“Sorry for sticking our nose in,” Napier replied before Nash could respond.
Napier’s expression told Myles the man knew why Jacks was distant even though he didn’t fully understand it himself.
“C’mon, Carrie,” the loader said with a tug on her arm. “We still have some things to do.”
Nash had sense enough to leave with her crewmate and as they walked beyond earshot, Myles said, “You don’t like Warrant Officer Nash?”
“Like I said, I don’t really know her or Cornelius. She’s seems to be a pretty decent walker jockey and Cornelius has been with the Red Light for a year or so and made it through Boomoon. They’ll probably be fine, but we’ll see once the shooting starts. She’s taking the place of a pal of mine, Sergeant Nate Halsey,” he said as he took on the same distant look he had when he learned about Chucky’s breakdown on the range. “He was my mentor and bought it on Boomoon along with his loader. See, I don’t want to know WO Nash. It’s nothing personal, it’s just that Halsey was a pal and she won’t be. It’s not her fault, but I’m not getting close with her.”
“What about me?”
“You’re crew, rook. We’ll be close whether we want to or not. We have to be. You seem like a good guy so we’ll probably be pals if you can stomach my pissy attitude. We have to work in a tight environment, so even if we’re not friends we’ll be close. See, friends and pals are different once you’re in a unit like this. It’s not like it is outside.”
“Outside?”
“Yeah, outside. The rest of the system, regular folk doing whatever it is they do in their day-to-day. Non-mercs, y’know?”
Myles nodded.
“See, here it doesn’t really matter if you have much in common except for one thing: knowing that you can trust a trooper to watch your ass. Those are pals. Those you get along with are friends, but they may not be willing to risk their neck for you. You’ll see mercs peel off into groups and usually those are the people who are friends and pals. They’ll take contracts together because that way they know there’s at least a few around they can trust. A lot of times you’ll see pals that don’t have a thing in common but one. You know that old saying, ‘A friend is someone who will help you move furniture. A best friend is one who will help you move a body.’ That one?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what do you call a trooper who has nothing in common with you risking his or her life to get your ass out of the wringer?”
“I don’t know. What do you call them?”
“You got me. Brother or sister maybe? Pal is what I’d call’em. When the fight’s on, pals are what you need even if you don’t like them. That’s the best I got.”
“I see what you mean. Better they be both. To change the subject, why aren’t you a warrant officer like Nash?”
“Because I didn’t go through a vehicle operator school. The Accords rank system is a bit convoluted. I used to be tech-n-mech which uses the same rank system as most combat arms, you know, private, corporal, sergeant, senior sergeant. My education was working on vehicles, not driving them. Ended up specializing in fixing light walkers and took a contract with the Red Light. When you fix’em you gotta test’em and that means driving’em. Brownie and Halsey saw that I could make a walker dance and mentioned my skill operating these beasts to Commander Kent. Short version: I ended up a walker jockey. Turned out I was damned good at it. Halsey took a similar path into walkers and that’s why we were buddies. It’s good to be tight with a few others, but damn it all does it ever hurt when you lose one of them. It’s part of this business, but… well, you learn to deal with the losses or you become something you don’t want to be. You need as many pals as you can find. You need friends too, but don’t have too many of them.”
. . .
Nearly the entire company stood around the medical track. Marked with the red and white emblems representing its non-combatant humanitarian purpose, the vehicle carried no offensive weapons. Serving as a field ambulance and emergency care station, it was almost universally referred to as the meat-wagon and was a new addition to the Red Light’s stable of vehicles.
Another addition was Medical Captain Franklin Meriwether who stood in front of the company with Commander Hawkwood. Everyone in the loose formation wore the clothing they would don for combat. For most it was combat suit, protective vest, and helmet.
“I doubt many of you know the good doctor here,” Hawkwood said. “He’s new to the unit but not his occupation. Today we make final checks before heading to the marshalling area tomorrow. The first check is the med interface. Weapons inspection, gear check, and vehicle readiness follows. Doc, the company is yours.”
“Wearing either the entire Sauf Systems Guardian infantry combat gear system or specialized clothing, you are equipped with the best medical monitoring and rapid treatment suite in existence,” the doctor said. “As most of you wear the infantry system, I will cover it as the monitor is essentially the same in the rest. Its three primary components are the combat suit liner, protective vest linkage, and helmet liner link. All three work together to monitor the physical health of the troop wearing it. Nothing here should be new whether you are a seasoned trooper or are fresh from service school. The medical interface is the same standardized type mandated by the Accords, but the Guardian line is the best yet. It is the first medical suite to offer real-time reporting once the system detects significant injury or disease. The display panel on the left breast of the jacket is standard as well and the same readout is available on your data receivers. Open the cover and follow the directions displayed on the screen. Dope-tabs are the same color-coded type you are used to. The suit itself has the best link and treatment lining in the game which might make the difference between living and dying. When directed, press the test key on the med panel. The system aboard the medico track is built to handle the entire company at once. We shall see if that is true.”
Doctor Meriwether walked to the dropped rear hatch of the med track and looked inside. Seeing his aides were ready he said, “Activate your test keys now.”
