Starfist - 12 - Firestorm

by Dan Cragg

  Corporal Queege was not sure what kind of weapons were being fired at her. All she saw in the dim light were several brilliant flashes. Something, the first round, glanced powerfully off the chain the platoon sergeant had given her, which still hung around her neck. It struck so hard she was momentarily stunned and fell to the ground. The rest of the rounds went zipping through the air where she’d been standing, screeching and caroming off the walls in a shower of sparks and chips of masonry.

  The Bank of Phelps did business the old-fashioned way, with paper, despite the fact that throughout most of the Confederation member-worlds electronic banking was the preferred way to store and access funds. So at intervals in the lobby there were convenient marble-topped writing tables stocked with styluses and various forms for deposits, withdrawals, and so on. Not knowing what else to do, Queege crawled under one of these. The fire directed at her now ricocheted off the marble, shredding the paper like confetti. The noise was so terrific she could not hear her own voice shouting into her radio for assistance.

  Queege fumbled her M26 out of its holster. She could clearly see the fat man from under the table, from his feet up to about the middle of his bulging belly. She leveled the gun and squeezed the trigger. Nothing! She’d forgotten to charge it! She cursed and pulled the slide back, putting the weapon into battery. Caseless ammunition produces virtually no recoil, so the rounds go precisely where the shooter points them. Each round fired by the M26 releases twenty-six tiny, razor-sharp fléchettes at a muzzle velocity of approximately 450 meters per second. Queege’s magazine was loaded with two different types of alternating rounds: five designed to fragment or be released when they entered a target, then five that discharged from the barrel like pellets from an old-fashioned shotgun in a dispersal pattern that grew one centimeter per meter traveled. The latter rounds did not have much range and were designed for shooting in close, confined spaces. Both types of ammunition were intended for police use because, while deadly, they would not threaten anyone other than the intended target through overpenetration.

  The first round she fired was designed to penetrate. It hit the fat man right in his navel. He was no more than three meters from Queege. The round entered his abdomen and sent the twenty-six fléchettes tearing through his intestines. He emitted a high-pitched shriek. His handgun, which he had been shooting into the marble top of the desk under which Corporal Queege lay, clattered to the floor. The man’s voice rose to an impossible falsetto, like a woman in hard labor, and he thudded wetly to the floor, where he twitched and spasmed like a fish out of water, his hands clutching to his stomach. “Ahaaaaaaa!” he shrieked.

  The other men stopped shooting momentarily. Queege thought she’d seen three others, so she emptied the remaining nine rounds in her magazine, three at each figure she thought she could see in the dim light. She slammed another magazine into the gun, but there was no answering fire. Her ears were ringing from all the concussions, but she thought she could hear more screams. She lay panting under the desk. A long, black tendril of blood flowed toward her from beneath the fat man who now lay silently on the floor. Queege scuttled away from the blood. She shook her head to clear it of the loud ringing.

  Someone said something over her radio. “Bank!” she gasped. “Shooting! Help!” She became vaguely aware of people outside the building creeping up to the doors, peering cautiously inside and exclaiming at what they saw, but she ignored them as she staggered to her feet. Her eyes had now adjusted to the dark interior. Her helmet was gone and the right side of her head felt funny. When she reached up she found to her horror that her ear was gone; then she noticed the burning pain of the wound.

  She had the weird sensation she was outside herself, detached, watching everything on a trid.

  It was deathly quiet in the Bank of Phelps. The four bandits, including Hizzoner, the mayor, were all quite dead. Queege had killed them all. Bags of banknotes lay scattered among the bodies and the congealing pools of blood. Cautiously, she examined the bodies. All of her hits had been above the chest, and the men’s faces were reduced to masses of unrecognizable gore. She was reluctant to touch the bodies. Besides, with wounds like those, surely they were all dead. She walked to the door, her boots squeaking in the already drying gore.

  Corporal Puella Queege, late company clerk with the 7th Independent Military Police Battalion, blinked in the bright sunlight outside the Bank of Phelps. Curious citizens parted before her as she wobbled down the steps.

  “One of ’em’s the gawdam mayor!” someone cackled. “She sliced ’im open like a ripe tomato!” he shouted gleefully. “Yessireee! Tom Gritchens ’n’ Hank Weatherby’s in thar too! They heads is awmos’ tore complete off! Ah, haaa! Ain’t see ennythin’ so wunnerful sinct the hawgs et muh little sister! Ol’ Cardoza, he fin’ly got what was a-comin’ to ’im!”

