The Best Military Science Fiction of the 20th Century

by Harry Turtledove

  Hammer nodded, calm again. “Interfile your blowers with ours, Captain,” he ordered. “Your panzers watch street level while the cars take care of upper floors and roofs.”

  Pritchard saluted and slid down into the tank, relaying the order to the rest of his platoon. Kowie blipped The Plow’s throttles, swinging the turreted mass in its own length and sending it back into the village behind the lead combat car. The tank felt light as a dancer, despite the constricting sidestreet Kowie followed the car into. Pritchard scanned the full circuit of the vision blocks. Nothing save the wind and armored vehicles moved in Haacin. When Steuben had learned a line company was requisitioning two dozen extra sidearms, the major had made the same deductions as Pritchard had and had inspected the same satellite tape of a truck unloading. Either Riis was insane or he really thought Col. Hammer was willing to throw away his life’s work to arm a village—inadequately. Lord and Martyrs! Riis would have had to be insane to believe that!

  Their objective was a nondescript two-story building separated from its neighbors by narrow alleys. Hammer directed the four rearmost blowers down a parallel street to block the rear. The searchlights of the vehicles chilled the flat concrete and glared back from the windows of the building. A battered surface truck was parked in the street outside. It was empty. Nothing stirred in the house.

  Hammer and Steuben dismounted without haste. The major’s helmet was slaved to a loudspeaker in the car. The speaker boomed, “Everyone out of the building. You have thirty seconds. Anyone found inside after that’ll be shot. Thirty seconds!”

  Though the residents had not shown themselves earlier, the way they boiled out of the doors proved they had expected the summons. All told, there were eleven of them. From the front door came a well-dressed man and woman with their three children: a sexless infant carried by its mother in a zippered cocoon; a girl of eight with her hood down and her hair coiled in braids about her forehead; and a twelve-year-old boy who looked nearly as husky as his father. Outside staircases disgorged an aged couple on the one hand and four tough-looking men on the other.

  Pritchard looked at his blower chief. The sergeant’s right hand was near the gun switch and he mumbled an old ballad under his breath. Chest tightening, Pritchard climbed out of his hatch. He jumped to the ground and paced quietly over to Hammer and his aide.

  “There’s twenty-four pistols in this building,” Joachim’s amplified voice roared, “or at least you people know where they are. I want somebody to save trouble and tell me.”

  The civilians tensed. The mother half-turned to swing her body between her baby and the officers.

  Joachim’s pistol was in his hand, though Pritchard had not seen him draw it. “Nobody to speak?” Joachim queried. He shot the eight-year-old in the right knee. The spray of blood was momentary as the flesh exploded. The girl’s mouth pursed as her buckling leg dropped her facedown in the street. The pain would come later. Her parents screamed, the father falling to his knees to snatch up the child as the mother pressed her forehead against the door jamb in blind panic.

  Pritchard shouted, “You son of a bitch!” and clawed for his own sidearm. Steuben turned with the precision of a turret lathe. His pistol’s muzzle was a white-hot ring from its previous discharge. Pritchard knew only that and the fact that his own weapon was not clear of its holster. Then he realized that Col. Hammer was shouting, “No!” and that his open hand had rocked Joachim’s head back.

  Joachim’s face went pale except for the handprint burning on his cheek. His eyes were empty. After a moment, he holstered his weapon and turned back to the civilians. “Now, who’ll tell us where the guns are?” he asked in a voice like breaking glassware.

  The tear-blind woman, still holding her infant, gurgled, “Here! In the basement!” as she threw open the door. Two troopers followed her within at a nod from Hammer. The father was trying to close the girl’s wounded leg with his hands, but his palms were not broad enough.

  Pritchard vomited on the snowy street.

  Margritte was out of the tank with a medikit in her hand. She flicked the civilian’s hands aside and began freezing the wound with a spray. The front door banged open again. The two White Mice were back with their submachineguns slung under their arms and a heavy steel weapons-chest between them. Hammer nodded and walked to them.

  “You could have brought in an interrogation team!” Pritchard shouted at the backs of his superiors. “You don’t shoot children!”

