Free Company- Red Zone

by D K Williamson

  “How long have you been with the Red Light, Hoot?” Hicks asked.

  “Better than three years,” the sergeant replied. Those near him could see the nametape on his chest read, HOOTON, the source of the nickname Matt Hicks used. “Good units groom good soldiers. Knowing you’re not thought of as an expendable meat shield tends to make you feel some loyalty to a unit. That’s why I’ve stuck.”

  “I know Top feels that way, Sarge,” a trooper said. “What about Hawkwood or the platoon leaders?”

  “I don’t know all of them. Dan Forrester gives a damn about his charges. Sergeant Knight proved himself at Boomoon and that’s why he’s running a platoon now. Ray Winger isn’t running a platoon this time around, but he’s as good as you’ll find. I’ve never worked with Hawkwood before, but my read on him is he seeks to win smart in every engagement. That means not wasting resources.”

  “We’re resources?” another young merc asked.

  “Of course we are,” Hooton replied with a smile. “We’re flesh and blood weapons systems that are self-repairing if the damage isn’t too severe. Without us, wars don’t get fought. Hawkwood knows that. He also knows we’re humans. I’m not yet sure I’d follow him into the bowels of hell just because he asked, but I’d give him a chance to explain before I refused.”

  . . .

  Dismissed after seeing the vehicles secured in the company motor pool, Sam, Vincent, and Myles found their service school classmates and joined them for a trip to the mess hall.

  “Did you hear about Pauley and his followers?” Fran Smith asked as they walked.

  “How would we? We just got back,” Myles said.

  “A simple no would do,” Fran scolded.

  Myles rolled his eyes before smiling and saying, “No, Fran, we didn’t hear about Pauley and his followers. Why don’t you tell us about it.”

  “That’s better. They decided to play their intimidation game with some other greeners. It almost became a fight. Sergeants Winger and Mitchell intervened.”

  “By intervention I hope you mean they killed them,” Rivers said.

  “Not quite. They barked at them. Senior Sergeant Mitchell is not one you want to piss off. Anyway, they told Private Pauley they were aware of his attempts to throw his nonexistent weight around. They even mentioned Vincent and Sam. Hopefully that’s the end of it.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Vincent said.

  “You may be right,” Sam agreed, “but let’s not start anything, okay?”

  “I won’t start a thing. I might finish something though.”

  . . .

  Divergence, Drill, and Discovery

  . . .

  Moore Training Grounds was an exceptional complex of ranges, courses, and maneuver areas that served mercenary units based on the massive world of Novar and elsewhere. It was here the Red Light Company brought nearly every vehicle and soldier on the roster. Ranges were the first order of business with virtually every weapon in the inventory being put to the test along with their operators.

  The 90mm recoilless gun was the most destructive arm used by the Red Light. Equipping the two walkers and the pair of rapid attack tracks, the guns were potent and versatile. At the opposite end of the spectrum was the service pistol carried by troopers in non-combat jobs and those who sought a portable spare weapon. Between the two extremes was a myriad assortment: mortars in 125mm, 84mm, and 60mm varieties; shoulder-launched 90mm recoilless launchers used to engage armor; 35mm grenade launchers, in full-auto belt fed and single shot versions; rifle grenades fired from the muzzle of the standard issue 7mm Crocket Battle Rifle Model 18, pistol caliber chatter-guns carried by many vehicle crewmembers; the 30mm auto-cannon that the two walkers used; and 11mm heavy machine guns, used on many types of vehicles and by exoskeleton equipped heavy machine gun teams to support the infantry.

  By far the most common arm was the battle rifle utilizing the potent 7mm caseless round. In three different types—standard, precision, and sniper versions—the rifle was the mainstay of the Red Light Company’s infantry component. Backed by light and medium machine guns plus snipers using 7mm and 11mm arms, the Red Light’s ground pounders were a force unto themselves provided they shot well when it counted most. The ranges at Moore were to be used to make sure they would.

