Free Company- Red Zone

by D K Williamson

  “They teach that to kids? Lucky you. I had to learn it once I took up this job. You think I might qualify for a merit badge?”

  “I doubt it, Jacks,” Myles said with mirth. “No way you’d meet the moral conduct code, but if it makes you feel better I’ll give you mine.”

  Jackson laughed. “Stay ready, partner. This thing’s kicking off pretty damned soon.”

  . . .

  “Got’em,” Jackson said. “Less than a hundred meters out and closing.”

  “How close will you let them get?” Myles asked.

  “That’s up to the grunts. When they fire, we join in.”

  Looking at the vid screens, Myles could see dark forms moving slowly but steadily toward the Savon line. Many of the shapes were larger than mere men. “Are those exosuits?”

  “That or Keen Steel has some awfully big troopers,” Jacks replied. “At least a dozen. This is more than just a probe coming in.”

  “Are they a danger to us?”

  “They can equip anti-tank weapons, so yeah. Not much of match for us though. Stand ready. As soon as this kicks off, I’m stepping clear of the trees and we go to work.”

  “I’m on the bolter and ready to load if you need it.”

  “That’s what I was gonna suggest.”

  Jackson watched the Keen Steel force close. Furrowing his brow as they approached to sixty meters from Savon’s positions, he wondered if their allies were unaware of the exosuits. The pace of the advancing force slowed to a crawl as if they sensed something ahead prompting Jacks to turn his head left and right in anticipation.

  A trip flare burst into brilliant light to the left followed by another almost directly in front of Lunatic Red brought the Keen Steel force into clear view. In the fraction of time before anyone fired, those to the north saw a combat wedge of conventional infantry in knee-deep water flanked by exosuited troopers.

  As the first burst of machine gun fire hurled rounds at the attacking force, parachute flares raced for the sky as blinding beams of spotlights mounted on exosuits cut the darkness that shrouded the Savon positions. More parachute flares came from the scrambling Keen Steel soldiers, but these flew low to land among Savon’s line.

  As Jackson sidestepped to the right, Myles saw a Savon trooper dash madly to hurl one of the flares into the water only to be cut down while the flare bobbed and burned a short distance away.

  The exosuit troopers fired long bursts from arm-mounted heavy machine guns, great streams of red slashes scorching the air. As he took aim at one of the war machines, it occurred to Myles they were loaded with nothing but tracer rounds and he wondered what it must look like from the dug-in Savon positions.

  The platoon to the east threw rounds and launched grenades at the closing enemy and drew return fire. From his viewpoint ten meters above the ground, Myles marveled at the sight.

  Lunatic Red’s 30mm auto-cannon chugged at five rounds per second, her hull traversing to spread high explosive rounds across the Keen Steel force. Plumes of water and flashes of destruction showed where each struck marsh, man, or machine.

  As Myles placed the bolter’s sights on the faceplate of an exosuit, the report of a 90mm shot and the sight of his target being ripped into pieces kept him from firing. Sparing a quick look at Jackson, he said, “What was—”

  “Grapeshot,” Jacks yelled. “Bedlam put a shot down their flank. A helluva—”

  The thump of machine gun fire rattling on the hull cut short Jackson’s commentary.

  A quick look showed Myles where the attack came from—a pair of exosuits backpedalling slowly and spewing red tracers at Lunatic, opposing force infantry falling back nearby.

  As Jackson opened fire with the 30mm, Myles chased one of the exosuits with the bolter sights. Firing as the machine continued its rearward march, he saw he missed his intended target. Instead of the chest plate, his shot tore into the right arm, silencing the weapon and dimming the bright spotlight. Seeking another hit, Myles was disappointed when a 30mm high explosive round struck the exosuit just below the head. A heavy slosh of dark water was the last he saw of the machine before he sought another target.

  Within minutes, the opposing force was beyond sight and Savon’s troopers ceased firing as the last parachute flare guttered out. Waiting to see if Keen Steel sought another round, it became clear an hour later they did not.

  While they stood watch from the spot behind the trees, Myles asked, “That kind of attack means Keen Steel has a bridge across the river, right?”