  “Machine interrogation takes time, Captain,” Steuben said mildly. He did not turn to acknowledge the tanker. “This was just as effective.”

  “That’s a little girl!” Pritchard insisted with his hand clenched. The child was beginning to cry, though the local anesthetic in the skin-sealer had probably blocked the physical pain. The psychic shock of a body that would soon end at the right knee would be worse, though. The child was old enough to know that no local doctor could save the limb. “This isn’t something that human beings do!”

  “Captain,” Steuben said, “they’re lucky I haven’t shot all of them.”

  Hammer closed the arms chest. “We’ve got what we came for,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  “Stealing guns from my colonel,” the Newlander continued as if Hammer had not spoken. The handprint had faded to a dull blotch. “I really ought to—”

  “Joachim, shut it off!” Hammer shouted. “We’re going to talk about what happened tonight, you and I. I’d rather do it when we were alone—but I’ll tell you now if I have to. Or in front of a court martial.”

  Steuben squeezed his forehead with the fingers of his left hand. He said nothing.

  “Let’s go,” the colonel repeated.

  Pritchard caught Hammer’s arm. “Take the kid back to Central’s medics,” he demanded.

  Hammer blinked. “I should have thought of that,” he said simply. “Sometimes I lose track of…things that aren’t going to shoot at me. But we don’t need this sort of reputation.”

  “I don’t care cop for public relations,” Pritchard snapped. “Just save that little girl’s leg.”

  Steuben reached for the child, now lying limp. Margritte had used a shot of general anesthetic. The girl’s father went wild-eyed and swung at Joachim from his crouch. Margritte jabbed with the injector from behind the civilian. He gasped as the drug took hold, then sagged as if his bones had dissolved. Steuben picked up the girl.

  Hammer vaulted aboard the combat car and took the child from his subordinate’s arms. Cutting himself into the loudspeaker system, the stocky colonel thundered to the street, “Listen you people. If you take guns from mercs—either Barthe’s men or my own—we’ll grind you to dust. Take ’em from civilians if you think you can. You may have a chance then. If you rob mercs, you just get a chance to die.”

  Hammer nodded to the civilians, nodded again to the brooding buildings to either side. He gave an unheard command to his driver. The combat cars began to rev their fans.

  Pritchard gave Margritte a hand up and followed her. “Michael One to Michael First,” he said. “Head back with Alpha First.”

  PRITCHARD RODE INSIDE the turret after they left Haacin, glad for once of the armor and the cabin lights. In the writhing tree-limbs he had seen the Dutch mother’s face as the shot maimed her daughter.

  Margritte passed only one call to her commander. It came shortly after the combat cars had separated to return to their base camp near Midi, the planetary capital. The colonel’s voice was as smooth as it ever got. It held no hint of the rage which had blazed out in Haacin. “Capt. Pritchard,” Hammer said, “I’ve transferred command of Sigma Company to the leader of its First Platoon. The sector, of course, is in your hands now. I expect you to carry out your duties with the ability you’ve already shown.”

  “Michael One to Regiment,” Pritchard replied curtly. “Acknowledged.”

  Kowie drew up in front of the command post without the furious caracole which had marked their most recent approach. Pritchard slid his hatch ope
n. His crewmen did not move. “I’ve got to worry about being sector chief for a while,” he said, “but you three can rack out in the barracks now. You’ve put in a full tour in my book.”

  “Think I’ll sleep here,” Rob said. He touched a stud, rotating his seat into a couch alongside the receiver and loading tube of the main gun.

  Pritchard frowned. “Margritte?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “No, I’ll stay by my set for a while.” Her eyes were blue and calm.

  On the intercom, Kowie chimed in with, “Yeah, you worry about the sector, we’ll worry about ourselves. Say, don’t you think a tank platoon’d be better for base security than these pongoes?”

  “Shut up, Kowie,” Jenne snapped. The blond Burlager glanced at his captain. “Everything’ll be fine, so long as we’re here,” he said from one elbow. He patted the breech of the 200 mm gun.

