Jackson pointed to the twelve ports with color-coded rounds positioned base out in a three wide, four high arrangement. “When you pull a round out, another of the same type will take its place unless the ordnance folks fouled something up. The hatch will close automatically unless you override it. That override comes in handy when we need maximum fire rate, but when the hatch is open, the crew compartment is somewhat vulnerable if something catastrophic happens in the ammo magazine. Here in a training environment, override is a no-go. The rounds are color-coded according to type which we’ll get to. Note each port has a counter that tells you how many rounds remain in each mag slot. Just like the batteries and power reactor, the ammo is behind the rear bulkhead. If things go truly bad and we get nailed, all the boom is supposed to be directed away from the crew compartment. Even if the hatch is overridden to stay open, it’ll slam closed if that happens… hopefully before the crew gets incinerated. Having been in a few walkers that have been tagged, I’ll tell you it usually works as intended. Seeing as we’re at a range, that’s not likely to be an issue.”
Tapping on the filter on the side of the headset, Jackson said, “That mask is similar to those you grunts have on your helms but with filtration for fumes unique to certain combat vehicles like this one. They classify the rounds the ninety millimeter fires as smokeless, but that’s just a word. They are also supposed to be neutral out-gas. Another lie. Despite this vehicle being a top-of-the-line walker, when the action gets hot and the fire rate goes up the evacuation system can’t keep pace and we’ll have smoke and toxin build-up in here, so the mask will filter and provide air for a short while. See, the designers of these rigs figure they’ll be equipped with energy weapons, external missile launchers, and auto-loading main guns, and they’re mostly right in that assumption. But we do things a little differently here in the Red Light. It’s harder. It’s more work, but it also makes us more effective. You want to know what it is, this difference?”
“Of course,” Myles said as he adjusted the headset to fit.
“We use human loaders… obviously. At the end of the day, a good loader beats the machine every time. A human is a fraction of the weight and that means what?”
“More ammo? Maybe more armor?”
Jackson smiled. “You got it. I guess you only look stupid… or have you just been lucky with the answers so far? Try this one on. An auto-loader lacks a thing or two compared to a human loader. Want to guess what they are?”
“A brain and two hands? Maybe my stupid yet appealing good looks?”
Jackson laughed. “Close enough, rook. Auto-loaders do just what you tell them and nothing more. For sake of argument, let’s say I operate a walker with an auto-loader and set the thing to keep the main gun empty after each shot for versatility’s sake. Let’s also say I need to engage a tank one klick away. I punch the button for a spiker round. It loads it and as I fire a group of assholes pop out of the grass at a hundred meters with anti-armor launchers in hand. I curse and fumble for the button to bring up a grapeshot round while I try to scare them with the thirty millimeter. The auto-loader magazine has to rotate ammo supply until it can draw a grapeshot round. That takes time I may not have. See, those assholes out there a hundred meters away just might be hard-barked sumbitches and aren’t all that impressed with my thirty millimeter. Maybe they’re stupid. Maybe they’ve made it their mission in life to see that this walker and its legendary operator die. It doesn’t matter. While I’m waiting for the auto-loader, there’s a missile or recoilless round headed straight for my nose.
“If I have a human loader worth spit, I shoot at the tank and as soon as the assholes with an AT launcher pop up I yell for grape.” Jackson slapped a purple 90mm round in the rack. “The man grabs this, slams it in the breech and replies, ‘up!’ and in short order those assholes are just a smear on the landscape. Two crew in here beats one crew with automation when the two are a solid team. It’s the human that wins fights, not the machinery… usually.” He paused and smiled, “Think of it as The Path of Light Infantry doctrine seeping into vehicle operation.”
Rivers looked at the rack and shook his head at the daunting task he faced. “I’ll give you my best. So, purple means grapeshot.”
“That it does, rook. Hang on.” Jackson stood and dug into the cabinet again. Pulling out a plascard, he wedged it into a space between two nearby devices beyond Rivers’ knowledge. “A training aid. Red’s high explosive, HE is what we call it. Purple, well you know that one. Look, it’s on the card so do the best you can. We best get cracking before Hawkwood has us shot.”
