by Vance Huxley
“Jasper is done. He’ll cark it if we move him, he’ll cark it if we leave him and there’s no Copter coming.” Sandman sighed. “I’ll do it.” He pulled his bayonet.
“Hang on. Hood?” Hood came over and Bobby kept his voice down. “Give me a GV.” Bobby knew Hood always had a spare.
“Who needs a Goodnight Vienna? What if the Plebs catch me?” Hood glanced at the still figure and realisation hit. “Oke, but I’ve only got one more.” He passed across the packet containing the hypodermic full of clear liquid. Nobody knew why the lethal doses were known as Goodnight Vienna, but the name had stuck. Bobby passed it to Sandman. “Unless you want me to?”
“No. He’s one of mine.” Sandman glanced at Hood. “If we make it, I owe you.” Hood grunted and moved off while Sandman went over to Jasper. A few moments later he started removing weapons, ammunition and body armour. The rest noticed and a couple of men went over to help before burying the body in debris.
Dawn had broken, but the amount of sun filtering through the low cloud barely classed as daylight. The dim light revealed deserted streets so the rioting Plebs were either at the remaining firefights or sleeping it off. The rest seemed to be keeping their heads down, probably wisely since there were Pleb bodies here and there that had never been near a Trooper let alone been killed by one. Some old scores had been paid off in the dark, along with a bit of opportunistic mugging. Siflis led the twelve survivors down windowless alleys or through empty shops and sweatshops where possible. Where they weren’t deserted, the silenced pistol, garrotte and knives kept anyone raising the alarm. For two slow hours the dozen heavily armed men crept on, or waited patiently for the right moment to cross a street or alley.
* * *
“We are totally pooched.” Bells might be right this time. Bobby looked at the hundreds of Plebs crouched behind every possible bit of cover, and all looking at or aiming a weapon towards the ornate tram station. Ornate and badly chewed by flechettes and a few heavier weapons, but the windows still spat out flechettes now and then. Bodies littered the approaches to the station, with a thick swathe between the trams themselves and the beleaguered Troopers. The bodies were mostly Plebs, but there were too many Troopers mixed with them for Bobby’s liking.
“They’ll run out of ammo in the end if the management don’t send help.” Sandman might be right, but the only way to get help involved going right through that horde.
“We can’t break in through that lot.” Siflis snorted. “Even at night I couldn’t get through there. They’re thicker’n fleas on Frog spam.”
“My wrist comp can’t raise anyone in there so something happened to their coms. We need a diversion.” Bobby looked up at the Copter high above, circling without actually doing anything. “Pity they can’t provide one.”
Sandman chuckled. “We’d need more than that. We’ll stick out like a bledrin Line Manager in a spam-house.”
“We can cure that part.” Bobby nodded to the Pleb bodies laid in the room, presumable killed while driving the Troopers into their present position. “Our weapons won’t look out of place.” Too many of the Plebs besieging the tram station had carbins and there were even Trooper sergeant shotguns out there. Bobby marked the positions of the Plebs on his wrist map.
“Dressed like that our own lot will shoot us and they’ll shoot straighter than the Plebs. We need some sort of cover.” Sandman had a point about the Troopers. They would be trigger-happy.
Bobby fixed Siflis with a glare. “How many flares have you got? The real number.”
Siflis looked a bit shifty and then confessed. “Three red, one white and two green.” He shifted uncomfortably. “But I’ve only got two pistols for them.” Behind him Bells sniggered because Siflis hoarded gear and hated even admitting he’d got it.
“I’ve got a flare pistol, but we used up the flares trying to get help.” Sandman spat on the floor. “For all the good that did.”
Bobby looked back out of the window and reassessed, because that was better than expected. “You haven’t got a shotgun or another grenade or two as well?” Sandman shook his head ruefully. “Right, we’ve got a plan. I just hope HQ really do send the column, because we’ll never get out again on our own.”
“You heard the dick. They won’t abandon a Supervisor.” Sandman didn’t sound totally confident.
“I’m more worried about him carking it once we’re in there. The last update the dick got before base lost the signal was that the Super had caught one. He’s still alive, but if it was a bad one?” Bobby shrugged.