  Pritchard shrugged and climbed out into the cold night. He heard the hatch grind shut behind him.

  Until Pritchard walked in the door of the building, it had not occurred to him that Riis’ replacement was Sally Schilling. The words “First Platoon leader” had not been a name to the tanker, not in the midst of the furor of his mind. The little blonde glanced up at Pritchard from the map display she was studying. She spat cracklingly on the electric stove and faced around again. Her aide, the big corporal, blinked in some embarrassment. None of the headquarters staff spoke.

  “I need the display console from my room,” Pritchard said to the corporal.

  The infantryman nodded and got up. Before he had taken three steps, Lt. Schilling’s voice cracked like pressure-heaved ice, “Cpl. Webbert!”

  “Sir?” The big man’s face went tight as he found himself a pawn in a game whose stakes went beyond his interest.

  “Go get the display console for our new commander. It’s in his room.”

  Licking his lips with relief, the corporal obeyed. He carried the heavy four-legged console back without effort.

  Sally was making it easier for him, Pritchard thought. But how he wished that Riis hadn’t made so complete a fool of himself that he had to be removed. Using Riis to set up a double massacre would have been a lot easier to justify when Danny awoke in the middle of the night and found himself remembering….

  Pritchard positioned the console so that he sat with his back to the heater. It separated him from Schilling. The top of the instrument was a slanted, 40 cm screen which glowed when Pritchard switched it on. “Sector Two display,” he directed. In response to his words the screen sharpened into a relief map. “Population centers,” he said. They flashed on as well, several dozen of them ranging from a few hundred souls to the several thousand of Haacin and Dimo. Portela, the largest Francophone settlement west of the Aillet, was about twenty kilometers west of Haacin.

  And there were now French mercenaries on both sides of that division line. Sally had turned from her own console and stood up to see what Pritchard was doing. The tanker said, “All mercenary positions, confirmed and calculated.”

  The board spangled itself with red and green symbols, each of them marked in small letters with a unit designation. The reconnaissance satellites gave unit strengths very accurately, and computer analysis of radio traffic could generally name the forces. In the eastern half of the sector, Lt. Col. Benoit had spread out one battalion in platoon-strength billets. The guardposts were close enough to most points to put down trouble immediately. A full company near Dimo guarded the headquarters and two batteries of rocket howitzers.

  The remaining battalion in the sector, Benoit’s own, was concentrated in positions blasted into the rocky highlands ten kays west of Portela. It was not a deployment that would allow the mercs to effectively police the west half of the sector, but it was a very good defensive arrangement. The forest that covered the center of the sector was ideal for hit-and-run sniping by small units of infantry. The tree boles were too densely woven for tanks to plow through them. Because the forest was so flammable at this season, however, it would be equally dangerous to ambushers. Benoit was wise to concentrate in the barren high-ground.

  Besides the highlands, the fields cleared around every settlement were the only safe locations for a modern firefight. The fields, and the broad swathes cleared for roads through the forest….

  “Incoming traffic for Sector Chief,” announced a radioman. “It’s from the skepsel colonel, sir.” He threw his words into the air, afraid to direct them at either of the officers in the orderly room.

  “Voice only, or is there visual?” Pritchard asked. Schilling held her silence.

  “Visual component, sir.”

  “Patch him through to my console,” the tanker decided. “And son—watch your language. Otherwise, you say ‘beast’ when you shouldn’t.”

  The map blurred from the display screen and was replaced by the hawk features of Lt. Col. Benoit. A pick-up on the screen’s surface threw Pritchard’s own image onto Benoit’s similar console.

  The Frenchman blinked. “Capt. Pritchard? I’m very pleased to see you, but my words must be with Capt. Riis directly. Could you wake him?”

  “There’ve been some changes,” the tanker said. In the back of his mind, he wondered what had happened to Riis. Pulled back under arrest, probably. “I’m in charge of Sector Two now. Co-charge with you, that is.”

  Benoit’s face steadied as he absorbed the information without betraying an opinion about it. Then he beamed like a feasting wolf and said, “Congratulations, Captain. Some day you and I will have to discuss the…events of the past few days. But what I was calling about is far less pleasant, I’m afraid.”