  “Probably,” Jacks replied. “I’d guess a footbridge or ferry. No light walkers or heavy armored combat suits, so it’s not something too hefty.”

  “Is using spotlights and tracers a common tactic?”

  “Lights, yeah. It plays hell with a trooper’s eyes. Had this fight lasted longer, they’d probably shut down the lights. I don’t think they expected us. Never been a grunt, but I’d imagine that could be unnerving to see. Savon did okay.”

  Seeing movement from the left, Myles said, “Something’s shaking.”

  Jacks nodded at seeing several soldiers from the neighboring platoon move into the water in front of Maxwell’s positions.

  “Checking for wounded?” Myles asked.

  “Maybe,” Jacks said flatly. “More likely seeking loot.”

  “Mind if I pop the upper hatch?”

  “You nosy or just wanting to let in some fresh air?”

  “Both.”

  “Go ahead. If things get interesting again, you best hope you can get buckled in pronto.”

  Myles unlocked the straps and stood. “I can. Been drilling.”

  Lowering the narrow ladder before opening the hatch, Myles was soon looking south. In the low light beyond the infantry positions ahead, he could see movement. Before he could say anything, it was clear he wasn’t the only one that saw it.

  “Who’s out there?” a voice barked.

  “Who wants to know?” a distant reply said.

  “Senior Sergeant Maxwell.”

  “No worries, Sarge. It’s Corporal Venti and a few others from Keeler’s platoon. We should’ve told you we were coming out here. Fucking walkers blasted the hell out of the power suits. Cost us some salvage. Who called for them anyway?”

  “Clear my area,” Maxwell shouted.

  “It’ll be hell to check this stuff if we wait til morning, Sarge. Best we—”

  “Best you clear out. That’s an order. You’re lucky we didn’t put fire on you.”

  “C’mon, Sarge. We’re—”

  “Last chance, Venti,” Maxwell said in a hard tone. “I’ll have you up for disciplinary action if you’re not headed back to your position in five—four—three—”

  Splashes and curses told Myles the troopers were complying.

  “I don’t get it, Jacks,” Myles said as he stepped down from the upper hatch.

  “What don’t you get?”

  “Let me get this straight. Savon yells for help and when we provide it they get angry?”

  “I heard them over the acoustic sensors. We saved them some casualties but cost them loot. Casualties were then, loss of loot is now. Exosuits are worth a lot of coin but I’d imagine the remains of those we took down aren’t in very good shape. Grapeshot and thirty mike-mike fire can make a mess,” Jacks said with a mean smile.

  “Say, do we get a share?” Myles said as he secured the ladder.

  “We could make a claim, but it’s probably not worth the effort given that most of the stuff their sifting through is waterlogged junk. By the time the arbiters, accountants, and lawyers get done dealing, we’d get a pittance many moons from now.”

  “But isn’t a pittance better than a—”

  “I know where you’re going, rook. More likely than not, they’ll want you on record stating precisely what happened to back up your claim. That means going to a hearing at your own expense. Seeing how Savon Light Infantry has their barracks on the other side of Novar, that means taking a sub-orbital shuttle there a
nd that alone will cost you more than you’d be receiving. Now if we’d forced a super heavy tank to surrender, a share of that’d be worth the effort. This isn’t something they cover in service school.”

  “It’s not. We get a share of the spoils when the Red Light wins, right?”

  “An optimist. Each trooper gets a piece. The company pulls a specified percentage and the rest is divided among the troopers or their survivors. The problem is a unit like ours isn’t in it to maximize profit. We’re in it to win it and that means there’s not often a lot left worth salvaging. That doesn’t mean you won’t see a nice increase in your personal wealth though. Survive long enough and you can retire young provided you’re smart with the coin.”

  Myles chuckled.

  “I say something funny?”

  “No. I was just thinking that I came here for my first night battle and it ends up being a class on financials.”

  Jacks laughed. “We are mercs, Myles with a Y. Battle is our business.”

  . . .

  Jack Hawkwood slipped the field phone handset into its cradle and looked up at Ray Winger and Terry Holden.

