A Hymn Before Battle lota-1

by John Ringo

  In two seconds a thousand of these supremely destructive teardrops punched through fifty drums of fish oil. One pellet was enough to finely distribute a drum of oil over two to three thousand cubic meters of air. The following rounds found only vapor, and these excess pellets, following the immutable laws of physics, set out to find other drums to divide. The oil from thousands of drums suddenly flash blasted into gas then ignited from compression, rather like a diesel piston. The net effect was a fuel-air bomb, the next best thing to a nuclear weapon in Terran technology, and the basement warehouse became a gigantic diesel cylinder. For Sergeant Reese, in an instant the world flashed to fire.

  The warehouse was two levels below ground. It had six levels below it and was three hundred fifty meters from Sisalav Boulevard, a hundred fifty meters from Avenue Qual. The fuel-air explosion blasted a two-hundred-meter diameter crater down to bedrock, gutted the building for a kilometer upward and set off all the charges planted for Plan Jericho. The shock wave smashed structural members all the way to Sisalav and Qual and spit many of the remaining troopers on the ground floor out of the building like watermelon seeds. It killed every unarmored being in the mile cube structure: three hundred twenty-six thousand Indowy and eight thousand particularly quick and greedy Posleen. The Jericho charges worked as planned, shattering a hundred and twenty critical monocrystalline support members. With surprising grace, the mile-high edifice leaned to the northwest and slowly, as if reverently kneeling, fell into Daltrev, blocking Sisalav and Qual and smashing the southeast quadrant of Daltrev. It crushed more Posleen and completely blocked an enemy advance from the massif to Qualtrev.

  Following a predetermined plan, when the last shaken but mobile survivors of Alpha and Bravo quit Qualtrev five minutes later, that structure’s charges detonated as well. The building settled across Avenue Anosimo and the rest of Daltrev, blocking Posleen advances through both the battalion’s sector and the primary axis of advance into the 7th Cav sector. With the Posleen advances blocked, the remnant of the battalion was free to support the Cav. If it could be reconstituted.

  Mike moaned and opened his eyes. At least he thought he did but the world was as black as before and he suffered from vertigo. Either there was something wrong with his inner ear, or he was basically upside down and on his back.

  “Lieutenant O’Neal,” said his AID in her most soothing voice, “you’re not blind, there just is no light.”

  “Suit lights,” muttered Mike, dazedly.

  “First let me tell you where you are. What do you remember?”

  “Headache.”

  The AID correctly interpreted this as a medication request and chose three items from the pharmacope.

  “Whew,” said Mike after a minute or two of shutting his eyes against the soul-drinking darkness, “that’s better. Now, where am I? And turn on the damn helmet.”

  “What do you remember?” the AID temporized.

  “Entering a warehouse in the basement of Qualtren.”

  “Do you remember what happened in the basement?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember Sergeant Reese?”

  “Yeah. Is he alive?”

  “Barely. You encountered some Posleen. In firing on them Sergeant Reese struck several bladders of oil with kinetic pellets. This caused a fuel-air explosion which in turn detonated the Jericho charges…”

  “I’m under Qualtren,” said Mike in sudden horrified realization.

  “Yes, sir. You are. You are under approximately one hundred twenty-six meters of rubble.”

  28

  Ft. Indiantown Gap, PA Sol III

  0025 August 5th, 2002 ad

  Pappas’ eyes were open, his back straight, his arms crossed and a fierce expression was fixed on his face. For all that he was, in reality, asleep.

  It was after midnight as the swaying bus ground to a halt at the MP guarded entrance to Fort Indiantown Gap. The bus driver had wondered as they approached about the red glow of flames in the distance, but the greeting from the MPs drove all thought of it out of his head. He leaned out of the window to ask where the recruits and their humorless sergeant were supposed to go, but before he could ask the question the MP answered it for him.