  Several men dashed up the stairs and into the bank. They were her fellow MPs. Someone put a hand on Puella’s shoulder and gently relieved her of the M26, which dangled forgotten from one hand. It was her new platoon sergeant. “Gawdam, girl!” he said, “You gonna get a medal for this, you sure’n hell will!” He put an arm around her shoulder and guided her gently to a waiting landcar.

  Puella felt a violent throbbing in her head but it didn’t bother her. She grinned up at her platoon sergeant and thought to herself, I wonder if I coulda done any of that if I was sober?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Move, people, move!” Ensign Bass shouted.

  “Move, move move!” Staff Sergeant Hyakowa echoed.

  The Marines of third platoon scrambled onto the Dragons that had been brought up after the firefight. The enemy now knew that the Marines were in their rear, and 34th FIST had to move fast to get deeper behind the enemy before General Lyons could begin moving maneuver forces after them. Behind the Dragons that picked up Company L and most of Mike Company, the Marines of Kilo Company boarded hoppers. The remainder of Mike Company and the prisoners from the 319th Battalion squeezed into other hoppers for the short flight back to the task force’s landing zone so the 27th Division’s military police company could take charge of the POWs.

  Brigadier Sturgeon sent his three UAVs and the infantry battalion’s two on ahead to scout for enemy units. The birds had to stay below the woodland canopy most of the time and track back and forth to cover the FIST’s entire front; only when they encountered a clearing large enough to be called a meadow could they rise high enough to get a wider view. It was slow going, but the UAVs found the first enemy positions some six kilometers north of Phelps. A reinforced battalion was in a lightly built defensive position.

  Thirty-fourth FIST had to move fast to take fullest advantage of the enemy’s flimsy positions; reinforcements might be on their way. Sturgeon had no time to plan his attack, he’d do that on the run. He didn’t waste any time wishing he had his Raptors or his artillery with him, he’d make do with what he had. He issued his commander’s-intent orders for the coming assault. After that, it was mostly up to Commander van Winkle, the infantry battalion commander.

  The Dragons lurched to a stop two kilometers short of the northernmost Coalition position, dropped their rear ramps, and the Marines boiled out.

  “Company L, columns of squads,” Captain Conorado ordered over his all-hands circuit. “Line ’em up and begin moving out. We want to get there before they’re ready for us.” Throughout 34th FIST’s infantry battalion, the other company commanders gave the same commands.

  “Second squad, on me,” Sergeant Kerr said on the squad circuit. He raised his right arm and let the sleeve of his chameleon shirt slide down so his men could see where he was. “First fire team, second, third.” He watched in the infrared as his squad got in line. As soon as they were, he spoke. “Chan, move it out. I’ll be between first and second fire teams. Go!”

  Moments after dismounting from the Dragons, Company L and most of Mike Company were moving at a rapid walk toward the Coalition’s hastily prepared blocking position. Eighteen squads, each
with a gun team attached, advanced in rough order, separated by seventy-five meters. Assault squads with their heavier weapons followed behind the blaster platoons. The hoppers, having deposited the prisoners with the 27th Division’s MPs, landed Kilo Company and the remainder of Mike Company behind the advancing squads. Kilo and Mike-Bravo quickly formed up and followed the first wave. The hoppers remained grounded, waiting for the battle to join.

  “Watch your dress, squads,” Captain Conorado said over the all-hands circuit. The platoon commanders echoed him, and the squad leaders repeated on their squad circuits. All along the line, the squads’ point men looked to their left and right, using their infras, to make sure they weren’t getting too far ahead of or behind the squads seventy-five meters to their flanks.

  Except for third platoon’s second squad.

  Lance Corporal Schultz held point for second squad, and second squad held the FIST’s right flank. Schultz only looked to his left to check his dress.

  Four hundred meters from the enemy positions, van Winkle issued an order to his company commanders: “Columns of fire teams.” All along the battalion’s front, company commanders relayed the order, echoed by platoon commanders, and finally squad leaders, who moved their fire teams second and third in their columns up to the right and left of their point fire teams. Except for third platoon’s second squad; Sergeant Kerr moved both of his trailing fire teams to the left of his second fire team, to keep Schultz on the rightmost flank. Schultz, in turn, moved twenty meters right to keep proper interval between fire teams. The gun teams and assault squads closed the gaps ahead of themselves, keeping close behind the blaster squads.

