Enemy Front

by T. E. Butcher

  “Listen ladies,” he said. “I’m going to do my best to keep you all safe, don’t give me that look. Magyar, I’m not talking about the enemy.” He glanced over at Zorro.

  “Sergeant Steele told us some horror stories about her old leadership,” she replied. “I’m glad I haven’t seen anything like that.” Adamski nodded.

  “Yeah, I think most of those types are dead by now or in noncombat positions,” he said. “But you have my word none of you are going to be mistreated.” He looked over at Fletcher. “Especially you Fletcher, nobody, and I mean nobody will give you shit for being a tuber or pressed into service.”

  As the train rolled out of the station, Adamski cast a longing look out the window. In the distance, the Crown of Thorns mountains rose into the sky. Somewhere among them and their foot hills, Fox company was taking the fight to the Union while they were being sent elsewhere. The train gradually picked up speed as it returned east, and he closed his eyes to sleep.

  Reiter glanced at the maintenance forms Steele had handed him. After reading the line of items on each of the forms she handed him, he looked back up at her. He sat in a hammock made from camouflage netting strung between the knees of his kneeling Lowe.

  “Your pilots confirmed each of these faults themselves, right?” he asked. “They didn’t just copy the list straight from the diagnostic?” She shook her head.

  “No, I had each of them check out their machines themselves,” she said. “They used the SDT to find serious issues, but they performed full inspections.”

  “Alright then, I trust your word,” he said as he leaned forward. Taking a pen out of his vest, he signed off on Steele’s forms. The younger pilot actually had a pair of crew pants she hadn’t worn out already, along with a decent pair of boots. She tucked a tank top into said pants that showed off the wires muscles of her arms. A Tharcian flag bandanna kept her thick blonde hair and sweat out of her face.

  She thanked him and left to turn on her paperwork. Before he could return to his book, he checked his watch and shook his head. Looks like I need to go draw more ammo with Black platoon. Stretching, he set his book in his hammock before getting out. It didn’t take him long to find Black Platoon.

  Mo, Smith and Wesser stood outside a large camouflage tent with their newest soldier. Wesser wore mostly the same thing Steele had been, save her bandanna resembled a maid’s head piece rather than a band around her head. Mo and Smith both wore a garrison blouse without an undershirt, and their sleeves rolled to the elbows. Their newest addition, a young woman with coppery hair curled at her neck, wore a new CVC uniform.

  “Good Afternoon Black Platoon,” Reiter said. “Rosetti, how have you been adjusting?” The young soldier blinked when he directly addressed her.

  “Oh, uh fine, I guess,” she said. “I expected to see more of the Union when I enlisted, but this is fine.” Mo shook his head.

  “Want to do more for the cause, huh?” he asked. “We can fix that, you just got extra duty.”

  “What?” Rosetti exclaimed. “But I-”

  “You’ll help the commander with his ammo,” Mo said. “That’s the magnetic rounds, the 30-mike mike, fifty cal, his 300-mm grenades.” Reiter raised an eyebrow at the young man’s order, but said nothing. “Smith, since you still struggle with personal space, you’re helping.”

  “Roger,” Smith said, turning his head to look away from Wesser. Maybe I should have a talk with him. Wesser and Mo only needed machine gun rounds, so they got their ammo and left to link them to themselves. Smith and Rosetti only needed to draw pistol ammo for themselves, so they pocketed the magazines and helped Reiter hump his 30-mm rounds before they came back for the grenades and Magnetic rounds.

  “He’s not always like that,” Smith said to a sulking Rosetti as they linked 30-mm rounds into two long belts while Reiter organized the grenade belt. “Sergeant Mo’s probably just going through a lot.” Reiter elected not to say anything, but listened. “Him and LT are great, trust me.”

  Rosetti said nothing at first. When she spoke, though, she lowered her voice so much Reiter could barely hear her. “I just met him a few days ago, and he’s hardly said a kind word,” she said. “He’s always critical, he’s harsh, even with you and you’re a sergeant.”