  “I don’t know where the fuckers are supposed to go, who they are supposed to report to or what the fuck to do with them. Are there any more questions?” the MP private asked in an angry and aggressive tone.

  Pappas’ eyes flicked open and before he was fully awake he had exited the bus and had the MP dangling by his BDU collar from one hand.

  “What the fuck kind of answer is that you pissant?” he raged. The MP’s companion started awake and clawed at his Berretta.

  “Draw your weapon and you will be splitting rocks in Leavenworth on Thursday, asshole!” said the infuriated Pappas turning his fulminating gaze on the companion. On top of the difficulties of the trip the attitudes of the MPs had just been too much. The backup quit clawing at his sidearm and popped to attention.

  “Now,” said Pappas as his fury cooled slightly, “what the fuck is your problem, Private?” He lowered the MP so that his feet contacted the ground without actually releasing him.

  The MP had had his share of problems lately and plenty of opportunity to practice hand-to-hand combat. But he had never had anyone manhandle him so quickly or completely and the experience was shattering. The NCO in gray silks, which designated him as one of the nearly untouchable Fleet Strike Force, was a mountain of muscle. The dim lighting and red flickering of distant flames turned him into a surreal figure of almost primeval strength and fury, like a volcano on two trunk-like legs. The private did a quick reevaluation of his environment.

  “Sergeant,” he was definitely a sergeant, although it was hard to read the Fleet stripes on his shoulder, “we got a lot of problems…”

  “I don’t want to hear problems, private, I want to hear answers.”

  “Sergeant, I don’t have any. I’m sorry.” The private’s face was screwed into near tears and Pappas suddenly had to reevaluate the situation as well.

  “What the fuck is going on?” he asked releasing the private and smoothing the fabric of his BDU collar. He finally turned his head to look at the distant fires. “What the fuck is going on?” he asked again, shaking his head.

  “Sarge, Sergeant,” the MP corrected quickly, “the fuckin’ place is out of control.” He stopped and shook his head.

  “Sergeant,” said the backup, “I’m sorry we were so fucked up on our answer. But we really don’t know where to send your troops.”

  The original MP nodded his head in agreement. “The first thing is last week they had to move a bunch of the units ’cause their barracks got burned out in the riots. Then they lost some of the troops and the rest were shacking up in open barracks. When they tried to move ’em there was riots over that. An’ whenever we break up a riot, the rioters tend to fire the trailers when they’re runnin’ away. So, where youse was supposed to go might not even be there…”

  “Holy shit,” whispered the former Marine. He could hear the troops getting off the bus behind him and raised his voice. “Get me Stewart, Ampele, Adams and Michaels.” The squad leaders. “The rest of you yardbirds get back on the bus!”

  While the squad leaders assembled he watched the flickering flames at a position of parade rest. He gently blew his lips in thought. “You guys getting any help?” he asked.

  “Not much, Sergeant,” said the MP. “There’s about three or four battalions that have their troops under order, but even they have problems. And we can’t really use them for riot suppression, ’cause we can’t tell the sheep from the goats.” The private stopped and shook his head. “It’s a real rat-fuck, Sergeant.”

  “Gunny.”

  “Okay, it’s a real rat-fuck, Gunny.” The MP chuckled.

  Pappas wheeled on the assembled squad leaders. “This is a fuck-up, folks, but it’s one we gotta work with. Apparently the Army has lost control of its units.” He turned back to the MP.
“How many units are we talkin’ about?”

  “Two divisions, some attached Corp units and the Fleet Strike battalion. We’re havin’ most of our problems out of the support units and a couple of the infantry battalions, though. The problem is that most of the senior officers and NCOs haven’t got here yet, so all we got is a bunch of fuckin’ recruits and castoffs from other units. If we had a full officer and NCO Corp we’d be okay, at least that is what our provost says, but until all the officers and NCOs get here and we start havin’ some court-martials it’s just gonna continue like this.”