Sandman’s brow furrowed in thought. “They know he’s alive, so there must be some contact.”
“Yeah, that’s odd. Why do they need your radio in there before sending relief?” Bobby shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. We go in there, or die out here eventually.”
“So what’s the plan?” Sandman smiled. “Yours must be better than mine, because I can’t think of any that don’t finish with me face down out there.”
“Can you talk to the Copter? If not, it will have to go through the dick back in Control and the flyboy might not get the message through all the dohs. It’ll take forever to get that bledrin Homer to understand, and then he’s too full of his own to just pass it on.”
Sandman adopted the monotone used to deliver official announcements. “Troopers are not allowed to contact Copters in case we divert them from essential missions.” The rest sounded a lot more caustic. “Like taking fresh bog paper to the management.”
“Typical. Well here’s how it will go if the basted will pass the messages.” The four heads bent in to listen and then spread out to pass the word. The men started stripping clothes from the right sized bodies, and conducting a thorough search for weapons and ammo. Bobby sighed, and contacted the Homer in Control. “If you want to get us in there to put the Supervisor on the radio, this is what we need. Sluur.”
* * *
Bobby watched the Copter as it moved away a bit before settling into a straight run. The twelve of them were now in a different building, one that gave them a better run at the tram station. The bodies in here had now been searched, and everyone’s pockets and packs were crammed with various types of ammo and notsi weapons, the better ones. Some of the rejected weaponry might be as dangerous to the user as anyone else. “Let’s go, nice and casual like, and slouch. We’re Plebs, remember.”
“Speak for yourself, I’m management slumming it.” That brought a few nervous laughs but Bobby ignored Bells.
“You’ve got it straight?” Sandman, next to Bells, nodded. Siflis unravelled his wire and let it hang from one hand, then took position just behind Bobby.
The group wandered out of the doors and towards the rear of the Pleb lines. A few glanced back so Bobby waved. One of them gestured and Bobby spoke quietly. “Crouch a bit lads. The nice Pleb doesn’t want us catching a flechette.” All of them bent over and continued forward. Bobby moved over towards one of the two who appeared to be in some sort of command on this side. The man carried a shotgun and had two plebs just in front of him, presumably guards, while he sat behind the rest to direct them. Sandman moved towards the other possible commander, who also had a shotgun but only one guard.
Bobby stuck a hand in his pocket, casual-like, and eased his silenced pistol out a little. The man looked back and smiled. “We’ve gottem trapped like rats. There’s a Super in there and I want the basted alive.”
“Me too.” Bobby smiled back and kept coming to pass nearby.
“That’s a different shotgun. Where did you get it?” Bobby had the single barrelled in his other hand and he waved it. “Off a body of course.” A couple of men glanced back and then looked forward again.
“Shite, what’s that for!” The man looked forward where the Copter had just dropped three napalm kegs at the opposite side of the tram station. “Are they breaking out?” The rattle of weaponry rose as Plebs on the other side and a few here tried to shoot the Copter. As he came past the distracted commander Bobby brou
ght out the silenced pistol to shoot both the guards in the back of the head. Then he knelt, quickly pulling them down below the heap of boxes. Bobby laid a carbin over the boxes as if he had taken over guard before glancing across.
Sandman sat holding the shotgun, with the dead Pleb out of sight at his feet. He’d even put on the dead man’s safety helmet so that from a distance nothing had changed. Bells had settled in to replace the guard, holding some sort of oddball automatic. His wounded hand held the Kraut so Bells must still have some ammo. Bobby didn’t look back because he knew the Pleb commander would still be sat behind him. Siflis would be holding the Pleb upright, though the wire round the dead man’s throat would be impossible to see with his head tilted forward a bit.
The rest of Bobby’s men came past, but then it started to unravel a bit. “Hey, you’re not…” At least someone threw a knife instead of shooting the Pleb but more heads started to turn.
“Fire!” Three arms came up and three red flares shot off towards the tram station. One fell a bit short but all three started burning, emitting clouds of evil smelling smoke. The next two, the green ones, filled out the short line beyond the Pleb forward positions in no-man’s land. Bobby raised his voice and pointed. “Smokescreen! Come on, let’s get the Doggies.” The Plebs often called the Troopers the management’s guard dogs, or Doggies.
