But I was cordial. "Warrant Leader, FMF. Call me Rich," I said. It was good enough.
"Warrant Rich," he said. He at least knew enough to use the right abbreviated form. "Welcome aboard the Peking Duck."
I thought about that for a moment. "Plucked, stuffed and cooked to a crisp?" I asked him.
"Well, we're hoping not," he replied with a wry smile. Okay, he'd do. We shook hands and he jogged forward, after a cautious stare at the cats.
The flight engineer, also load toad and gunner, was his wife, Brenda. "Civilian doorgunner?" I asked her, incredulous. I could—have—seen that on Grainne, but in the UN?
"I was active duty until they riveted the slot. So I signed with Kelly United Services."
Well, that explained everything. I hated to think of the adminwork and hoops it took for her to handle lethal weapons as a civilian. Still, when in Rome. Though we weren't in Rome. We weren't on Earth, we weren't from Earth, yet we were using their rules. Yes, it was a screwed up war. But it was the only war we had. I shook her hand, gave her the benefit of the doubt, because one has to. There are only so many tasks you can handle, and if you try to second guess the other guy, you screw up your own job and get people killed. Possibly including yourself. I said, "Good luck," and turned back to my task.
The Unos and we eyed each other, assessing capabilities. They handled themselves well, looked nervous but with it under control, with just enough of a hint of eagerness on top to be reassuring. They were here to do a job, not be heroes. It didn't look too bad. Which of course meant things were going to suck. But then, things always suck for us. I noticed that neither they nor I spoke to the Landing Security Team who would keep the craft safe while we rumbled. We hoped. They did speak to their maintenance section, but there was no need for us to.
Everyone noticed the leopards. No one said a word. I was amused and I bet Kirby was, too. Hopefully our enemies would be more than impressed.
The ramp whined up, the temperature rose five degrees, the turbines growled then howled and we were ready to roll. At last. The waiting is what I hate. Bring on the fire. I strapped to the port passenger bench, adjusted my comm to the intercom frequency and said, "Rich here, comm check."
"I check you, Rich. Loud and clear," Werzel said.
"Engineer, loud and clear," Brenda seconded from her own deck, monitors and weapon controls wrapped around her.
"Landing Security Team, loud and clear."
"Recovery Section, loud and clear."
"Twenty Fourth Special Unit, loud and clear," Wilder said, as his team shouted "Arruf!" Yeah, whatever.
"Loud and clear," I confirmed.
Nischalke lifted us smoothly and kept us plugged into the circuit so we could hear the flight operations. That was decent of him. As we rose over the trees at the end of the flightline, Brenda came on air and said, "Rich, can you have three of your people move to starboard for balance?"
"Three personnel to starboard side, check," I confirmed. Deni and Joel and Johnny Squid. I pointed, they nodded and moved. We got back to listening while the crew flew.
* * *
I wanted to start a few klicks back and dog in on foot, so as to be discreet. The needs of our lumbering bucketheads dictated we go in close. Screwup number one. Naumann and I both wanted our Hatchets on call for close support. The UN "denied" the request and said it would provide support as needed, but wanted us to be inconspicuous. Screwup number two. Being inconspicuous means not drawing attention to oneself until it hits the fan. It does not mean keeping oneself exposed and helpless.
The worst place we could have possibly landed would have been the flat valley floor beyond the hills east of town, in plain view of every surrounding piece of captured ordnance and all their backup guns on the ridge beyond that. We landed there. Screwup number three. Yes, we had some air support by that time, sort of. They had to "Determine the allegiance" of each position before counterattacking. If it shoots at me, it's hostile. I've never believed in "friendly fire." You shoot at me, I'll kill you regardless of your uniform. Yes, they eventually managed to suppress some of the fire from the second echelon. But there were support weapons in our targets that could see us from where we were, or be directed on target even if they were over the crest. It's called "indirect fire," and it's a new invention, only three thousand years old.
The idea behind this was to come in behind these units and surprise them. Forget surprise. It appears they were devious types who had access to binoculars. At every step, leadership assumed that "savage" equaled "stupid" and "incompetent." The three do not necessarily go together.