  The first few days were filled with skill evaluations such as obstacle and land navigation courses, weapons assembly and disassembly proficiency tests, physical tests of strength, coordination, and endurance, and many more. Following this, the company began a rapid cycle of weapons ranges and vehicle courses. Amidst this, there was some inevitable downtime but Hawkwood, Winger, and Holden saw to it the time was not simply rest. Troopers were encouraged to observe their peers as a means of familiarization with vehicles or weaponry they were unacquainted with. For many of the greeners, it was an opportunity to see things in the flesh they had only read about or seen on vid.

  With a rifle range scheduled for the afternoon, Sam and Vincent decided to observe the company’s two walkers at a live fire range with Brennan and Rivers. After eating breakfast, the two made their way to the transport that would take them to the range.

  “The tracks have a larger assortment of weapons, but it will be quite a show seeing the walkers cut loose,” Sam said as they took a path past the latrines near their bivouac.

  “Never seen anything but vid, so seeing the quad eleven millimeters on the RATs fire would be something,” Vincent replied. “I guess we’ll have to wait until some track jockey takes a crack at us in battle.”

  “That’s a real comfort, pal. Now you—”

  Sam’s comment was cut short as he threw an arm up to block a dark object closing on his face. Barely getting the arm up in time, it was enough to deflect the projectile so it only landed a glancing blow just above his right ear.

  Glancing or not, it was enough to drop Sam and as he hit the ground dazed, Vincent saw the object was a sandbag and also identified who threw it, Private, 2nd Class Pauley. The clinking sound he heard when it impacted the dirt made it clear it contained metallic objects with some weight.

  “What did you put in there?” growled one of Pauley’s companions.

  He didn’t have time to respond. A raging Vincent Davout stormed at the four with clenched fists held in a fighting pose.

  “Hey, look, we didn’t know he intended—” one of Pauley’s comrades managed before a hard right dropped her.

  While Sam regained his wits and equilibrium, he saw his friend in the middle of three troopers giving as well as he got. Rolling onto his side and pushing himself up, Sam realized his left wrist was injured and impaired. Getting to his feet, he staggered light-headed into the fray. Taking Pauley down with a sloppy tackle, the two rolled in the dirt while Vincent pounded the two who remained standing.

  Despite the pain in his wrist, Sam blocked the blows of his opponent while landing quite a few rights and gained the advantage on his opponent. At the edge of awareness he heard shouts and looked up to find Senior Sergeant Winger and a few other troopers closing. Pulling Sam and Pauley to their feet, Healey saw Vincent stood alone, nose and mouth dripping blood, amidst three fallen foes surrounded by dozens of troopers looking on.

  “Somebody want to detail what happened here?” Winger growled.

  “I saw the whole thing,” a still seething Vincent said as he wiped blood from his nose. “Except part of Sam’s pounding of Pauley there.”

  Winger grumbled. “I’ll want to hear your version, but first, there must be a few neutral witnesses. Let’s start there.”

  It didn’t take long for the story to take shape. Pauley had told his companions he was going to pull a prank on Sam and Vincent in retaliation for his false belief the pair had complained to Sergeants Winger and Mitchell resulting in a verbal dressing-down. Unbeknownst to Pauley’s companions, he had placed three weights used to balance supply trailer wheels in the sandbag he threw. Vincent’s charge was a surprise as well and once he had landed blows on all four in Pauley’
s group, the fight was on. Given the weight and makeup of the assault, Pauley now faced criminal charges.

  Every one of the six combatants needed medical attention. While all the injuries were relatively minor, Sam’s wrist was the most serious, one requiring him to wear a flex-cast for a few days. With Pauley taken away in the custody of law enforcement personnel, the other five were disappointed to find they would miss watching the company’s walkers in action that morning, but would be able to take part in the afternoon’s rifle range.

  . . .

  Bedlam Red fired both of her cannons at once to start the festivities, eliciting whoops and cheers from the grunts seated in stands next to the range control tower. While the 30mm auto cannon thumped its steady beat of five rounds a second, the sound was overwhelmed every few seconds by the savage bark of the 90mm high-velocity main gun, the shock wave palpable to those there for a show.

  As Bedlam’s weapons put rounds downrange, her fellow walker stood silent and unmoving.

  “Lunatic Red, the range is hot and we’re burning daylight,” Hawkwood broadcast from the range tower.