“What’s with the rounds in the rack?”
“Good question. Those are there for occasions like I mentioned before, the surprises, the ‘oh shit’ moments. Take the same scenario I described before and let’s say I called for another spiker when the AT assholes show up. I’d call for grape and you’d swap them using the round hanging right by the gun. It’s a tick faster than pulling them from the magazine and sometimes that tick means everything. That’s another place where man beats machine. Study the plascard while I strap in.”
“Hey, Sergeant Jackson, does this headset provide hearing protection?” Rivers asked as the walker operator moved forward.
“It does. It’ll keep the decibel level in the safe zone. Noise cancellation and outright muting much like your grunt helm does. The ninety isn’t near as loud in here as it is outside. It’s a recoilless gun so it vents a portion of the bang backwards to counter the recoil. We don’t use countermass like your shoulder fired recoilless tube launchers do so there’s quite a backblast. It doesn’t negate all of the recoil, but it’s enough and most of the racket is directed out both ends. By the time the action locks open, the party’s over. Don’t sweat it. Study the plascard.”
The card provided the basics, descriptions of numerous rounds including the seven types currently loaded in Lunatic Red. In addition to red and purple marked rounds, the walker also had yellow-marked cannister rounds, a programmable antipersonnel shell; black-marked spiker armor penetration rounds; grey-marked lance rounds that used a plasma jet to defeat armor; orange-marked rounds called high explosive, plastic; and the green-marked ball rounds, solid projectiles that functioned as 90mm slugs.
“We’ll be firing all seven types we have loaded?” Myles asked.
“I doubt it. We carry seven for versatility. Right tools for the job and that sort of crap. An autoloader on a rig this size might manage three or four. What, your grunt brain have a problem counting to seven?”
Myles laughed. “Just asking, Sarge. Orientation in a new environment.”
“Orientation, huh? You probably noticed I talk fast,” Jackson said as he brought Lunatic Red’s systems up. “In this line of work it’s needed. Try to keep up as best you can and if I throw any insults at you don’t take it personally.”
Rivers shook his head again thinking about the situation in which he now found himself. Recalling the words of William Verro who said, “If you can’t get out of it, get into it,” Rivers feverishly scanned the card trying to commit the color codes to memory.
The walker vibrated and soon Rivers felt the sensation of motion as Jackson announced he had Lunatic Red in an operational state. The action of the cannon slammed open with a clanging sound, startling Rivers.
“Forgot one fairly important thing,” Jackson said over the headset. “I neglected to show you how to load the ninety. Think of it as a single-shot rifle and the rounds are cartridges. The ninety fires caseless ammo similar to your seven millimeter though some like the spiker use what they call boost-after-launch propellants to increase velocity. See the red panel just aft of the open breech?”
The panel was impossible to miss. A hand-sized square that became visible once the breech was locked rearward. “Got it, Sarge,” he replied.
“Once you drop a round in there, punch the panel and say, ‘up.’ That tells me it’s loaded without needing to see a display. Protocol says you repeat the type of round I ca
ll for when a switch is made. Don’t sweat it if you can’t keep up. Getting the right type loaded is the most important thing. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. See the yellow lever to your right near the barrel?”
“See it.”
“If the gun is loaded and I need a swap, yank it rearward and it will open the breech.”
“Got it, Sarge.”
“Okay. Until the breech is open, keep your mitts away from the gun. You don’t want the ninety to eat a hand. Let’s get this party started.”
Jackson keyed the external com. “Range Control, this is Lunatic Red. We are operational and ready to rock ‘n’ roll. We’ll skip the warm-up and proceed straight to qualification.”
“Roger, Lunatic. Stand by.”
After confirming Bedlam Red was ready, the range officer sent, “Standard multi-target engagement qualification.” Several seconds later, Range Control broadcast again. “The range is hot. I repeat, the range is hot. Stand by to engage targets. Fire at will.”