  Smith shrugged. “He’s been at this since the war began,” Smith said. “He’s had to sacrifice a lot, and make it’s starting to bother him.”

  “Well, that doesn’t excuse him from being an ass,” Rosetti said. “I at least expected him to share some wisdom, give me some pointers, but he’s done nothing but chew me out ever since I got here!”

  Smith sighed. “You know, Him, Steele, Stovepipe, and the Commander are the only remaining members of Fox Company from the beginning of the war.” Smith motioned to all the surrounding activity. “Yeah, some people got promoted and sent elsewhere, but if you ever asked him to share war stories, most of them end with ‘and then he also died’ or ‘she lived, she was crippled for life, but she lived.’”

  Reiter stepped out from behind one of the Lowe’s thick legs. “Sorry to butt in, but Smith has a point,” he said. “I think all he’s asking you to do is have some perspective.” I definitely need to talk to him. “In fact, wait one.”

  After scrambling back into his cockpit, he emerged with a composition notebook stuffed with photos. He tossed it at Rosetti. “What’s this sir?” She asked as she opened it.

  “Inside there is every member of Fox company that was killed by enemy action,” Reiter replied. He walked over to her and pointed to an older man fishing with his son. “That was Sergeant Varga, he was black platoon’s first platoon sergeant. We lost him in the opening shots of the invasion, along with our old black 2.”

  “We?” Rosetti asked.

  “I was Black platoon’s platoon leader,” he replied. “I had to take command after our XO and old commander died.” It took a long moment, but the gravity of things began to set in for the young woman.

  “Oh, I see,” she said slowly. “Well, I understand him better, but it doesn’t excuse his behavior.” She has a point, it’s been so long since I’ve sat down with anyone for an extended period. I can’t afford to do that. He squeezed a grenade a little harder. I can’t let myself become apathetic to it all. My soldiers and my people need me.

  “Just don’t take anything to heart,” Reiter replied. “Remember, his criticism is professional rather than personal, though I understand it doesn’t always need that way.” He rubbed his head after setting the grenades in their magazine. “If I had a son, I’d still be a long way off by now.”

  “A crimson tide looms in the North, my friend,” Marshal Adam Haussner said. “We need more forces to press the advantage.” Major Starnes straightened his glasses as he fiddled with the map table.

  “I know her parents signed the waiver,” he replied. “But I’m still uncomfortable with Bartonova heading to the front, even in the Tiger.” He looked up at the commander-in-chief of all Tharcian forces. “And there’s still the issue of the traitor.”

  Hausnerr nodded as he took a seat next to the shorter Major. “I know, but with Operation MAYHEM ravaging their databases, we’ve never been in a better position to take the fight back to the Union.” He traced a finger along the red-crosshatched line that illustrated the Union salient into Tharcian territory. “Once we get rid of this, we’ll have a lot more breathing room with Congress and the President.”

  With a shake of his head, Starnes pulled up a list on his tablet. “As much as I agree, a traitor in the high command is a serious issue.” He slid the tablet across the map table to the marshall.

  “Is this a list of suspects?” He asked as he scrolled through the names. “I don’t see the names of those who walked out.”

  “I doubt the traitor would remove themselves from a position near the top,” Starnes said. “Besides, Varujan Apostu, former chief of operations, announced he’s running against President Reinhardt in the next election.” Hausnerr shook his head.

&n
bsp; “He couldn’t convince me to change my mind so he imagines he’d order me to do so,” he replied. “Interesting strategy, let’s see how it plays out.” He glanced down at the list. “I see you’ve included Markos.”

  “Mainly for completion’s sake,” Starnes replied. “To be honest, I doubt Operation MAYHEM would be nearly as effective if he was the traitor.” He smirked as he paced around the table. “In fact, he’d be the worst traitor ever.”

  Hausherr snickered at the thought, but soon grew serious. “I think the best move would be to give greater autonomy to army and corps commanders,” he said. “We had a whole chain of men and women seize the initiative by defining orders from the general staff and planning their own localized attack.” He smiled as he glanced at the map. “In fact, it would really take the wind out of traitors in the higher echelons of staff if we did that.”