  “Roger that, sir, but we’ve got a problem,” Sergeant Jackson replied. “It’s Chucky. He’s got the shakes.”

  Senior Sergeant Winger grimaced. “Corporal Adams, sir. Jackson’s loader. He was wounded pretty badly when Lunatic Red got smoked on Boomoon.”

  Hawkwood nodded.

  “He’s bugging out!” Jackson sent. “Cease fire! Cease fire! I have to put the vehicle to rest before he hurts himself.”

  The rangemaster repeated the command for cessation of fire and Bedlam Red fell silent as Lunatic Red squatted. With the hull nearing the ground, the lower hatch opened and Corporal Adams dropped out and fell to the ground landing heavily. Standing on wobbly legs he staggered to the rear drenched in sweat, his face bone white.

  “Get the medicos on him,” Hawkwood said, “and get a damned loader aboard Lunatic Red. We’re burning money here.”

  “On it, sir,” Senior Sergeant Brown said as he pushed through the door. Running down the steps and over to the stands, he looked over the troops observing the walkers and snarled. Seeing no one from the motor section that serviced the walkers, he shouted, “Anyone here loader trained?”

  His question was answered with headshakes and bewildered looks. Fuming, Senior Sergeant Brown’s eyes scanned the stands before they locked onto Private, 3rd Class Myles Rivers.

  “You! Get over here,” he yelled.

  Rivers’ eyes grew wide before he looked left and right several times.

  “Rivers!” Brown yelled. “I mean you.”

  The greener climbed from the stands and trotted to Senior Sergeant Brown’s location.

  “Come with me,” the sergeant said as they headed toward Lunatic Red. “Jackson’s loader is down and I need you to fill in.”

  “Loader? I’m a grunt, sergeant. I don’t have a clue as—”

  “You don’t need one. You have a brain that seems to function well enough and if you can load a rifle you can load a recoilless gun. It’s just… bigger scale. Sergeant Jackson will get you up to speed. Range time is expensive and an idle weapons platform makes it cost even more.”

  Rivers opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came to mind. Looking over his shoulder he saw Lee Brennan shrug and laugh. Grimacing at his friend, he turned and followed Senior Sergeant Brown with a look of confusion.

  Stopping under the crouched vehicle, the pair saw Jackson’s face peering out of the lower hatch.

  “How’s Chucky?” he said.

  “Medicos have him,” Brown replied. “Here’s your temp loader. He’ll fill in until I can get somebody to take his place. You know anyone else who has loader experience?”

  “No. I don’t work personnel, Sarge.”

  Giving Jackson a dirty look he said, “I’ll find somebody and we’ll get them set up later today. Show Rivers the basics and get this beast back in action before Hawkwood comes down here and annihilates us all.”

  “Give me twenty minutes to get this guy ready.”

  “You got ten… if we’re lucky. Annihilation, Jacks.”

  Seeing Rivers’ youth and no rank insignia on his uniform, he knew the trooper was a greener and noting his helmet and frag vest indicated he was an infantryman at that, Jackson’s face displayed his displeasure. Grumbling, he waved a hand and said, “There’s a knack to hopping into these things,” he said, the words coming like a burst from a machine gun. “Hands up, jump, and get your elbows out. I’ll pull you in.”

  “Time it right, kiddo,” Brown said, “or your adoring audience in the stands will have something to rib you about for a long time to come.”

  Myles moved directly under the hatch, drew a deep breath, and jumped. As soon as his head made it inside the walker he threw his arms out and gained purchase on the floor of the crew compartment. Pushing up, he felt a hand grasp the loop on the back of his armor vest and was soon sitting inside with his lower legs hanging through the hatch.

  “Not bad, rook,” Jackson said. “Enough rest. Let’s get to work.”

  Pulling his legs inside, Myles made room for Jackson to kneel and close the hatch. Once done, the walker operator stood, hunching over due to the low overhead.

  Rivers immediately noticed there was little space inside such a large vehicle and not a single transparency, an act not lost on Sergeant Jackson.

