by Tom Kratman
Old, Porras might have been. Steady, calm and reliable she was too. She was also a surprisingly good shot. Even so, Porras couldn’t hope to do what Maria and the others did; she was simply too old. Still, she certainly made it easier for them to do their jobs.
Alma loved her. So did Maria.
Filled with inexpressible feelings of pity, love, and fear, the old woman looked at Maria carefully, as if for the last time. Pretty girl, she thought, eyes glancing over Maria’s five feet two inches of height, healthy figure, straight nose and large, well-spaced eyes. She placed a hand gently along the younger woman’s sculpted chin, saying, “Go with God, child. And be careful. I’ll guard your daughter with my life.”
Then, eyes clouding with tears, Lydia Porras jumped back into the van, slammed the door, and pulled away amidst screeching, smoking tires.
For Maria it was so hard to watch that van pull away.
* * *
Maria Fuentes’s hands trembled. She was frightened, damned frightened, and she had reason to be. Her country’s enemy had one hundred times Balboa’s own population; three or four times that ratio in disparity of wealth. Between their regular and reserve forces they had more people under arms than the entire population of her country. Weapons? Except for small arms and a couple of tricks there was no comparison. Technology? Sister, Balboa wasn’t even in the race.
But it’s not hopeless, she told herself, forcing her hands to steady down. We have some things going for us, too. Our weapons are generally decent and reliable. We have a better doctrine for battle and a much better one for training. We have damned good leaders.
And this is our country. We have no place else to go.
Tougher to measure were some softer factors: Heart, soul, a pretty good knowledge of their own country, and the fact that the enemy was arrogant—and might, with luck, sometime show all the stupidity arrogance entails.
Besides, the Taurans did have some place else they called home. And if they didn’t mind much making others bleed, they didn’t much like bleeding themselves.
Maria thought, If we’re going to make them bleed, we’ll have to bleed some ourselves.
She looked up at the sky and, with the streetlights gone, saw the thin crescents of two moons, Bellona and Hecate. Yeah, they’ve got more night vision capability than we do; they’d hit us at a time with minimal illumination.
She turned away from the direction in which Porras had taken Alma and, her mind on bleeding, faced in the direction she would have to go. She took the rifle from across her back and, weapon in hand, began jogging.
Left, right, left, right.
From the apartment building it was about a mile to the assembly point, the “hide.” This was a small restaurant in Balboa City owned by one of the other squad leaders in Maria’s maniple.
Left, right, left, right.
It is not, repeat not, fun to run, or even jog, in a tropical environment, when you’ve got forty-five pounds of combat equipment and ammunition dragging you down. It wasn’t fun for a man. For women it was worse. Maria knew it would become even worse than that after she picked up the rest of the ammunition hidden at the restaurant.
Left, right, left, right.
Maria heard the steady whop-whop-whop of a helicopter coming closer. Her army had more than a few helicopters, but none of them sounded like this one. She began to look around at her surroundings, desperately seeking someplace she could hide.
* * *
“Hey, Johanson, look left. Single grunt. Take ’im?”
“Yeah, sure, why the hell not?”
The helicopter tilted left as its tail swung around to the right, bringing its weapons to bear. The target ducked and disappeared from view.
“Fire a couple of bursts. See if you can spook him out.”
“Roger.”
* * *
In the recessed doorway in which she’d taken shelter, Maria pressed herself against a wall to try to blend in with the shadow. Her heart was thumping so loud in her chest that she was sure even the helicopter’s crew would be able to hear it.
Suddenly the shadow disappeared as the street was lit by the strobe of several dozen heavy machine-gun rounds being fired. Against her will, Maria screamed. Again the helicopter fired and she pressed her hand to her mouth and bit down.
More than the sound, it was those solid streams of tracers lighting up the landscape that terrified her. She just tried to make herself smaller, even as she bit down on two fingers again so as not to hear herself scream out loud.
* * *
“Fuck it, Jo. If he’s still around, he’ll be wanting to change his pants before reporting to his unit. Call it a ‘Mission accomplished.’ We got shit to do. Let’s go look for easier meat.”