  “So you want to minimize the damage by reducing the impact general staff has on ongoing operations?” Starnes asked. “I’d have to admit, I don’t think any other general officer would willingly reduce his own authority.”

  “I think we need to trust the people below us,” he said. “There are plenty of officers like Hawke, Divjak, and Wolfe. They can be trusted to act on their own and to be honest, that’s how it should be.”

  “Funny way of going about it,” Starnes replied. “Delegating authority because you don’t trust those immediately around you.” Hausnerr nodded. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Returning to the map, he stroked his chin.

  “The Northern front will remain the primary front,” he finally said. “We need more distance between the front and our spaceports. When we’ve contained them back inside their own borders, we’ll have more space in the west to play with.” He scratched his chin as he looked at an ugly red dot in the Crown of Thorns mountains. “You said you’ve got people taking care of Objective Uniform-three-zero?”

  Starnes nodded and adjusted his glasses. “Yes sir, I talked to Hawke, and we decided to put his Fox company on it.”

  “The Black Lion?” Haussner asked. “You think its that important, huh?” He looked back at the objective. “What do you think is going on there?”

  “Something wicked, without a doubt,” Starnes said as he brought up more information on his tablet. “Thanks to intelligence granted by Markos department, we know they’ve been sending increasing numbers of Olympian captives, slave labors I’m sure, but here’s the kicker.” He pulled up another set of data. “They’ve also been transporting massive amounts of materials as well as critically injured tubers.”

  “Some sort of field hospital?” Hausnerr asked. “I’d hate to look like them, but they did massacre a lot of wounded Olympians back in last October.” Starnes shook his head.

  “I doubt it’s that,” he said. “These tubers are flagged. As in not worth the cost to heal and rehab them, but too valuable to simple terminate them.” Haussner cracked his neck as he pondered the situation.

  “So these tubers are what the Union said they are?” he asked. Starnes removed his glasses to clean them on his shirt.

  “I saw the lab reports on that Fletcher girl,” he said. “I saw all the test results. She was made to pilot a panzerter, now I admit, I thought it was propaganda on our part, overblowing some gene therapy or something.” He shook his head before returning his glasses to his face. “Then Reiter captured that Fletcher girl and she admitted to being one.”

  “And?” Hausnerr asked.

  “I still thought it was their propaganda,” Starnes replied. “Something to freak us out, but as they talked to her, we realized that would require a cultural understanding of our people the Union seems to utterly lack.” He looked back at the Marshall. “Which is why I’m concerned,” he said. “To create whole people on a nearly industrial scale, it’s unthinkable, to what are they doing in this objective? I don’t have the faintest clue, which is beyond worrying.”

  The Marshall rose and began pacing the room. “But you’re sure its sinister?”

  “Absolutely,” Starnes replied. “Whatever they’re doing there, they’re not comfortable doing in their own lands, and as I said before, they clearly have a much higher threshold for when something becomes objectionable.”

  “We’ll see,” Hausnerr replied. “If nothing else, I want to know what they’re doing over there. What is it that the Union feels they need to hide from their own people?”

  Guard-Brigadier Chaney folded his arms as he watched the tests from the command bunker. Alone in a mock city, the Phobian prowled the streets, a massive shotgun in hand. The barrel swung from side to side, scanning for targets.

  “How’s the engine holding up?” Chaney asked one of the engineers. The young woman’s eyes never left the screen as she watched.

  “Engine’s holding steady at 2200 RPMs,” she said. “Temperature, shielding, and pressure are all stable.” He nodded. I’m still not sure I trust it. We had too many issues with the initial prototypes to be solved in a couple of months.

  “Keep a close eye on it,” he said. “Power distribution?”

  “Everything looks normal,” another engineer said. Without another pressing concern, he sighed.

  “Alright Comrade Ballard, your targets are coming up,” Chaney said. “Begin the testing table.” He felt a tug on his sleeve. Looking down, he saw Ballard’s daughter, penny looking up at him.

