Free Company: Red Zone
DK Williamson
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Copyright © 2019 DK Williamson
Deadeye Fiction
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Copyright © 2019 DK Williamson
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Bibliography
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Table of Contents
Prologue
The Dregs
Picking up the Pieces
Divergence, Drill, and Discovery
Honing the Edge
Phoenix
A Gathering Storm
Red Zone
A New Day
Twilight’s Last Gleaming
Zoners
The Road to Victory and Defeat
Fog of War
The Butcher’s Bill
Slang and Terminology
Mercenary Rank System, Combat Services, Free Companies
Free Company: Red Zone
Prologue
It took us but a dozen generations to fall into utter barbarism. Our forebearers came to Jubilee those generations ago to forge a peaceful society but somewhere along the path we became the slaughtered and the slaughterers. We descended from the heavens and sowed the seeds of life on worlds and moons where showers and sun eventually brought sustenance and blossoms. Now the skies rain atomics, kinetics, and death. The dead that litter the land provide nothing but fuel for hatred. We came here to grow and prosper, but our plowshares are now weapons, our once flowered fields are cemeteries, and doom comes unless we find another way.
—The inscription on the Memorial to the Fallen titled Late Days, at Accords Park, Nelson City, Novar—A statement attributed to Arthur Fremont during the latter stages of an era known as ‘The Precipice Wars’
. . .
. . .
“Wait for the order,” Commander Robert Kent said over the company com channel. “We must let them get closer.”
“This is Stanton, Sniper Team Bravo. They’re rolling over us, commander,” a loud and desperate voice pleaded. “They’re already in the perimeter. Get’em off us, Red Light. Fire!”
“Wait for the command,” Kent ordered. “Find cover and ride it out Corporal Stanton.”
The deafening rattle of combat filled the night air as desperate troopers held against superior numbers. With the last of their vehicles disabled or destroyed and a dwindling supply of mortar rounds, the Red Light Company and their allies now faced annihilation—mere foot soldiers facing assaulting infantry and armored vehicles in a lopsided and suicidal attempt to salvage one thing… survival.
Kent watched the tracked vehicles bull their way through the dark, barrier wire dragging at the skirts and raking on road wheels as energy and automatic weapons fire filled the air with beams and projectiles. Small arms were fine against infantry, but anti-tank weapons were required to stop armor. Like everything else, AT weapons were in short supply and Kent was making one final desperate move to save his free company, a unit he had commanded for more than a decade.
Guts and wounded, that’s all the Red Light Company has in abundance, he thought grimly. I got them into this, I’ll get what’s left out…if it’s the last thing I ever do.
“Wait, Red Light. Wait,” he sent over the com. “Hold steady. We have them if we time it right.”
Kent blotted out the terrified screams of Stanton and what was left of Sniper Team Bravo coming over the company band as he watched the tracks roll on. It’s down to mere seconds now, he thought.
Keying the handset, the commander said, “Senior Sergeant Winger, this is Commander Kent. Take command if I am unable to continue after this action. Confirm.”
“I read you, sir. Will comply.”
“My thanks, Ray. Hunter-killer teams… fire!”
. . .
The Dregs
. . .
Steven Brook Hiring Hall, Nelson City, Planet Novar
“I’m just saying we might be better off jumping free and latching on with another unit,” a soldier said over the voices of milling recruits and veteran troopers who stood within tape barriers on the hiring hall floor. “The way we got let down, chewed up, spat out, and left for dead is going to give most of those out there second thoughts about signing up with the company. Hell, most of them will turn and run as soon as they figure it out.”
His partner in the recruiting booth scowled and said, “Hank, if you genuinely feel that way why don’t you strip off the unit patch, hop the counter, and join the masses out there. I’ll see to it the company lets you out of your contract.” Looking at the time display on the wall, he added, “You have ten minutes until the sign-on period starts.”
“If you come with, I will. Otherwise I’ll stick.”
“You’re sticking then.”
“All right,” Hank replied with resignation as he leaned and placed his elbows on the counter. Looking over the crowd he said, “With no commander and our recent history, you know we’re going to be getting nothing but the dregs, Sarge. Dregs.”
“Not if we do our jobs right. The big legions and corporate linked companies will be fighting over the top-of-their-class recruits, but that’s not what we’re looking for anyway. I saw a few vets out there I know. Maybe we can convince them to sign on. Maybe some quality recruits come sniffing as well. Maybe you convince them to sign on.”
Hank laughed, a little bitterness coming through. “That’s a lot of maybe, Sarge. If you could get them drunk first… maybe.”
The sergeant glared at his companion. “That attitude is going to cost us. I picked you for this because of that quick wit and silver tongue you’re so famous for. If our unit is going to survive, you best get your inner salesman to the front and stow the bitter, woe-is-us garbage.”