  At 250 meters, van Winkle ordered his battalion’s fire teams to get on line.

  “Y’all think they’s comin’?” Private Willie Sawshank nervously asked his squad leader.

  Corporal Waylon Drummel chewed for a few seconds, then spat a long, dark brown spume over the low wall of camouflaged sandbags in front of his squad’s position. “Reckon so,” he drawled.

  “Them Confed’ration Marines?”

  “Parbly, parbly.” Drummel nodded. “’Magine so, Wee Willie.”

  “Don’ call me Wee Willie,” Sawshank snarled. “Ain’t ma name, ain’t right t’ call me thet.”

  Drummel looked at him and nodded again. “Reckon it ain’t right t’ call ya Wee Willie. Could call ya Big Willie, though.”

  Sawshank didn’t like Big Willie any more than he liked Wee Willie, and said so. Willie Sawshank stood little more than a meter and a half tall, and was sensitive about his height—or lack thereof. He certainly didn’t like any name that called attention to his shortness. Corporal Drummel called him Wee Willie or Big Willie because Drummel stood well over two meters tall. It felt to Sawshank as if his squad leader was making fun of him, putting him down. And that was wrong. Sawshank was as good a soldier as anyone in Drummel’s squad, and Sawshank knew the bigger man knew it. He didn’t understand that Drummel gave nicknames only to men he thought were better than average soldiers.

  The two soldiers were quiet for a long moment, then Drummel asked, “Ya eber come up ’gainst Confed’ration Marines?”

  Sawshank shook his head.

  “Ah trained with ’em oncet,” Drummel said. “They got these field uniforms they calls kam-lions. Guess the kam’s fum camouflage, an’ the lion’s is cause thet’s how they fights—mean as lions. Anyways, they wears their kam-lions, an’ ya jist ’bout cain’t see ’em.”

  Sawshank screwed up his face. “If’n ya cain’t see ’em, how kin ya fight ’em?”

  Drummel shrugged. “Same as ya fights anybody else—ya puts out as much farpower as ya kin an’ hopes ya hits sumpin’.” He looked into the distance, and then at Sawshank. “Here’s sumpin’ mos’ sojers ferget when they fights Confed’ration Marines. Ya kin see their shots. Ya see, they uses plasma blasters, shoots out thangs lak a bit of star-plasma. Real bright like, ya kin see where they comes fum. What mos’ sojers do is, when they sees the plasma bolts, they shoots back at whar they come fum. But all that does is it wastes ammunition. Ya see, what mos’ sojers fergets is, the Marines move after they shoots mos’ times. So if’n ya shoots where the shot come fum, t’ain’t nobody thar fer yer shot ta hit. So what ya do is, ya figure out how far a man’ll roll between shots, an’ thas how far fum the shot you shoots.”

  Sawshank screwed up his face at his squad leader. “Whatch way d’ ya shoot oncet ya figures out how far?”

  Drummel shrugged. “Doan matter. You shoots either side a where the shot come fum, you got a better chance a shootin’ some’un than if’n ya shoots where the shot come fum.”

  Sawshank mulled that over, and decided Drummel had a good point. “Got’cha,” he said, nodding.

  “Good. Now ah’m goin’ thataway ta tell the rest a the squad the same thing. Ah wants yo ta go t’other way an’ tell the mens that way the same thing. Then we goes t’other way and does the same. Thet way they’ll hear it fum the two of us, an’ mebbe it’ll sink in ta one of ’em what they should do when they starts fightin’.”

  Sawshank nodded. “Tha’s why yer squad leader an’ I ain’t. Ya thinks a thet kind a shit.”

  “Thinkin’ thet kind a shit is why ah’ve lived long as ah have. Now you do the same, Big Willie.”

  “Doan go callin’ me no damn Big Willie. T’ain’t ma name!”

  Two hundred meters from the Coalition line, the Marines of Company L and half of Mike Company were on line, with the enemy in view. The Coalition soldiers were well concealed, invisible through the thin wood at that distance—in the visual. But few of them understood infrared, and most of them showed themselves to the Marines in infra.

  “Battalion, halt,” Commander van Winkle ordered. The company commanders echoed the order on their all-hands circuits. Any closer than two hundred meters and even half-trained soldiers would be able to hit targets through the wooded land. “Prone. Wait for the order to fire,” van Winkle ordered, and the company commanders repeated.