  “Commander Newcomen says it was no simple probe that came visiting. Exosuits and leg infantry in numbers. We’ll see what our walker crews have to say, but Newcomen sounded sure.”

  “Keen Steel has some form of crossing. Should the mortars try to drop it?” Winger asked.

  “If we’re draining them of grunts, no,” Holden said. “We want them coming in piecemeal.”

  Hawkwood nodded. “But if we don’t target the bridge, they’ll wonder why.”

  “The gap in the center bridge is not terribly wide,” Holden replied. “I’d be surprised if they don’t cross there soon. More likely they’re crossing downriver since they made a play at Savon.”

  “I agree,” Winger said. “Throw some mortar shells along the banks near the destroyed east bridge like we already are in the center. I’d keep the harassing fire up but pause it periodically. Maybe they’ll think we’re not adjusting for fire and are conserving ammo.”

  “I would suggest we run some infantry closer to the bridge,” Holden said. “They would expect some probing if we were seriously trying to keep them from repairs. We might consider pounding the area around the center crossing with mortars while that occurs. It would slow them, but not stop them and buy us more time to grind on their infantry numbers.”

  Winger nodded. “It might also make them question the skill of our mortar crews or those we have directing fire.”

  “How so?” Hawkwood asked.

  “If accurate mortar fire only comes down when infantry are in close proximity to the bridge, they’ll wonder why. The easiest explanation is stupidity or incompetence. Their mortars and armored vehicles are keeping up a fairly steady harassment campaign on the woods on the ridge. They’ll think it’s working.”

  “That they might,” Hawkwood said with a smile. “Gifford will think they beat off an attempt to stop their crossing.”

  “We might reinforce our feigned concern about the bridge by leaving some demolition charges when our troopers withdraw,” Holden offered. “At some point they’ll put their own ground-pounders on the north side of the river. When they do, when they find the charges, it—”

  “Sells our worry about the bridge,” Hawkwood said. “See to it, Terry.”

  . . .

  “Commander, Sergeant Jackson is here,” Captain Carol Frisco called across the command post.

  Nodding, Hawkwood waved the walker jockey and his loader to his field desk.

  “What’s your evaluation of Savon, Jackson?” he asked as the two arrived seconds later.

  “We only saw two platoons in action, Top, but they did all right for themselves. The platoon leader we spoke with seemed squared away, a guy named Maxwell. Put mission over loot. They faced a fairly potent attack. Our walkers tore their exosuits to pieces and it looked like there were a lot of dead opfor grunts.”

  “That was to be my next question. Good to know.” Looking at Myles, Hawkwood asked, “You handling the walker job?”

  “I am, Top. I just hope Sergeant Verro never finds out what I’m doing.”

  Hawkwood laughed quietly. “As long as you’re pulling your part of the load, he wouldn’t say a word except in jest. Keep up the good work, both of you.”

  “There another op going tonight, sir?” Jackson asked.

  “There is, but you’ve done enough this day. Were you volunteering or complaining?”

  Jacks smiled. “I rarely volunteer, sir. Just wondering if we were clear to top off on ammo.”

  “You are. Tomorrow…” he trailed off as he looked at the time display, “Rather, today is going to be a long one.”

  . . .

  Sergeant Fell seethed. Supporting an infantry attack—at night no less, he thought as he drove Nasty-96 slowly in the dark. Rolling steadily in the tall grass near the tree line on the southern slope of the ridge did have something going for it, At least it’s more open than the damned road through that wretched forest.

  “Watch south, Briggs,” Fell said over the intercom. “If they get a bead on us you’ll probably see it before I do. Don’t be shy about calling it out.”

  “If it means I keep energy beams from incinerating us, you don’t need to worry about anything except maybe losing your hearing ‘cause that’s how loud I’ll be yelling.”

  “You show remarkable sense for a grunt. If they start seeking us with spotlights, save your fire for those that lock onto us, got me? Otherwise your tracers lead them right to us.”

  “Got it.”

  Having already dropped their cargo of grunts, Fell and Briggs had the track to themselves. Tasked with providing supporting fire to cover Knight’s withdrawal from the bridge, Fell was taking them west before moving closer to the river.