“Here we go, Rivers. Load’em right and I’ll do the rest,” Jackson said.
Rivers hit the hatch control on the magazine and looked at the twelve ports holding rounds. His hands shaking with nervousness, he drew in a deep breath and released it.
“Loader, ball!” Jackson called, his voice tight.
It dawned on Rivers that the sergeant was tense as well and it somehow eased his own anxiousness. “Ball is green,” he muttered as he reached for the round. Drawing it free, the hatch banged closed. Fumbling for a moment when he crossed up his hands, he managed to drop the round into the breech and punch the red panel. The action closed smoothly and with far less noise than he might have guessed.
“Ball, up!” he shouted in a voice an octave or two higher than his normal tone.
Less than a second later, a shockwave passed through the walker and the breech slammed open. A wisp of greyish smoke rose from the chamber only to be sucked into a vent in the bulkhead.
“Loader, ball!” Jackson called.
Rivers reached for the next round and paused as he momentarily forgot how to open the hatch. Cursing at his mistake, he rushed to load the round and dropped it but caught it before it hit the floor. Shoving the round into the gun and punching the panel he shouted, “Up!”
The cannon fired immediately followed soon after by the muffled thumping of the 30mm auto-cannon.
“Loader, ball!” came the call.
Myles hit the hatch release and drew a green-marked round cleanly, but still crossed up his hands as he made the transfer to the breech. I gotta find a better way, passed through his mind. “Up!”
The ninety rocked the walker once again.
“Loader, grape!”
Myles’ reaction was better this time, but out of quickly formed habit, he drew a ball round and cursed. Fuming at his mistake, he shoved the green round into a vacant slot in the rack and opened the hatch once again. Acquiring the correct round this time he drew it and tried a different technique. Drawing with his left hand, he let the nose of the shell fall downward and grasped it with the right once it pointed at the floor. Lifting the nose of the shell in the opposite direction, he guided it into the breech. Punching the red panel he yelled, “Grape, up!”
The ninety barked again and Rivers could tell no difference in sound compared to the ball rounds.
Expecting some choice words from Jackson about his slowness, he was surprised when all he received was, “Loader, grape!”
Things went smoother this time and as soon as he yelled, “Up!” he let out a short breath of relief.
The 30mm began pounding and then stopped, but only for a moment before firing again.
“Loader, ball!”
The call startled Rivers, but he was more surprised by his reaction. Before his brain registered what he was supposed to do, his right arm was already reaching for the yellow lever. Needing considerable effort to impel the device, he managed nicely and the breech opened, presenting him with the grapeshot round he’d loaded not long ago. Grabbing it, he found it warm to the touch, but not terribly so. Shoving the round into the rack above the gun, he retrieved a ball round from the magazine and loaded it using his self-developed technique.
Slamming the red panel he yelled, “Ball, up!”
For nearly half an hour Lunatic Red and its crew fired rounds at targets. Finally the call from Range Control came over the headset, “Cease fire, cease fire. Safety all weapons. The range is yellow. Range safeties and crews report.”
As other voices came over the com net and reported all was clear, Jackson keyed the internal com. “Confirm the ninety’s breech is clear.”
Rivers leaned over and after looking replied, “Ninety mike-mike is clear, sergeant.”
Both walkers reported cleared and safe weapons.
“The range is clear,” Range Control reported. “Stand by for scores.”
“Moment of truth, Rivers,” Jackson said over his shoulder. “We’ll see how we fared against that piece of shit Bedlam.”
“Isn’t it the same as this vehicle?”
“The same make of vehicle, but it’s not mine. Or yours for that matter. Lunatic is ours. That’s why Bedlam’s a pile of junk. Nothing against Warrant Officer Nash, but she’s not as skilled as me. Another reason Lunatic is a better beast than Bedlam.”
“You were stuck with a bumbling amateur on the gun, Sarge.”