All twelve of Bobby’s men started running through the startled Plebs, aiming for the front line. “Come on, quick, while we’ve got cover.” Cries of agreement rose, and some of the Plebs lurched to their feet.
Behind him more shouts of “kill the Doggies” started up. Bobby hoped he could stop the Plebs now the basteds were started. The Plebs behind the piles of boxes and bodies forming the forward positions turned, startled, as a growing crowd pounded towards them. Bobby didn’t give them a chance to decide on joining the twelve out in front or not.
“Now, Troopers!” All twelve opened up from the hip and the fifteen or so Plebs died in a hail of flechettes and buckshot. The twelve Troopers jumped up onto the forward positions then down the other side, running as if the CEO himself was after them. As he came over, Hood put his arm straight up and fired the white flare, before stumbling as his wounded leg buckled.
Bobby made a dozen paces before flechettes came whining past from behind and a few came through the smoke and flame ahead, from the Troopers. The smoke stank worse than the usual because the flares were burning into the thick carpet of bodies, so he daren’t get nearer. “Drop! Get rid of the jackets!” Other voices took it up as Bobby pulled hard at his own Pleb jacket. The deliberately loosened fastening at the back split, and it came off and hit the floor. He turned and dropped behind a pair of bodies laid partly on each other, forming a small breastwork.
The ripping sound of Bells’ Kraut cut through the air, and the hail of plastic catching the forward Plebs as they came over the barricade. Moments later more and more carbins joined in on full auto. The front ranks following Bobby died while the Plebs still coming over the bodies and boxes wavered as their comrades went down. Bobby got another round into the shotgun and let fly. The roar echoed a louder one from Sandman, letting go with both barrels of his capture. The combined buckshot tore holes in the crowd hesitating on the forward barricade. Then Siflis gave them both barrels of his new shotgun.
Someone in the tram station must have decided the sudden burst of firing meant trouble and a hail of flechettes came through the smoke and flame. “Heads down, heads down!” A Trooper flechette through the back of the head would be just as fatal as a Pleb fired bullet. Bobby put his carbin over the top of his protection and let a full clip go. There were only Plebs out there now so he swept it across to catch them about waist high. He peeked over, just in time for the finale.
The Copter arrived a bit late but if he’d needed the time to be that accurate, Bobby wouldn’t complain. A long line of flame gushed skywards just behind the Pleb barricade, followed by screams and then thick smoke. The flame still burned inside the smoke as the screams reached a crescendo, then started to taper off. Bobby wasn’t paying attention any more. “Crawl back, get away from the fire.” Even as he spoke, Bobby carried on shooting any Plebs still this side of the wall of flame, as did most of his men. Shouting from behind caught his attention and Bobby rolled onto his back.
The smoke from the flares had thinned. He stuck the nearly white vest he’d taken from a body before they started onto the end of his carbin and lifted it, waving. “It’s Beebi. Don’t shoot, it’s Beebi.” He screamed it as loud as possible and four or five other voices took up the refrain, it’s Beebi, until a bullhorn sounded from the tram station.
“Beebi? Why are you here you stupid basted?” The voice paused. “Ah, right. Do you want us to stop shooting?”
“Yes, you bledrin Homer. I’ve got a dozen out here, and we’re part dressed as Plebs.” Back in the tram station Bobby could hear the calls to cease fire. “I’m going to stand up. If you shoot me, I’ll set Siflis and Bells on you!” Bobby went up onto his knees, calling out to his group. “You lot watch the Plebs. Two men give cover at each side so I’m not shot while I sort this.” Short bursts started up on both flanks.
The bullhorn blared out. “We see you. Oke, come on in.”
“Not until we get some more ammo or have you got plenty?” Bobby still had clips from the bags Sandman brought, but the bodies around him carried a lot more.
“Shite, no!” Another silence followed. “Yes, of course we have, but the Super says do what you usually do.” Bobby smiled because his squad were always in trouble over stripping corpses for weapons and ammo.
“Right lads, sound off. Who made it?” Nine answered and two of the voices came from much too near the Plebs. One of those came from Hood and he didn’t sound good. Bobby scuttled over.