We did fly in by going around the hills, rather than through them. This took more time, but did keep us out of visual ID of our targets. It was the first smart move of the operation, even if it did delay us. Of course, there could be spotters elsewhere reporting our flight. When we took over operations from the UN, we'd remedy that. For now, we dealt with it.
The flight turned into a roller coaster ride as we hit the hills. We swooped, dove and twisted. No one heaved their guts, though I confess to being rather queasy, watching the metal grating of the deck warp slightly from the stress and shift in orientation. I was glad of the open hatches. The breeze felt good. I was happy yet again not to be wearing the lobster shells of our allies.
We couldn't see each others' faces, but they might as well have been mechanical themselves. The polymer and ceramic carapaces covered them totally, with attachment points for weapons and gear on the torso. The power-assist hydraulics ran through armored conduits behind each limb from the dome on the back that was the power source. Alongside it like bulky breathing apparatus were the jump jets, actually ducted turbines. Each jet set had an hour of fuel, assuming a full load. The troops could push to seventy-five minutes if they were less laden. The problem being that the bastards were loud. If they fired up, everyone within several kilometers would know. They'd also blow dust like you wouldn't believe. The surface of the suit could shift for different camouflage patterns or distortion effects. Their imaging systems were comparable to ours, except they would suffer a comm lag—their system was run from base. Mine ran from a processor in my helmet, and I could ask for external links if I needed them. Any signal can be jammed or cracked, even if they dismissed the issue as unlikely.
Our body armor was soft if bulky and had the same surface chameleon effects as theirs, if needed. Under that, we wore our exomusculature, which was flat, bi-composition springs with compression controlled by mere amperage. We carried a battery to power it. Flying wasn't an option, but we were much quieter in movement and I personally could clear twenty meters in a running leap, even fully laden. Vertically, I'd practiced the technique until I could get my feet to five meters. I had all my basic weapons with me with extra ammo. My tac helmet and visor was supplemented by a full face shield for protection, and contact lenses with several microns of circuitry. I could see in whatever spectrum I wanted and plot my troops, any allied units and estimated enemy concentrations using my own network, not a centralized net like the UN used. I had access to our tacnet, but I would only do so if I needed additional system resources.
At least, being an air asset, the security detail and Brenda had real guns with real ammo, and none of that non-lethal crap. The maintenance section had the tools to peel someone out of the shell and a small lift platform to move one. Their weapons, of everyone here, were non-lethal.
Glen and I discussed our egress from the craft and potential maneuvers. I reviewed some of our tactics for him and we went over the little hard data we had and the maps. We were broken from our concentration by a change in impeller feel and engine pitch. Then we were descending fast. "Dropping in fifteen seconds," I heard. Neither Glen nor I had any say in the matter; it was between Nischalke and UN Control. I would have appreciated more notice.
"Lock and load, folks," I ordered. It was a private frequency. I was sure the UN had a regulation against loading weapons aboard a craft. I was equally sure I didn't give a damn. I had n
o idea what was outside.
Werzel counted us down from five seconds. At "One!" we airbraked hard but without jarring. The ramp was down at once and we took the lead because those clunky suits are not conducive to fast deployment. I also wanted to make sure the UN troops were impressed. Theoretically, Glen was in charge. But if I felt the need, I planned to start shouting orders. That works better if your allies are sufficiently confident to not question you.
I could have kissed my kids. Okay, Deni at least. The rest I'd buy beer for. I shouted, "GO!" and they were on the ground in a double perimeter in five seconds. They flew off the ramp, some bouncing straight down, others tucking headfirst into rolls. It was about a seven meter drop. That gymnast Geoff decided to do a pike somersault with a twist. Kirby stepped to the edge and waved the leopards over, who growled sullenly and leapt out. They all flickered as the chameleon circuits tried to turn transparent in air. The suits didn't quite succeed, but unless someone was watching closely, they'd see a blur at most. Upon landing, First Team went left, Second went right and Weapons formed the inner semicircle, ready to shoot through preplanned gaps in the formation. Deni just flowed past me with Joel a half pace to her left. They leaned far forward at the ramp and sprung off in flat arcs that carried them ten meters to land behind Second. Tyler and Rudy with the heavy, Donnie and Ross on anti-armor leapt the other way behind First. Glen's two squads and support elements lumbered out and took the front. They used the forward troop doors in addition to the ramp.