After a few minutes and some suit adjustments on a few troopers, Meriwether was satisfied.
“It’s a comfort knowing we can get dead or dismembered and our new doc’ll know about it in real-time,” a veteran Red Light trooper said after they were dismissed.
“Yeah,” another said cynically. “I’m sure he’ll rush right out to get us in that spiffy new track of his.”
“What? Not gonna happen,” said a third. “It might get scratched.”
The rest of the day was spent making the final preparations for moving to the marshalling area. All knew that once in, they would be locked down until the commencement of military operations.
. . .
With all of their gear packed into the track transporting them to the red zone, Bellvue had his team perform one last check on their arms and optics.
“Snipers, one last reminder about local conditions. Valenz has slightly lighter gravity and different planetary rotation than Novar. The latter probably won’t come into play in the shots we take, but the gravity surely will. Confirm you’ve made the proper adjustments. Don’t forget it. I’ve seen it happen… one time it was me that was surprised to find my rounds were well off where they should have been.”
“Written down, placed in the data receiver, and programmed into the scope, Sarge,” Matt said.
Healey and Taro echoed Hicks’ confirmation.
Satisfied they were as fully prepared as they could be, the eight members of the sniper team relaxed in the shade of their assigned track. Placed not far from the barricade that kept a sizable crowd of locals and others away, they were close enough to see and hear them. Several hundred people stood outside the high fence with local law enforcers patrolling the area.
Some of those gathered wore skull masks and black clothing with white bones painted on them to represent human skeletons. Carrying signs that read, WAR IS NOT A SPORT and NO ONE SHOULD PROFIT FROM WAR, they w
ere but one group there to protest. Other factions objected to damaging the environment, fighting a battle for solely corporate interests, or the seizure of private land for use as a battlefield.
While many were there to protest, most of the crowd was made up of spectators.
“I’ve got some serious coin riding on you,” a man yelled. “Don’t let me down.”
“I guess it makes sense,” Vincent said with a gesture at the crowd, “but I never figured there’d be spectators or betting.”
“My folks took me to see merc forces a few times when I was small,” Taro said. “‘Let’s go see the war machines,’ my dad would say. It’s probably why I ended up here. We had a battle zone about an hour’s travel from us, but the marshalling areas are as close spectators get unless they violate the safety areas that surround the red zones.”
“I used to wonder why they didn’t allowed vid feeds for public consumption,” Billy said. “I know the Accords forbid it but never understood why until I saw action. I doubt most outside of our line of business can even imagine what it’s like. Making it a vehicle for entertainment would make it even worse. Best keep it in the red zone.”
“I wish they had turned the public housing sky-rise where I grew up into a red zone. Knocking the place down would have been an improvement,” Vincent replied.
Hicks laughed. “You know, casinos run a betting line on some battles. A lot of mercs place bets on their own units.”
“Anyone ever bet against their own?” Sam asked.
“I heard it happened fifty or sixty years ago,” Bellvue said. “They say the response was swift and massive. Criminal prosecutions, Accords of War violation procedures, and a host of mercs who found themselves blackballed. Mercs might be unruly, but that shit is flat-out unprofessional.”
“Anyone know what the odds are in this little affair?” Nelson asked.
“It’s probably so little only the locals are betting on it. Even if there was a line on our upcoming fracas, do you really want to know the odds?” Bellvue responded.
Nelson shrugged. “Probably not.”
. . .
Red Zone
. . .
“Troopers, let’s get aboard!” Sergeant Hooton yelled. “Heavy machine gun team and intel specialist first followed by first squad. Team two, squad MG team, then team one, in that order.”
The soldiers filed aboard Track-82, one of three war-wagons assigned to Forrester’s platoon. Along with Rapid Attack Tracked Vehicle 2 and a demolition team, the platoon was headed for the east bridge. Up and down the column the same scene was playing itself out with other units boarding transport.
“It’s game time,” Fran Smith said as she walked up Track-82’s rear ramp.
“What we’ve all been waiting for,” Paulino said with nervous excitement.
It wasn’t long until the ramp closed and the track chief’s voice came over the intercom.
“Get comfortable and stay seated. We’ll be departing for the red zone before you know it.”
The terrain in the area was rural with gently rolling land broken up by a few low ridges and the occasional structure. Largely open grassland, there were also many woodland areas and as they already knew, a larger forested area lay south near the river. Two Hussar recon cars would lead the way followed by Rod Mitchell’s force headed for the western bridge. Immediately behind them followed the remaining recon vehicles who would lead the rest of the Red Light south.
Commander Hawkwood joined the sizable group of troopers led by Senior Sergeant Rod Mitchell. Tasked with taking down the western bridge that spanned the river, the force was a diverse gathering of mercenaries including infantry, demolitions, and vehicle crews. Near them sat their transportation and implements of war: two reconnaissance cars, the company’s two walkers, and a trio of tracks carrying Mitchell’s platoon and demo team.
“You know your mission,” Hawkwood said. “When we depart the marshalling area, take the western fork south of here and make your way to the target. Speed is key.” Pointing at Jackson, he continued. “Sergeant, you have the lead for the walker element.”
