on your FP commanders to get the rest of their vehicles running ASAP. But don't tell them why. Don't tell any of your Wanderjahrians about this operation ahead of time." He paused and looked off into nowhere for a moment, then said, "Tell them you're under orders to step up patrolling and that's why you're sending more people out now. I'll call the FP commanders in for a briefing the day before your main forces head out. The fewer people who know what's going on, the better.

  "I'll coordinate your activities," he said in wrapping up, "not only among you, but with the rest of the FIST. I'll also work on getting additional air support from the Denver.

  "By the way," he said sternly. "The three of you who didn't have operations of your own to plan—instead of helping the others with theirs, you should have been making plans for functioning as reaction forces or reinforcements.

  "But," he glanced at the console monitor on which he'd reviewed the operation plans, "I have to say that under the circumstances, you did an outstanding job in the time you had. Now get back to your commands and get ready to kick some serious ass. To as great an extent as possible, include your Marines in the planning process. They're the ones who'll be leading the FPs in what could be the biggest fight they've ever been in."

  The day's briefing was over.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The 257th Feldpolizei Battalion had only enough surface and air vehicles to transport half its men, so Company A and part of Company C had to walk to the craggy and crevassed area intelligence had tentatively identified as home to the headquarters of the Che Loi Brigade of the Peoples Liberation Army. When the FPs moved out, all they knew was that they were going on an extended patrol by platoons.

  Vanden Hoyt and Bass had been clear in giving the Marines the final briefing before their departure: the day before you reach the area of operations, you will tell your people we just got information about a concentration of guerrillas in the area. They are not to know ahead of time.

  What nobody said but everybody understood was that the guerrillas had spies somewhere in the Feldpolizei, even if not in the 257th. Charlie Bass accompanied the Company A command group; Lieutenant vanden Hoyt would follow later with the rest of the battalion. The platoon routes of march and initial objective were tangential to the objective, so no one would know that was where they were headed.

  Someone got cute when it came time to assign call radio signs. Commander Van Winkle's battalion headquarters unit was "Farmer." The 257th Feldpolizei Battalion HQ unit was "Henhouse." The 257th's three company HQ units were "Hens," Hen A, Hen B, and Hen C. The platoons were "Chicks," and the sections were "Peeps."

  The members of the 257th FP had a confidence in themselves that would have been unimaginable two short months earlier, and, despite some good-natured grumbling, most were looking forward to the operation. Many of them even hoped to encounter bandits. Some of them resented the way they had been used as ersatz blocking forces when Company A's first platoon found the ambush and the Marines wiped it out without any assistance from them, and they wanted to prove to the Marines that they were competent. And ever since Company A's second platoon's second shift had taken out that four-man observation post without suffering any injuries itself, the entire battalion had become almost eager for combat.

  The Marines knew where they were going and what their objective was when they got there. Their reaction to walking was mixed.

  Chan was glad they were going on ahead of the others because that gave him three more days to train his shift under actual field conditions.

  MacIlargie grumbled. He'd been taken in by the recruiting slogan, "Join the Marines and see the universe." He complained about false advertising—the slogan hadn't said anything about seeing the universe one step at a time.

  Godenov didn't particularly like having to walk either. But, despite the success he'd had with his shift in wiping out that observation post, he wasn't fully confident that his men would always do what he said, and, like Chan, liked the fact that he had the extra time to train his men in obeying orders in the field.

  Being glad or complaining never occurred to Schultz. He was a Marine. To Schultz, there were only three proper ways for a Marine to move into combat—over the beach in a Dragon, on a combat assault in a hopper, or on foot. There was no beachhead to take, no immediate assault to launch. So they walked. It was the natural order of things.

  Corporal Doyle didn't voice any complaints. That didn't mean he didn't have any, merely that he didn't say them out loud. After all, he was the senior company clerk. What was he doing out there, walking for three days toward an area thought to be crawling with guerrillas? And then snooping and pooping through that area trying to find those guerrillas? He should be back in a nice, snug headquarters somewhere, he thought, noodling with a computer, instead of being out where there was a high probability someone would shoot at him.