“Roger. Don’t like hanging around one place too long, either.” The chopper tilted right as Johanson flew it up and away from where Maria’s trembling form crouched unseen.
* * *
In combat, fatigue and fear are “mutually reinforcing and essentially interchangeable.” So Maria had been told in training. Her training cadre had even done their best to show her, and her sisters, how that worked. Nothing could have fully prepared her for the reality. She felt so weak from the terror of that helicopter that it took an effort of will just to start moving again. Once she did, though, it got better. She was even able to start thinking and stop just reacting.
Left, right, left, right.
Maria thought, The Taurans may be stupid, but they’re not that stupid. They know we have to assemble to defend ourselves. I wonder what they…
* * *
The Tauran sniper should have had a spotter, and preferably a man for security. Under the circumstances, the desperate need to destroy the Balboans’ leadership before they could fully mobilize their not inconsiderable force of reservists and militia, spotters and guards had been dispensed with. His spotter, indeed, was also alone, someplace a mile or so to the west.
Alone, on flat roof overlooking one of the enemy capital’s major thoroughfares, the sniper carefully rotated the focus ring on his rifle’s scope as he tracked his target down the street. He’d begun to squeeze the trigger once, when the target was in an open space. But the target had disappeared behind a small truck before the rifle had fired. The sniper relaxed the pressure on the trigger, waiting patiently.
Ah. There he was again. The sniper gently slid the rifle over to bring it to bear on the target. He began to squeeze the trigger once again. “Keep your damned head still, asshole. Stop swinging like some bitch,” the sniper whispered. The trigger depressed.…
* * *
KAZINGG!
The bullet passed by Maria’s head so closely she felt the wind of its passage. Sniper!
Even as her mind put a name to the threat, her body was diving behind the nearest auto. In falling, Maria scraped her right elbow on the concrete hard enough to rip her uniform and tear the skin beneath. She ignored it, except to think, in some distant part of her mind, My God, Centurion Garcia would kick my ass if he ever saw me do a dive like that.
Her body armor, tougher stuff, protected her breasts, as aramid fiber knee cups protected her knees. Her heart, which hadn’t ceased pounding since her brush with the helicopter, began to race: thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Maria cursed, even as she crawled to put the engine block and the right front tire of the car between her and where she thought the bullet had come from. It was better than nothing.
Unless, of course, the bullet didn’t come from where I thought. In that case, I’m probably toast.
She rolled over to her back, then slithered her posterior around. Trying to make the smallest target possible, Maria sidled her back to get her head flat behind one of the car’s tires.
Another bullet sent a cloud of broken safety glass raining down on her. Another and she heard a bullet ring off of the engine block then pass through the sheet metal of the body just over her head. Maria began to pray quietly.
Her back hunched against the tire, Maria looked to her left. The next nearest car was better than twenty-five meters away. She didn’t think there was any way she could make it before the sniper put a bullet in her. She knew, too, that he wouldn’t be picky, this time, going for a headshot. He’ll put one through my guts then shoot me in the head as I lie there on the asphalt. The lorica’s good for shrapnel and light rounds, not heavy, full caliber bullets. I’m pinned, but good. Worse, if all else fails he’ll probably eventually go for the gas tank. Then it’s going to be fricasseed Fuentes.
She began to pray a bit more fervently, whispering, “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come…”
Next to the main door to Maria’s maniple’s headquarters there was a hand-painted sign. She’d seen it a thousand times. The sign showed a duck trying to eat a frog, the frog’s legs sticking out of the duck’s mouth. The duck couldn’t eat the frog, though, because the frog’s front feet were wrapped around the duck’s throat, choking it, blocking its windpipe and gullet.
The caption on the sign said, “Never give up!”
She stopped praying to think, Okay. Never give up.
Maria took the drum magazine from her F-26 rifle, then tapped it against her thigh to make sure all the cartridges were well seated. She then replaced it in the magazine well. The magazine made a click as it seated, soft enough but seeming loud to her. Her finger flicked on the rifle’s integral night sight. Maria took one deep breath, crossed herself and prepared to get up and shoot back. She was NOT going to burn without a fight.