"Pony Three, 24th down and clear," he reported. I heard it echo, as we were using a common frequency, but it was also being relayed through our respective Controls.
"Prime—Lion One, 3rd Blazers on the ground and secure," I reported. "Prime" gave me both frequencies at once. The stupid call sign was a UN requirement. I'd picked a predator for obvious reasons. I was quite happy with "Three Zulu One," and all our people recognized that as "death with enthusiasm" when they heard it.
I could hear small arms fire on the ridge. Occasional mortar or light arty thumps and bangs punctuated the smaller stuff. We were in a hot zone, back in battle already. A third shiny star for my uniform. I could do without the honor. Behind me, the vertol lifted noisily away.
The terrain was hummocky with glacial moraine rock deposits and broad-bladed grass, varying from knee to waist height. Not bad. To my left (aircraft starboard: we'd come out the rear) and west was a hill that my map reported as 257 meters. The local equivalent of conifers started about a hundred meters up. Below that was more of the rock. There'd be lots of that rock on these low hills. It was basaltic and unremarkable.
Then my comm kicked in with other data. A transparent relief map appeared over my vision, and the location pips of my troops over that, with the UN showing as "enemy" until I designated their signal as "ally." Then they were repeated as pips over their helmets in my "real" view. The tactical sighting grid and reticle came up. Too much info! I deleted the "real" overlay; I knew where my people were, thank you. I didn't need sighting reticles for small arms. I stuck with eyes and map, with pips on the map. They were bright enough to see if I paid attention, dim enough to ignore when just watching.
"Overwatch advance," Glen ordered. A moment later, a cursor appeared on my map. Damn delay! It had gone through UN Control, Freehold Control, been stripped and encoded and cleared the protocols on my comm. "Prime—Pony Three, Lion One. If there's going to be a system delay, just tell me where to go. I can think faster than it can display." As I said so, I cut out the real time link.
"Lion One—Pony Three. Understood," he agreed. I had another motive—I didn't trust the UN Control. They might have a signal problem, or try to override my images with what they thought was important. That would only cause our systems to shut them out, which would leave me deaf. I wanted to talk to Glen directly. Control needs to be in the field, not some jackass at a console listening to another one in orbit.
We rolled forward and upwards toward our first target, listening for changes in the battle. Glen's first squad and our Team One advanced under Glen with all UN weapon elements. Then second and second with our Weapon Team moved around and through them, according to our agreed pattern. I sighted a good rock for cover, waited until the first movement was complete and ordered, "Element Two, advance." I rose lightly and pulled forward into a power-assisted lizard crawl that carried me thirty meters in fifteen seconds and never put me above the growth. It was fascinating to see my arms shift like moving grass from the chameleon effect, while my hands switched from green stem to straw stalk and earth brown.
As I took cover behind the rock and blended into it, I felt better. We were the highest tech bunch of killers on the planet facing a pack of illiterate grunting savages. Yes, it was bigoted. I didn't care. My vision rippled slightly as the map corrected, using my visual input (micro cameras on the sides of my goggles) to cross check against memory. Then I waited for the other element to advance. There was nothing to see while staying low and hidden, so I studied the rock and the dirt. At one side, a fat yellow bananaslug was rippling along a twig. They're not precisely slugs and do have eyes, albeit short sighted ones. But if it hadn't seen me, as close as it was, it was unlikely anyone above had.
Soon enough, Glen spoke and a wafting breeze of invisible wraiths floated past. I could tell the UN troops; they thumped as they landed. We were less massive and able to bend lower, so we danced across the grass tips while they jumped. I could occasionally spot Kirby, but the leopards were invisible, streamlined death at his word. I called the advance and clambered up a split in the rock, the ground grassy despite being near vertical for a couple of meters before sloping at a more reasonable rate.