“Message received, Sarge. Loud and clear. When the chime goes off, the charm goes on. Charm…” he trailed off with a shake of his head, “that’s all I have to sell them.”
“You’ll have more than that to lure them in, Hank. Our new commanding officer will draw some decent troops to us.”
“You were holding out on me. We got somebody? Who’s the new CO?”
“Jack Hawkwood.”
Hank straightened with his mouth open before speaking. “You’re kidding. No, your face says not. The son-of-a-bitch finally decided to take a command?”
“Looks that way. Feel better, corporal?”
“Sure I do. Even so, Hawkwood’s a first-t
imer at it. That could be a hard sell, Sarge.”
“Quick wits and—”
“Silver tongue. You got it.” Hank paused in thought before smiling. “Hawkwood, huh?”
. . .
“Where’re we going first, Sam?” a worried-looking and stocky young man said to the recruit next to him. With uniforms bare of everything but nametapes, he and the others near him stood out among those with rank insignia on epaulets, unit patches on sleeves, and stint-marks on service panels that adorned their left lapel pockets. Bare service panels and youth were easy ways to spot raw recruits just out of service school.
“I’m thinking we do a quick circuit of the place first. Look things over,” the tall and lean recruit called Sam replied. The eight recruits with him huddled near. Knowing they stuck out among most on the hall’s floor, numbers felt like security.
“There’ll be fewer slots open by the time we’re done looking, but you’re the smart one, I’ll just follow along,” a recruit standing beside Sam offered.
“Vincent speaks for me as well,” another recruit said as many others in the group of nine nodded in agreement.
Sam shook his head. “Briggsy, if I’m the smart one then we’re in trouble. The experienced troopers and top dog recruits will get the prime slots with corporate connected units, we all know that, but they’ll be shopping around too. What’s left is where we might fit in. Keep your ears open and maybe we pick up a few tips. There are a lot of units here today. A lot.”
“With nothing but empty on our service panels, we best hope there’s some sort of war brewing or—”
“There’s always a war brewing these days, kid,” said a scarred trooper with senior sergeant stripes and enough stint-marks to fill his service panel as he and a group of experienced soldiers walked by. “That’s why so many units are here. A good time to make some money and an easy way to get killed. Don’t rush into signing on unless it’s a sound unit.”
The greeners knew a trooper with that many stint-marks and a permanent rank of senior sergeant meant he’d likely served at the high end of the mercenary ranks for quite some time. Even without the evidence on his uniform the man’s voice conveyed the natural authority of one worth listening to—and obeying.
The recruits watched the group of half a dozen experienced soldiers bunch up nearby and speak amongst themselves.
“How do we know if it’s a sound unit?” Vincent asked quietly.
“I’m thinking we wouldn’t know one if it bit us, shook our hands, and introduced itself,” Sam replied. “Let’s hope we figure it out quickly.”
“Maybe we could ask?” another recruit whispered with a gesture at the group near them.
Sam glanced at the veteran trooper before replying. “Feel free, Rivers.”
The recruit shook his head after gauging the soldier. “The guy looks like he could take us all down with just a hard look. I’ll pass,” Rivers replied.
. . .
A single pealing tone sounded the beginning of the hiring session and almost immediately those in the booths began shouting like street hawkers as those seeking employment moved from the waiting pool. Some soldiers dashed for specific booths, others stood visually scouting like Sam and his companions had discussed. The senior sergeant’s group was one of these. As they looked over the booths that surrounded the floor, one of the troopers among them jutted his chin at the nearest unit drawing looks from the rest of the group.
“That’s Ray Winger over there, isn’t it?” the trooper with the long stack of stint-marks said with a point at the oldest of the pair of troopers. “I’ve seen the other guy too.”
“That’s Hank Bastrop,” one of his companions said. “Young, but a good man in a pinch I hear. Word is their free company got hung out to dry on Boomoon. They got hacked into burger. Kent, their commander, bought the farm.”
“Heard that too, but the company is obviously still in existence. If there’s room, I’m of a mind to see what’s shaking. Let’s see who’s taking over command. They’ve pulled in some lucrative contracts in the past.”
The other trooper nodded. “Can’t hurt to talk to’em. Kent’s company has some top-notch people… as least they did.”
“Winger’s still there. If the situation is right, we’ll add a few more. C’mon.”
The troopers headed for the booth while Sam and his companions looked at the display on the front panel. THE RED LIGHT COMPANY - SWIFT VICTORY IS YOURS it read.
“Know anything about them?” Vincent asked.
“A bit,” Sam replied. “I heard Instructor Sergeant Verro mention the fight at Boomoon before we left training. I gathered he had some friends in the unit. Said the losing side was outnumbered five-to-one.”