“Kid, you didn’t do bad at all. Considering the circumstances, you did fuckin’-A all right for yourself. Hell, I forgot you were new to it after awhile. I don’t see any errant rounds rolling around on the floor. I don’t recall ever yelling at you to speed it up, so it’s in the realm of possibility I’m shorting you. Based on what I saw downrange, I’m betting we scored Bedlam.”
“Lunatic, Bedlam, Hawkwood here,” came over the coms. “Lunatic squeaked top score by just five. Primo scores both. Fine work by both. You are free to clear the range.”
Jackson whooped and began laughing as he looked to his left and cupped his hands at the sides of his head. “Can you hear that, Rivers?” he crowed. Before the greener could say he heard nothing unusual, Jackson continued. “That’s the sound of WO Nash and her loader cursing a blue streak.” Jackson pounded the edge of the console in front of him. “You done all right, girl. Let’s stroll our way off the range.”
The two walkers made room for vehicles from another unit and the members of the Red Light at the range made their way back to the unit bivouac.
Commander Hawkwood called several of those who were at the range to a review before dismissal. As part of Lunatic Red’s crew, Myles Rivers was one of those required to stay.
The commander was happy with the performance of the two light walkers, their scores among the best recorded under the current range configuration.
“How is Chucky?” Sergeant Jackson asked.
Hawkwood looked to Senior Sergeant Winger.
“He ought to be okay… eventually, Jacks,” Winger said. “He needs some professional help and will be down in the mind for awhile. He certainly won’t be deploying on our next contract.”
Jackson’s face betrayed little, but his eyes looked pained and distant. “Boomoon still isn’t done with us.”
“It’s not,” Winger replied. “Chucky balanced it for as long as he could, but once you became fully operational, well, that was the tipping point. A lot of ghosts and dark memories came rolling out.”
Ordnance and engineering section chief Captain Posey nodded and said, “I’ll check the records and see who has the quallies to replace him.”
“I did that at the range, sir,” Senior Sergeant Brown said. “We have a problem.”
Assuming where Brown was headed, Posey replied, “We don’t have a trained loader among motor or ordnance personnel?”
“Just those already—”
“There’s no one in T and M that has loader training or experience?” Posey said.
Brown’s scowl expressed his irritati
on. “My tech people just fix them, sir. Maintenance, not end-user. What I was trying to say was this: there are no unassigned trained loaders in the Red Light. Two on the walkers and two on the rapid attack tracks. Three now.”
“There’s not another experienced loader in the entire company?” Posey said. “Not a one?”
“The rest are dead or went elsewhere, captain,” a scowling Brown said. “As I said, I looked it up.”
Posey grumbled. “None of our ordnance people ha—”
“None, captain.”
Hawkwood snorted. “An oversight I should have spotted. Blame the new commander. Find a seasoned trooper that won’t fluster and put him in Lunatic Red. We’ll have to carve out some time to drill whoever it is. Hopefully we can acquire someone before we deploy.”
“Sir, can I say something?” Jackson said.
“It’s your vehicle, sergeant. Shoot.”
“I know we could do a quick hire and get a loader here in a day or two, but who knows how sound they might be? Manual loading isn’t exactly a common skill. Hell, half the mech schools don’t even teach it. Rivers will do. Brownie and me threw him in the deep end and he swam, sir. He might be a greener and a grunt at that, but he did near as well as any mechanized school grad might do and it was his first time in a walker. Hell, I’ve had worse loaders who had years of service under their belts. He’s sure not the fastest, but he loaded clean. He’s decent already and he’ll get better. We put up a helluva score with no warm-up and beat a solid crew doing it. I’m good, sir, but without a good loader we don’t put up those numbers.”
Hawkwood considered it before looking at Rivers. “Honest assessment, Private Rivers. Are you up to it?”
“I think I am, sir.”
“You’re not sure?”
“No, sir. Sergeant Jackson pushed me, but that’s not combat. I know that much. I will say I’m as sure of doing well as a loader as I am of doing well as a grunt. I just know less about the job.”
Free Company- Red Zone Page 6