  “Nope, not a window in the place,” the sergeant said. “You want a view outside, it’s all vid and periscopes peeping from behind thick transparent blocks of ballistic material. Lose the armor vest and helmet. I’ll get a loader’s harness and crew headset for you.”

  While Myles removed his gear and turned off his helmet’s systems, Jackson opened a small cabinet and retrieved several items. Tossing a vest with several strategically placed D rings affixed to it, Jackson said, “Put that on. Strap it snugly, but not too tight. You’ll need to move and breathe.”

  It took less than a minute for Rivers to complete the task.

  “Hey, you’re the sharp-eyed guy from the Maelstrom depot,” Jackson said. “Rivers.”

  Myles nodded.

  “At least you know a little bit about walkers. I’d give you the full tour, but we’re in a hurry so listen up.” Pointing forward at the operator’s position he continued. “That’s my office.” The seat was oriented like a recliner, a joystick on each low arm and before it was a wall of screens, displays, and even mechanical meters of various kinds using dials and tapes. Beneath all this were two pedals much like aerospace vehicles used. “You’ll notice the bulkhead just to the right of the ops position runs all the way to the rear bulkhead. To the right is mostly thirty mike-mike auto-cannon and ammo. To the rear it’s mostly power generator, batteries, and ninety-millimeter ammo storage.”

  Kneeling next to Rivers, Jackson pointed to the left side of the interior. The greener’s eyes were drawn to what bore more than a passing resemblance to a giant rifle action protruding from the floor and outer bulkhead. Near it was a padded section jutting up from the floor with a saddle-like riser in the middle of it. “That’s the main gun, right, sergeant?” he said.

  “Roger that. You’ll note the breech is exposed. You know why?”

  Seeing several 90mm rounds of varying colors mounted in a rack within arm’s reach of the weapon and knowing he was there to serve as a loader, Rivers made an educated guess. “The cannon is manually loaded.”

  “That was an easy one, I know. See the thing on the floor? It’s called a loader’s saddle. That’s where you’ll be except when some emergency befalls us like putting out a fire or finding my severed head if we get hit. I’m hoping neither one happens. Saddle up and I’ll adjust your retention straps.”

  Rivers stood astride the saddle and sat. Jackson began clipping the ends of straps to various points on the vest. Noting that each strap had a number that corresponded to those at each D ring on the vest, Myles assumed Jackson’s description of the straps told him all he needed to know.
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  “In case the word retention confused you, I’ll tell you that these will keep you in place while allowing you to work,” Jackson said. “The saddle is adjustable. The thing jutting up behind you is called a cantle. Adjust that first, then the rest.” Finished attaching the straps, the sergeant leaned back. “See the covered panel on the left side of your chest?”

  Rivers looked down and nodded.

  “Lift the cover and push the control.”

  The greener did as ordered and the straps fell free.

  “When the retention system is in place and properly secured,” Jackson said as he reattached the straps, “you don’t need to worry about slamming into bulkheads or being thrown around if I manage to stack this thing up. Despite all the whiz-bang AI, gyrostabilization, and computer assist, a walker can end up on its ass or fall on its face like some drunken trooper. These straps will keep you from becoming meat waffles. Give it a quick try.”

  Myles threw himself fore and aft, left and right, finding Sergeant Jackson spoke true.

  The walker operator passed a headset to the greener and helped him adjust it for correct fit. Skeletonized, padded, and equipped with headphones and a mic, the set provided some protection as well. Attached to the right side of the headset was a breather/respirator.

  “There’s a wire with a plug behind your right ear. That plugs into the vest at the shoulder,” Jackson said as he connected the two. “The strap behind your right shoulder carries the wire that connects you to the vehicle coms. If you happen to forget it, it’ll disconnect itself without damage.”

  Pointing past Myles he said, “Look to your left. That hatch is access to the main gun magazine. Throw the latch and open’er up.”

  The hatch was set flush with the rear bulkhead and the latch barely protruded to form a shape that could be grasped but was unlikely to snag on clothing or gear. Quickly figuring out the handle at the top of the latch needed to be depressed before the latch could move, he did so and the hatch retracted slightly into the bulkhead before sliding open with a hissing clack.