“Got it, sir,” Jacks replied.
“Any questions?” Hawkwood asked. Receiving none, he said, “Good hunting. I’ll see you in the middle.”
As the commander made his way to his command track, Senior Sergeant Mitchell looked over his force. “We’ll be the lead element out of the marshalling area. Same order as planned: Hussar recon cars out front followed by walkers, then tracks. Track Eight-Four takes the rear. Be sure the recon vehicles behind you do not follow. The last thing we need is a cock-up like that. If someone does, halt and get them back on course and roll like hell to catch up. Head for your vehicles and be ready to go when the word is given.”
. . .
As Jacks and Myles walked toward Lunatic Red, the greener tilted his head toward their counterparts headed for Bedlam Red.
“Nash technically outranks you, right? Why is it we’re lead walker?”
“That’s simple, I have more time in walkers and more time in the unit. This is something they probably didn’t cover in grunt school. I mentioned before about the mess the rank system can be, yeah? Warrants like Nash are specialists—usually vehicle jockeys—and don’t have authority over other troopers unless it’s given by the CO. Even then it’s usually limited. Other officer ranks carry more juice, but that's mostly in government or corporate units. Merc legions have them too, but that’s because a lot of the legions have corporate connections as well. In units like the Red Light, rank means less than ability. Take Captain Posey for example. He's an engineer and ordnance officer. No grunt or track crew is going to follow him into battle, but if he tells a trooper how they should handle explosives or build a structure, that trooper better damn well obey. Take Senior Sergeant Holden as another example. He's an NCO, but other than Hawkwood, nobody has as much command juice as him. I mean, he'll call Posey and other officers sir or ma'am, but you won't see any of them issue him orders, but if he were to tell an officer to do something, they’ll do it.”
“Because he has Hawkwood’s backing, right?”
“That and the fact he’s one of the best soldiers in the Jubilee. Plus, top sergeants operate as second in command in free companies.”
“So it’s experience and ability that matters more than permanent rank.”
“In units that take their soldiering seriously, yeah,” Jacks said as he stopped below the walker’s lower hatch. “We’ll see how Nash does. She might be better than I am and next time she’ll be lead. Rank won’t matter. It’s not likely, but it could happen.”
. . .
The two-lane highway south ran a winding course through the pastoral lands north of the red zone. The low ridge near the north bank of the river was visible from a fair distance, a tree covered land feature that was the only significant elevation in the area and both sides knew would play a key part in the battle to come.
Gravel shoulders and ten meters of mowed grass edged each side of the durable tarmac for the entire length of their trip.
The Y intersection where Mitchell’s force split off from the rest of the Red Light Company presented no drama for the unit as they continued south. At the tail of the Red Light’s column rolled Carmag’s vehicles that followed the same course as Mitchell with Savon bringing up the rear and trailing Hawkwood’s force south.
“Phase Line: Initial in sight,” the lead recon car reported. “Leave your sanity at the door. You can pick it up on the way out of the asylum.”
Bright red poles of three meters height supported a low fence on either side of an entry gate where large red and white signs made clear where the northern boundary of the red zone was. For most, the crossing was no insignificant matter.
For survivors of the fight on Boomoon it marked the return to war and conjured up remembrances of defeat, the loss of comrades, and the stark reality it could occur again.
Greeners felt the weight of fear and anxiety along with the buoyance of
excitement and eagerness. While the two might seem to offset one another, some found they fought for dominance—trepidation versus elation. Many questioned their choice of occupation now that they stood on the precipice of battle while others were keen to employ the training they had doggedly pursued in service school.
Even the veteran and vagabond troopers new to the unit felt something. Mercenaries who had crossed into dozens of red zones before knew each battle brought something unique in its place and time, things that were often lethal.
The Red Light’s recon car contingent led the way in, pulling well ahead once the column was fully in the red zone. The rapid attack track dubbed Rat-2 led the rest of the force with the three tracks carrying Dan Forrester’s platoon immediately behind. The four vehicles were bound for the eastern bridge spanning the river on a mission much like Mitchell’s.
Once clear of the boundary markers, there was nothing different about the terrain though the heavy tree cover was much closer now, a fact that worried many in the column.
. . .
Sergeant Ron Fell steered his track around another curve in the road with a frown on his face, an expression that had remained since the column had entered the dense woods. With tall trees and not near enough open ground on either side of the road to suit him, he felt the worry all ground vehicle crew had when in such environs. “The sooner we get out of here the better,” he muttered. “The open ground we passed through up north, that’s where we ought to be. Room to roll and slopes to use for cover, that’s track country.”
Sergeant Fell was track chief of Track-96, or Nasty Niner-Six as he called it. The senior track chief in the Red Light, he’d been pushing vehicles into harm’s way for a dozen years and driving war-wagons for the Red Light the last five. Hauling the first squad of Sergeant William Knight’s platoon and overseeing the platoon’s three tracks was his job and one he was happy doing—though constriction by tight and curving roads and little room to maneuver was one of the exceptions. “This isn’t track country,” he growled.
Free Company- Red Zone Page 12