At the tree line we split, they going south, us north. The plan was to clear two routes in, envelope the battery and then attack in two crossing directions with fire support. Once inside, we'd have the technological and tactical edge, as long as we were careful. Glen's team had non-lethal weapons clipped to their harnesses and ready for this, in case they hit friendlies. While it wasn't a bad idea under those circumstances (did I actually say that?), I intended for us to use lethal weapons. I'd bet on my people not to miss, and dead savages don't escape or attempt revenge.
So we regrouped and slipped away from each other, ghostly shifting patterns in the foliage. We'd only been at this a few minutes, and it was about an hour since we'd started. Pretty quick response by most standards, really. Hopefully, we'd take the battery, which would reduce fire on the others and disrupt their pattern. The Mountain troops would then be able to move more freely and we'd gain the upper hand.
Of course, meanwhile, the city was still being shelled, as were the Mountain troops. The firing was getting louder as we approached. I said, "Prime—Lion One, Control and Pony Three, make sure those friendlies are expecting us." I got two confirmations back. Good.
Glen called, "Lion One, stand by for support and movement—break—Control, Pony Three, fire mission. Artillery. Bunker. Troops in defense. Grid . . ." and coordinates followed. He'd found an outer perimeter. He'd hit it, we'd all move, and we'd start picking them off fast.
"PONY THREE AND LION ONE, SHOT. REPOrt impact," was the reply from UN Control, too damned loud until I corrected the volume. I clicked a confirmation and hunkered down.
And something niggled at me. The grid . . .
Right then it happened. Glen's response was, "Pony Three confirms, Contro-o-o-o—shit!"
Before I could inquire, my tac told me. A flash warned of incoming artillery. My comm jammed a demand into Control and came back with PARSON intel. It was about to hit our friends.
We'd forgotten that the enemy had UN equipment. Hell, I'd forgotten it. Someone had shut down the outgoing commo to the seized units from UN Control, but the UN had not sealed their end against intrusion. They'd been compromised from the beginning. My instinct to cut out of comm had saved us.
It suddenly all made sense. That Goddess-cursed network of theirs had been breached. The enemy (whichever faction it was) co
uld eyeball the city. They could drag up intel on the UN. They could use their own maps against them. And the bastards had been sneaky enough to hold onto that ace card until now. They'd waited until we were in the trees where extraction would be harder. Worse, they'd diddled a program to shift the UN grid. Glen had called an artillery mission on himself.
By sheer luck, stupidity would save us. Had we deployed into the trees, they would have hit us at once and we'd all be targets. By using the approach we did, half the force was unsuspected.
While I was musing, the shell impacted near the mathematical center of the group. They were scattering. I didn't see any casualties on my visor, which was good. Their armor saved them. "PRIME—Pony Three, Lion One, you've been hacked!" I shouted. "Your grid coordinates cannot be trusted." Those smug grins at HQ had to be fading in a hurry, now, but that wouldn't stop these people from dying.
"GODDAMMIT!" I heard him shout, and others came through the frequency. "CEASE FIRE, CONTROL!" he yelled. It was drowned out by another impact. That one was not arty, but local mortar fire. Either a UN Mountain unit was helping with the mission, or had been defeated and its gear seized.
"Pony Three, this is Lion One, you're in our circuit," I said. He was stunned or scared and was going to get all his troops killed. I tried to help. "Control—Lion One, patch me through to UN Arty Control for this mission now!"
Five seconds later I heard, "Lion One—Control, you are patched. Go ahead with your transmission."
"Fire Control, this is Lion One, Pony Three's system is compromised. Cease fire. Do not fire on those coordinates. Say again, cease fire, cease fire. Stand by for correction." I slugged my best assessment to it and zipped it upstream. But we'd have to wait about thirty seconds to get any change of target . . . if the gun crews were worth a good damn.
The Weapon Page 22