  Two days out from the 257th's headquarters the land gradually changed from gently rolling flatlands to low hills, though the flora and fauna mostly seemed to be the same. Hochbaums still climbed toward the clouds, and the grospalms still grew in family groups, but more common among them now were the spikers, trees taller than the grospalms but with narrower boles, from which grew nearly horizontal spiral branches. The undergrowth was a bit thicker by then, patches of low-lying succulents.

  The large grazers called sheep chomped contentedly on the tops of the grospalms, and the bigger ones, the cows, stretched up to the juiciest leaves of the giants, but both species avoided the spikers. Smaller quadrupeds the Marines hadn't seen before—beasts a little smaller than Earth elephants—with beaked mouths and knobbly red, green, and gray mottled hides, ripped and nibbled at the spiky foliage and gobbled up the low-lying succulents. The Wanderjahrians said these were called goats. They also told the Marines to keep a respectful distance from them because, like their namesakes, the beaked animals were short tempered.

  Schultz didn't concern himself with the goats any more than he did with the cows or sheep. He'd come to accept that the huge animals were just dumb food animals. So he didn't pay much attention when he saw two bipeds slowly mincing through the underbrush in the direction of an isolated cow. The animals had huge heads with disproportionately large mouths and long, pointed teeth, and he saw that their forelimbs were so small as to be virtually useless. Their hides were coarsely striped grayish green and tan, a good match for the pattern of tree trunks against a green background.

  Maybe it was just a psychological defensive reaction on Schultz's part—animals such as he saw on Wanderjahr were too big to understand, so he ignored them. He kept walking and looking all around for danger until he noticed that he was the only member of first platoon's first shift who was on his feet.

  Schultz spotted Acting Assistant Shift Sergeant Kharim nearby and dropped to one knee next to him. "Why did everybody stop?" he whispered, peering beyond the animals for any sign of people.

  Wordlessly, Kharim pointed at the two bipeds.

  "So? They're a couple of pigs, o
r whatever you call them. What's the problem?"

  Kharim twisted around to look up at Schultz's face, which seemed to hover in midair above him. His eyes were wide and his mouth a tight rictus smile. His face was covered with a sheen of nervous sweat. "Shift Sergeant Schultz," he gasped, "those are not pigs. They are tigers."

  "Tigers?" Schultz looked back toward the bipeds. They were much closer to the cow now. Both had hunkered down, holding their heads so low their jaws almost brushed the tops of the low bushes. Their massive legs made abrupt, jerky movements, like a bull pawing the ground getting ready to charge. Claws as long as fighting knives on the tigers' feet raked deep gouges in the hard dirt. For the first time, Schultz noticed that the bipeds' eyes faced front rather than to the sides, like the other animals he'd seen—and those front-facing eyes were fixed intently on the huge cow. On every world Schultz had been on, he suddenly remembered, only arboreal animals and predators had front-facing eyes. With massive heads and shriveled forelimbs, he knew the animals were not tree dwellers.

  Schultz lowered himself to his belly and hoped the tigers had no sense of smell.

  Suddenly, the tiger nearer the cow screamed and charged toward its front end.

  The prey animal snapped its head around at the noise. Then, with an agility and speed astonishing in so bulky an animal, it spun about so it faced away from the charging hunter and swung its tail at it like a whip. The tiger veered off before it got in range of the swing of the heavy tail, and the blow, which looked powerful enough to crush the tiger, missed.

  The second predator raced in as soon as the cow began to turn away from the first hunter. The only sound it made was the thunderous pounding of its feet as it charged. The cow's long neck was twisted around so it could watch the first tiger over its shoulder. It saw the second one coming fast, and even faster, spun to swing its tail at it. But that maneuver exposed its flank to the first one, which darted in and tore a hunk of flesh from its side.