  “Will we be able to see the smoke when the mortars drop it?” Briggs asked.

  “If the parachute flares are up, I’d say so. If not, the flashes from HE shells that come after will be easy enough to see in the dark. When that starts, that’s when we go to work.”

  Finding a low point in the rolling grassland, Fell brought Nasty-96 to a stop.

  Not long after the flash of automatic weapons fire came from near the bridge.

  “It’s started,” Briggs said.

  “Watch for the flares and mortars. I’m taking us a little closer to the river.”

  “Got it, Sarge.”

  “Let me know if you see any sign of the other tracks. They should be east of us. We need to keep distance between us.”

  Fell rolled slowly south and west as the fight continued. Impossible to hear from inside the track, Briggs found the sight mesmerizing and disconcerting. Parachute flares coming to life broke him from his thoughts.

  “Flares, sergeant,” he said.

  The track jolted a bit as the track chief put the vehicle in motion.

  “This is the part where we take upon ourselves the Spirit of the Red Light Company and help the grunts,” Fell said. “Commander Kent said that once in jest, but he was right. That’s the core of the unit. It sucks ass, but it beats a real job. Let me get us a little farther west. On my call, burn off a long burst and then hang on. Give me a shout when you’re letting off the trigger.”

  “We’re drawing fire our way, right?”

  “Crazy, yeah? You’re catching on.”

  Briggs flexed his hands and drew in a deep breath. “Ready when you are, Sarge.”

  Fell brought Nasty-96 to speed, the suspension absorbing the few rough spots they crossed.

  “Anytime, Briggs,” Fell said over the intercom.

  With a target already picked out and under the sight, Briggs fired a long burst, more than a hundred rounds at a weapons system that flashed repeatedly. As he lifted his thumbs from the trigger, an explosion lit the area as the last of his rounds struck.

  “Off the trigger,” he called. “I think I tagged something!”

  “If we can keep from getti
ng tagged ourselves, I’ll call it a job well done,” Fell said. “Hang on.”

  Nasty-96 cut hard to the right, G forces shoving Briggs roughly to the side. The sliding turn soon had them heading in the opposite direction as tracers cut through the air—Keen Steel fire seeking them.

  Impressed by the U-turn, Briggs said, “I had no idea a track could turn that tight.”

  “Most can’t, kiddo. Two reasons for that. One, most tracks don’t have me driving. Two, Nasty Niner-Six has a name. Named vehicles are safer and more reliable than those that aren’t. I can’t prove it, but it’s a fact.”

  As high explosive light auto-cannon rounds tore into the ground behind them, Briggs smiled at Sergeant Fell’s skill at keeping them clear of return fire.

  “Pretty neat trick,” Briggs said as Fell slid the track to a stop behind a stand of trees.

  “Don’t be where they think you’ll be, that’s what I call that one.”

  . . .

  Nasty-96 sat still behind the trees until things near the bridge quieted. Rolling slowly toward the tree line, Briggs watched for any signs of detection by their opponents. Drawing no fire, Fell took them toward the road. While fire had slackened to just a fraction of what it was earlier, there were still exchanges between Red Light troopers east of the road and Keen Steel forces near the bridge—a diversion to allow Knight’s troopers a chance to make it into the trees free of attack.

  As they neared the road, Fell slowed the track and said, “Watch ahead. Our guys might be hereabouts.”

  After rolling a short while, Briggs saw movement, troopers on foot headed north. Hearing the vehicle, the loose column halted.

  “Ahead and to the right, sergeant,” the gunner said. “Don’t know who they are, but they’re headed north.”

  “We’ll give’em a lift.”

  Stopping near the lead portion of the column and dropping the ramp before opening the hatch, Fell stuck his head out and said, “Get in and we’ll get you over the ridge.”

  “Fell?” a voice replied from the dark. “How the hell you do that is a damned mystery.”

  As the troops swiftly took seats in the back, Fell closed and secured the hatch.

  “They’re our squad,” he said to Briggs over the intercom. “No casualties.”