“You bledrin eejit, you’ve got yourself shot.” Hood’s left leg looked a mess. “Hang on, I’ll stick a bandage on.”
“Thought I’d sprained it. That’s three times tonight, all the same leg.” Hood face had gone sheet white, and his grimace didn’t come close to a smile.
“Lucky you, it’s a metal job so there’ll be no scars.” Hood passed out when Bobby straightened his leg which stopped him twitching and probably screaming while Bobby tightened the tourniquets and lashed a carbin to the leg as a splint. He put on two tourniquets since the leg had to be a lost cause and they’d stop the rest of Hood from bleeding out. “Hey, give me a hand.” The Trooper nearby stopped searching bodies to hook a hand under Hood’s armpit, and they dragged him to the tram station. A Corporal stood just inside the door, hastily unbarred as they approached. “Give me a dozen men to strip out ammo and weapons, sharpish. That smoke will die down soon.”
The Corp glared at Bobby. “First, the Super said not. Second, I’m a Corp three and you’re...”
“In charge. Do it.” The Super might be through a door and didn’t sound good, but his ears and voice worked. At least the Corp didn’t argue so Bobby headed back out and sure enough a dozen Troopers came out after him.
“Every weapon, every round, even if it’s notsi. Come on, sharpish.” The flames from the napalm were dying back though the smoke still made a solid wall, a lot better than Bobby’s impromptu version. Siflis came past, clutching his wounded arm and cursing but he’d got at least a dozen carbins slung round his neck and a pack full of something. Another five minutes and Bobby pulled everyone back inside. The volume of fire from the flanks increased as the Plebs recovered and moved people round the smokescreen.
Bobby came back inside last. He looked around properly, and everyone seemed to be wounded but mobile. A medic moved towards Hood with a hypodermic but Bobby caught hold of the man’s arm. “No GV for Hood.”
“I know, I saw the metal. This will stop the leg hurting as much.” The medic scowled. “Reserved for you metal basteds.”
“Who have just broken through that bledrin horde and into this hole to get you out.” Bobby held the man’s eyes until his gaze dropped and he nodde
d acknowledgement. Then Bobby beckoned Sandman and went to find the Super.
The Super looked a mess, his own personal abattoir. The splint and blood-soaked bandages on his leg looked bad enough, but the sodden mess of dressings on his gut told the real story. “Why are you back here, Beebi? I thought you had orders. From me?”
“Well some, er, Supervisor in Control changed them, sir. They want to talk to you before they’ll send a relief column.” Sandman offered the radio.
The Super’s face hardened. “Yes, they would. Give me a minute Beebi, and then we’ll have a chat.” Bobby turned to go. “Ah, before you go, you’ll need these.” Bobby stared. Triple stripes!
“Er, not really sir. I’m no good at command. Anyway, the Corp out there is senior, and Sandman might be?”
“He is, they are, or rather they were. Battlefield promotion. I told you I’d get you one day, Beebi.” The Super’s smile showed some blood, a lot of pain, and some real humour as well. “Payback for all the times I’ve checked my bog before sitting.”
“I though you meant to give me a Gaza Taxi sir, not stripes. I’ll swap?”
“You’re already in the Taxi, you bledrin Homer. I’ll explain in a bit. Cut off two stars, because it’s only to Sergeant One. Cover them when we break out, because that lot are targeting anyone with stripes.” The Super coughed and swore. “At least you can carry a bledrin shotgun legally. Now sod off until I call. Sort that lot out.” As Bobby exited the Super’s voice followed. “Put the stripes on now, Beebi.”
Sergeant
Bobby showed the stripes, then borrowed a couple of safety pins from a medic to hold them on temporarily. After a long look the Corp accepted the promotion and did what Bobby asked. Bobby went round the station to made sure the ammo and weapons were distributed, and all the notsi ammo went to someone with a weapon that could use it. That and the flechettes from Sandman sorted the ammo situation, but Bobby stressed that everyone had to stick to aimed triple shots. If the Plebs thought the Troopers were short of ammo and charged, then they’d be pooched. A lot of the men cheered up at that. Bobby didn’t understand that when all he brought were nine men and most of them were wounded? He thought they all must have got too much smoke when the weed factory burned.