Vincent nodded. “They’re a light unit, so our lack of exosuit training won’t hurt us. If it’s like the vets said and they need fresh troopers, they might take us. We’re as fresh as they come.”
“Take us?” one of the others said. “Not if they’re only taking on strac troopers.”
“I’d guess they might take what they can get, Brennan. Even so, what if they get hung out to dry again?” Rivers asked. “Do we want to be part of that?”
“That could happen to any merc outfit,” Sam said. “If it does, maybe they’re the unit to be with when it comes. They survived it.”
Vincent nodded again. “Like the man said, ‘Can’t hurt to talk to them.’”
Briggs grinned. “Wanna bet?”
. . .
Sam and his comrades joined the loose line leading to the Red Light Company’s booth. Standing next to the veteran mercs, the nine greeners tried to look inconspicuous.
The trooper nearest Sam noticed the recruits and smiled in amusement, but said nothing.
The line of soldiers moved steadily toward the booth, some walking off immediately without even speaking to Bastrop, others asking questions of him before departing. A rare few stayed and were eventually directed to speak with Senior Sergeant Winger on the right.
A loud cry came from a booth twenty meters away. Troopers scrambled clear as a pair of mercs shoved another to the floor, his left lapel torn open and revealing the undergarment beneath.
“You doped your service panel and thought we wouldn’t run your chip?” A soldier behind the counter barked holding the downed man’s panel inside of a fist. “Central Records Processing says your panel is mostly lies. Maybe it didn’t occur to you that this isn’t some bush setup looking for quick-hires. We’re on Novar, dumbass, and you just earned a place on the damnation list.”
As the soldier regained his feet, he tried to explain, but the man in the booth simply threw the torn panel at the man in disgust and turned his back.
The trooper nearest to Sam leaned toward him. “A lesson to be learned right there,” he said with a gesture at the fracas. “Keep your stats and records up-to-date and on the up-and-up. Faking participation in campaigns or other gigs will get you blackballed. The Do-Not-Hire list means never working for a legit outfit again.”
“What’ll happen to that guy?” Sam asked as a pair of mercs forcibly escorted the man to an exit.
“Probably end up a criminal. Become a henchman or maybe sign on with some political wacko group fighting for a lost cause. Either way, it isn’t a life a trooper wants to live.”
“Where’d you go to service school, kid?” the scarred trooper with the impressively long stack of stint-marks asked. The name tape on his utilities read, HOLDEN. A solidly built man, but not physically imposing, Holden’s manner, hard gaze, and plethora of scars made him a fiercely intimidating figure.
“Carthage Infantry Institute,” Sam replied.
“That right?” he said. “You ever cross paths with a trainer named William Verro?”
“He was our primary,” Sam said gesturing at his comrades.
“That right?” Holden said with a nod. “We became pals during service school back in the day. Took our first stint together and over than a dozen more after. He got tagged prett
y hard a decade ago on Tenda. CII picked him up after he was mobile again.”
“Were you close?”
Holden’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, I’m thinking if you were close… and seeing as how Verro connects us, even of it is tenuous, maybe you could point us to a unit that might treat us greeners decent and not get us killed.”
Holden chuckled and nodded. “You’re quick, kid. There’s no guarantee on the second bit, but if the Red Light Company hasn’t gone to hell, you’re in the right line and you’ll get a fair shake. The sergeant manning the booth there knows Verro. Mention it to him. It’s a plus.”
“I will.”
“How well did you do at Carthage?”
“Top quarter, all nine of us.”
“You’re all from common upbringing, no political or corporate exec influence?”
“None. The cadets with connections took almost all of the top ten percent.”
Holden nodded with distaste. “They always do.”
“Sergeant Verro said that’s how it was played.”
“He would say that. Will was right. How did you shoot?”
“All of us were top five percent.”
“Sam was number one in our cycle,” Vincent said. “Smith, she was third I think.”
“Fourth,” she corrected.
Holden smiled, a slightly unnerving expression given his demeanor and appearance. “That right? Riflemanship is the heart of light infantry, but you know that. Shooting is graded strictly on performance. No outside influences to skew the results.” He canted his head toward the Red Light Company booth before speaking again. “If they don’t take you, play it careful at the other recruiter stations. If they make you an offer and you turn it down, many of them will put it on your record showing them rejecting you. Once you have a stint-mark or two, that crap doesn’t matter anymore, but until then it’s all you’ll have in your record and it’ll make life a little more difficult if it occurs.”
“Would the Red Light Company recruiters do that?”
“No. Senior Sergeant Winger is straight up and he might have a line on some other decent outfits. Don’t sweat it. Good service schools like Carthage don’t certify duds. You’ll catch on somewhere.”
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