  Pappas nodded his head and continued. “Here is how we’re gonna handle it. First, we ain’t takin’ the bus into that rat-fuck. So we gotta walk. But we ain’t gonna try to find where we’re supposed to be loaded down with baggage. So, Ampele, First squad is baggage guard.”

  “Gunny… !” the large private started to protest.

  “It’s more important than you think. We’re gonna unload all the baggage here.” He looked around. “Down by the stream.” He gestured with his chin. “Hunker down and wait for support. When we find our quarters and unit I’ll send back transport and most of the platoon to pick up the baggage. But be aware that you could be attacked.” He looked at the MPs and they nodded.

  “Yeah,” said the now fully awake backup. “We’ve had groups out here before. If you get hit, we’ll back you up,” he continued, “but we can’t fire without being fired on,” he finished sourly.

  “So be prepared for anything. I’m leaving you here because you’re the one I trust to keep his head and hold onto his people best. Don’t bitch about a fuckin’ compliment. And you better guard our shit good.” Pappas thought for a moment and decided to ask the question. “Umm, have they briefed you guys on something about Fleet Strike being under different rules…”

  “Yeah, Gunny,” answered the first MP. “You guys are hands off. Fortunately other than fights in the barracks area Fleet Strike hasn’t caused a lot of problems.” He paused and thought about it for a moment. “Well, for us,” he amended. “CID’s another story.”

  “Okay,” said Pappas, wondering about the comment. “We’re gonna take the other three squads into that,” he gestured with his chin, “in movement to contact formation.” He puffed his cheeks in thought.

  “I’ll take three members of first squad as a headquarters group. Move slow, stroll. But keep your eyes open and looking around. Designate one team for primary forward movement and one team for security. Have buddies carry on conversation, don’t bunch but don’t get scattered. If one squad gets into something they can’t handle, the other two pile on. If we get bogged down in someone else’s turf we are dog-meat, so kick their ass, don’t pee on them, we have to cut through any opposition fast.” He took a proffered map from the MP and had a quick conversation.

  “Okay,” he continued, looking at the map in the subdued light and wishing for a set of Milspecs from the equipment they were going to be issued. “We’re probably way over by the old heliport right at the base of the mountains.” He glanced into the darkness. “Right by the fires.” He shook his head.

  “Stewart,” he turned to the diminutive private. “Second squad has point. Don’t do any looting along the way; it’s not only against regulation, we don’t have fuckin’ time. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the young man. He stood at parade rest, his face as serious as a statue.

  “You don’t call me ‘sir’ anymore, Stewart,” said Pappas, dryly. “It looks like I’m back to working for a living,” he sighed deeply. “Well, it can’t be worse than Hue, right?” He thought about that for a moment. “Do they have firearms?” he asked the MP, deep in memory.

  The private winced. “Not many. We generally take those away as fast as they turn up. That is the one thing that really lets us drop a load of hurt on their head. Lots of clubs and knives though,” he warned.

  Pappas nodded his head. “Pick up anything that looks like a weapon as you go. The order of movement will be second, fourth, third. I’ll be moving between second and fourth. Third, Adams, keep an eye on our backtrack. If we’re being tracked we need to swing around and nutcracker them.”

  “Right, Gunny,” said the former drill corporal.

  “Okay, remember, try to look casual as possible, but keep in sight of the other squads. Go get your people briefed.” He paused for a moment and shook his head in resignation. The expression on his face was lugubrious. “What a fuckin’ nightmare.”

  “We can handle it,” said Stewart, confidently. “We’ve got the training, we’ve got the teamwork and we’ve got the leadership.” He smiled at the gunnery sergeant, obviously wondering why he was so shaken by the situation.

  Pappas turned calm eyes on the private and smiled cheerfully. Since the situation was totally screwed up, Stewart instantly realized that he had said something the sergeant considered particularly boneheaded.