  “Um, Comrade Bridge, why are you testing a table?” she asked. Some of the engineers who could hear her chuckled. Weather it was at her misunderstanding of his rank or the tests, he wasn’t sure.

  “We’re not,” he said. “The table is just what we call this set of exercises your dad’s about to do with the new panzerter.” He pointed to a large monitor tracking targets and engagements. “Normally pilots do this to have their performance graded, but in this case we’re grading the panzerter and not your dad.” He looked to one of the engineers, this one in front of a target board, and nodded.

  “Inside the ghost town, a steel silhouette of a Tharcian panzerter slid up from beneath the street in front of Ballard. No sooner had the target locked into place when a blast from the Phobian’s shotgun peppered the target with multiple tungsten spears. The target fell onto its back, and he advanced.

  “Engine status still green,” an engineer said.

  “Power distribution still nominal,” said another. Chaney leaned forward. So far, so good.

  “What are they saying?” Penny asked. “Is daddy ok?”

  Chaney nodded. “They’re just keeping an eye on the specific parts being graded. We want to be sure the Phobian can use all the power it needs when it needs it,” he said. “Speaking of, it’s time to put the thing through its paces.”

  More targets presented themselves. Panzerters poking out of cover or slipping between buildings. Infantry popped up in windows. Tracked vehicles crosses streets and emerged from ground levels.

  Ballard made the Phobian dance. Its shotgun punched target after target before he switched to his sword. The blade, made of ionized gas contained in a magnetic field, was shorter than the Tharcian model, but the Phobian could swing it much faster and in confined spaces. The greenish blade cut through buildings and targets alike as if they were made of paper.

  Just as the panzerter on the range danced, the readings on the power distribution screen looked more like a night club’s lights. “Joints are exceeding the safe limit in spots,” the engineer watching the screen said. “We’ll need to add more magnets or another way to ease the load on them.” Chaney scratched at his chin. I expected as much, still it’s problematic.

  Suddenly, an alarm blared. The Phobian suddenly stopped mid-swing and collapsed. The panzerter tore the street in front of it as its impulse sword flared and died. “Daddy!” Penny cried.

  “Get Ballard on comms, make sure he’s ok,” Chaney said. “What the hell happened?”

  “Engine stalled,” an engineer said. “Right at 5200 RPMs, it stalled and immediately went into emergency shut down.” Chaney sighed as
the recovery team rushed out to the Phobian’s location.

  “Send word to the engine team that they still have some kinks to work out,” Chaney said. “And increase the number of rods in the joints, but not too much as it’s already difficult to control for a rookie pilot.” He rubbed his head as the monitors displayed Ballard emerging from the stricken panzerter’s cockpit, more dazed than anything else.

  “What happened?” Penny asked. “Why did the panzerter fall down?” Chaney looked down at the young girl.

  “It’s engine stopped working right, so it turned itself off,” he said. “We’ll have to look over more information before we know much more than that.” He looked up at the monitor. It’s connected to the joints, somehow, I’m sure. He shook his head. They probably skimped on the power distribution module, that’s what we get for rushing out the first working prototype.

  “Well, back to the drawing board,” the engine tech said. “We’ll need to be specific about what we need from them.” Chaney shook his head.

  “It’s a damn shame,” he said. “This is a phenomenal design were it not for this defective engine.” With a heavy sigh, he pulled out his notepad. “Any other issues we noticed?”

  “The shotgun doesn’t have nearly enough ammo for protracted engagements,” one of the engineers said. “Comrade Major burned through an entire magazine quickly and his combat load only gives him two spares.” Chaney scrawled a quick note.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “If the joints are constantly over the safe limit, they’re bound to get hot real fast,” the power distribution tech said. “They’re going to need to be replaced frequently to prevent them from warping and bending.” Chaney nodded as he wrote that down. When nobody had any further comments, he stepped outside. As the recovery team pulled up with Ballard in their truck, Chaney immediately had questions.

  “Anything we can improve?” he asked. Ballard scratched at his head.