  Benoit’s image wavered on the screen as he paused. Pritchard touched his tongue to the corner of his mouth. “Go ahead, Colonel,” he said. “I’ve gotten enough bad news today that a little more won’t signify.”

  Benoit quirked his brow in what might or might not have been humor. “When we were proceeding to Portela,” he said, “some of my troops mistook the situation and set up passive tank interdiction points. Mines, all over the sector. They’re booby-trapped, of course. The only safe way to remove them is for the troops responsible to do it. They will of course be punished later.”

  Pritchard chuckled. “How long do you estimate it’ll take to clear the roads, Colonel?” he asked.

  The Frenchman spread his hands, palms up. “Weeks, perhaps. It’s much harder to clear mines safely than to lay them, of course.”

  “But there wouldn’t be anything between here and Haacin, would there?” the tanker prodded. It was all happening just as Hammer’s informant had said Barthe planned it. First, hem the tanks in with nets of forest and minefields; then, break the most important Dutch stronghold while your mercs were still around to back you up…. “The spur road toour HQ here wasn’t on your route; and besides, we just drove tanks over it a few minutes ago.”

  Behind Pritchard, Sally Schilling was cursing in a sharp, carrying voice. Benoit could probably hear her, but the colonel kept his voice as smooth as milk as he said, “Actually, I’m afraid there is a field—gas, shaped charges, and glass-shard antipersonnel mines—somewhere on that road, yes. Fortunately, the field was signal activated. It wasn’t primed until after you had passed through. I assure you, Capt. Pritchard, that all the roads west of the Aillet may be too dangerous to traverse until I have cleared them. I warn you both as a friend and so that we will not be charged with damage to any of your vehicles—and men. You have been fully warned of the danger; anything that happens now is your responsibility.”

  Pritchard leaned back in the console’s integral seat, chuckling again. “You know, Colonel,” the tank captain said, “I’m not sure that the Bonding Authority wouldn’t find those mines were a hostile act justifying our retaliation.” Benoit stiffened, more an internal hardness than anything that showed in his muscles. Pritchard continued to speak through a smile. “We won’t, of course. Mistakes happen. But one thing, Col. Benoit—”

  The Frenchman nodded, waiting for the ed
ge to bite. He knew as well as Pritchard did that, at best, if there were an Authority investigation, Barthe would have to throw a scapegoat out. A high-ranking scapegoat.

  “Mistakes happen,” Pritchard repeated, “but they can’t be allowed to happen twice. You’ve got my permission to send out a ten-man team by daylight—only by daylight—to clear the road from Portela to Bever. That’ll give you a route back to your side of the sector. If any other troops leave their present position, for any reason, I’ll treat it as an attack.”

  “Captain, this demarcation within the sector was not part of the contract—”

  “It was at the demand of Col. Barthe,” Pritchard snapped, “and agreed to by the demonstrable practice of both regiments over the past three months.” Hammer had briefed Pritchard very carefully on the words to use here, to be recorded for the benefit of the Bonding Authority. “You’ve heard the terms, Colonel. You can either take them or we’ll put the whole thing—the minefields and some other matters that’ve come up recently—before the Authority right now. Your choice.”

  Benoit stared at Pritchard, apparently calm but tugging at his upper lip with thumb and forefinger. “I think you are unwise, Captain, in taking full responsibility for an area in which your tanks cannot move; but that is your affair, of course. I will obey your mandate. We should have the Portela-Haacin segment cleared by evening; tomorrow we’ll proceed to Bever. Good day.”

  The screen segued back to the map display. Pritchard stood up. A spare helmet rested beside one of the radiomen. The tank captain donned it—he had forgotten to requisition a replacement from stores—and said, “Michael One to all Michael units.” He paused for the acknowledgment lights from his four platoons and the command vehicle. Then, “Hold your present position. Don’t attempt to move by road, any road, until further notice. The roads have been mined. There are probably safe areas, and we’ll get you a map of them as soon as Command Central works it up. For the time being, just stay where you are. Michael One, out.”