  “Stewart, you are an idiot,” he said, gently. The sergeant gestured towards the distant rebel units. “In a year or two we are going to be depending on those fuckers for support. Think of it this way. What would happen if the Posleen landed tomorrow?”

  “Oh.” The private looked back at the fires and scratched his head. He blew out his cheeks and rocked back and forth at parade rest. “Yeah.”

  Pappas had not seen Stewart pick up the two lengths of broom handle. But the way he twirled them in both hands bespoke forms of training that surprised the veteran NCO. The aggressive drunk had not even had time to cry out before he was down and being dragged into the darkness by two other members of second squad. That obstacle overcome, the platoon continued its slow movement into the maelstrom.

  It seemed as though the world was on fire. Wood and siding ripped from the trailers that made up the majority of the barracks were piled in courtyards and parade grounds burning. The substance of the soldiers’ homes was being consumed to warm the autumn night.

  Small groups wandered everywhere, some of them bearing bottles, others smoking fragrant substances. From the darkness a squeal told of other pleasures being dispensed. Since it sounded consensual, Pappas ignored it. He frankly was not sure what he would do if it were not consensual. The mission was to find and join up with their unit. Once they were attached things would get easier. Or so he hoped.

  He gestured for second squad to stop and the platoon to form a perimeter. The troops dropped into position in the shadowed area, a variety of bludgeons clutched in their hands, as the squad leaders joined him at the center. He pulled the map out of his cargo pocket and gestured for them to look at it in the flickering light of distant fires.

  “To get to our initial objective, which is where the MPs think the battalion is at, we have to pass through there.” He gestured through the buildings at a parade ground. The point was marked on the map as a former heliport. From where they crouched in the darkness it was obvious that the area was some sort of meeting ground. There was a giant party in full swing with numerous bonfires and large groups were wandering around. There were easily a thousand people, males and females, in the area.

  “We might not run into any opposition, but, then again, we might. We could swing around, but it would take us well out of our way and sooner or later we’re gonna run out of luck.” He gestured to where the drunk was sleeping off his concussion. “I am open to suggestions.”

  “How ’bout we just run through, like we’re doing PT?” asked Michaels. “They’re less likely to bother a formation, don’t you think, Gunny?”

  Stewart snorted. “See anybody doing PT?” he asked.

  Adams shook his head. “I gotta go with Stewart on this one, man. I don’t think anybody around here does PT. We’d stick out like a sore thumb.”

  “And if we bunch up, we might look like a threat,” pointed out Stewart. He had his eyes narrowed.

  “Okay, we’ll—” started Pappas.

  “Gunny, sorry, can I say something?” the little private asked. A few days before the concept of interrupting h
is drill instructor would have been unthinkable. But not only did the situation call for ideas, the conditions they were in were a weird form of home to Stewart.

  “Okay,” said the gunny, “go ahead.”

  “I think me and the boys could draw some of them off,” the private said. His eyes were on the distant party as his brow creased in thought. “We could probably open up a hole, kind of a corridor, and the rest of you could slip through.”

  “How?” Pappas watched the private thinking. He had already recognized that while he had the recruit beat on experience and knowledge, the private was light-years ahead of him on guile and cunning.

  “By joining them,” continued Stewart. He seemed oblivious to the sergeant’s close regard. “Look, just about all of us in second are from a barrio,” continued the little private. “We’re all home-boys; this is like, home, for us. We’d be in the middle of that and loving every minute of it,” he gestured to the party, “if we didn’t have an idea why not.” He turned and looked at the NCO with newfound respect in his eyes. “Your speech makes more sense now than ever.”

  The NCO nodded in understanding. “Go on.”

  “But we can… infiltrate that party. I’ve got some pretty good attention getters, circus tricks I’ve learned. I can attract some of them around me and the boys. That will open up the hole you need.”

  “And if it don’t work?” asked Pappas.

  “We all run like hell,” smiled the private.