  The platoon commanders and squad leaders amplified the battalion commander’s last order: “Pick your targets. Let’s hit them so hard and so fast they’ll break and run instead of fighting back.” Many of them added, “I don’t want any of us getting hurt, people, so make every one of your bolts counts.” All along the line, the fire team leaders made sure every one of their men had targets. The guns and bigger assault guns prepared to open fire.

  Fire team leaders reported, “Ready,” to their squad leaders, the squad leaders reported, “Ready,” to their platoon commanders, who reported to their company commanders, and finally the company commanders back to Commander van Winkle, who ordered, “Fire!” and a company and a half of Marines opened fire on the hapless defenders.

  Corporal Drummel was as surprised as everybody else when the plasma bolts hit the Coalition line. But he was one of the Coalition soldiers who understood about infrared cover. So was Private Sawshank. And, between them, they’d managed to get most of the squad into infra cover—all the way down behind the sandbag wall. Still, three of the eight men in the squad became casualties in the Marines’ opening salvo because they’d insisted on looking over the sandbags, exposing themselves to the Marines’ infra vision.

  Drummel hunkered low, out of the way of the fusillade pouring at him and his men, until the fire stopped impacting near his position. Then he poked his head and fléchette rifle through an embrasure in the sandbags so he could see where the Marine fire came from.

  “’Member what ah tole ya ’bout the Marines movin’ after they shoots!” he yelled at his squad.

  “’Member, the Marines shoots and moves!” Sawshank called out, to make sure the men at his side of the line heard Drummel’s command. He also poked his head and rifle into an embrasure. There! He saw the sunlike flash of a blaster firing. He flipped a mental coin and rapid-fired three shots a few meters to the right of where the shot had come from. Then he switched and fired three more quick shots at the other side. He watched for anothe
r plasma flash, saw one, and fired to both sides of it. He didn’t take the time to look to his sides; for all he knew, he and Drummel were the only ones in the squad shooting to the sides—he didn’t even know if anybody other than himself and Drummel were firing back at all.

  “Yowww!” Lance Corporal Ymenez yelped—a fléchette had just torn its way along his right forearm. Then he ignored the minor injury and fired again. Rolled, prepared to fire a third time. Flinched when fléchettes struck the ground mere centimeters to his right. “What’s going on here?” he yelled.

  Corporal Claypoole hadn’t been hit by a fléchette, but he also noticed how close they came when he changed position after firing. What was going on? It looked like somebody was using aimed fire, and most armies didn’t use aimed fire, they settled for massed fire and hoped that if they put out enough, they’d hit something. More than aimed fire, whoever was doing it knew about the Marines moving after they shot. Claypoole picked a likely target and sent a plasma bolt at it. Then he stayed in position and watched.

  When the Marines first opened fire, they took the defenders by surprise, and return fire was spotty. The return fire built up to something less than a crescendo, and began tapering off as the Coalition soldiers’ casualties quickly mounted. By now, not much more than two minutes into the firefight, the return fire was rapidly ebbing. So it was easy for Claypoole, through his infra, to pick out fire coming his way. He saw the flash of a round being fired an instant before fléchettes peppered the ground two meters to his left, then another flash an instant before more struck to his right. He sighted in on where the flashes came from and fired three rapid bolts at it. No more fire came from there. He looked for more flashes.

  Corporal Drummel heard a scream to his right and paused in his own firing to listen to his squad. After the scream, he heard nothing to his right. Neither did he hear anything to his left. “Sawshank, report!” he shouted. Private Sawshank didn’t respond. He started calling out his other men’s names, one at a time with a pause after each. Nobody answered. Drummel swore under his breath, then scrambled to his left to check on his men. He found two of them, dead. The other man who should have been there was gone. He didn’t see anybody beyond his squad’s section of sandbagged wall. Still staying below the tops of the sandbags, he crawled to his right, beyond his previous position. The first man he came across was alive but in shock from a plasma bolt that had taken his arm off at the shoulder. Drummel wasn’t sure it was a blessing that the plasma had cauterized the wound instead of leaving the soldier to bleed out and die. Sawshank was next in line. He was dead; a blackened hole bored through his head, another gouged his shoulder. There should have been two more men beyond Sawshank. There was only one, and he was dead, sprawled on top of the sandbags he should have stayed behind. Again to the right, Drummel saw nobody beyond his last man.