Even as her body tensed, she thought, If they could think of putting snipers on the roofs to block our mobilization, why couldn’t we have put people on the roofs to block the snipers? Or, at least, to keep the bastards busy?
* * *
“Quietly, Pablo,” the old man whispered with authority. “Don’t let the ammunition drag on the steps, boy.”
“Si, Abuelo.” The grandson looked overhead, past where a lightly built shed protected the stairwell that ran through the building from the frequent rain. He could see only one moon, and that a thin and weak one. Perhaps another was up; from where he was, Pablo couldn’t tell. In any case, he couldn’t imagine even the remotest possibility that anyone would or could hear anything over the ceaseless drumming of the artillery, the screaming of the jets, and the whoosh of light air defense missiles trying—usually in vain—to bring down an aircraft. Still, orders from his grandfather, more importantly orders from Legion Corporal (Med. Ret.) Vladimiro Serrasin, were not to be ignored. The old man was a veteran not only of the terrorist war, but even of the invasion by the Federated States, many years before. He was the boy’s hero.
The boy, himself a junior cadet with a slot waiting at one of the military schools, clutched the bandoleer tight to his chest.
“There, Pablo. See him?” The old man pointed to a soldier, enemy presumably, lying down on the sloping roof with his rifle aimed through a large open chink in the wall surrounding the roof.
“This one is good,” Abuelo gave as his professional judgment. He had a tone of approval in his voice the boy found incongruous at best. “Good fieldcraft. From the ground only his target would have a chance to spot him. If he is as good a shot, that wouldn’t be a problem for him.”
Abuelo got on one arthritic knee, the rough gravel of the roof digging into it. Instead of showing a wince, a mild sneer crossed the old man’s face. The light machine gun he bore in his arms—an older and more primitive arm than the fancy F- and M-26s the legion carried nowadays—went to his shoulder in a motion so smooth it was obviously long-practiced. The old man leaned into the shed that shielded the stairwell to the roof from rain. He took aim on the indistinct shape on the opposite roof. The old man inhaled, let the breath out, and began to squeeze.…
* * *
Maria crossed herself quickly, then twisted up to one knee to bring her rifle to bear on the building from which she thought the fire had come. Even as she did so, a long, long burst of machine gun fire came from her left rear. She hadn’t been expecting it. The surprise ruined her aim. Her bullets hit the building opposite, but that was all.
She did not wet herself.
From the other side of the street came a scream that might have been heartbreaking if it hadn’t also been so satisfying. The machine gun fired again and the screaming stopped.
Mildly faint and more than a little nauseated, she slid down to rest her back once again against the tire.
As Maria sighed her relief, she heard a laugh from overhead. Then an old man’s voice called out to her, “I once was young and brave and strong.”
Maria answered, loudly as she could, her voice still breaking with terror, “And I’m so now…Come on…and try.”
Then a young boy—he sounded all of thirteen or fourteen—shouted to the world, “But I’ll be strongest, by and by.”
“Go on, girl,” said the old man. “We can see for about three blocks. It’s clear that far, anyway.”
Maria shouted out, “Thanks,” then got unsteadily to her feet. Thankful to be alive and substantially unhurt, she resumed her jog again for the restaurant.
* * *
The restaurant wasn’t in, though it sat very near, the seediest part of the city, just south of Old Balboa. Though the septic-mouthed, genengineered antaniae had been eradicated from most of the capital, here their nightly cries—mnnbt, mnnbt, mnnbt—could be heard in the distance.
From the restaurant’s door came the challenge, “Delta, Oscar?”
Maria gasped out, “Lima Lima.” The challenge and password for the week spelled, “doll.” Had the sentry asked “Oscar, Lima,” Maria would instead have answered with, “Delta, Lima.”
“Go on inside, Sergeant Fuentes. The platoon centurion will be glad to see you. It’s a freakin’ nightmare, I’m tellin’ ya.”
Nodding, too out of breath for words, Maria brushed past the sentry and eased through the restaurant’s door. Sweat dripped from her chin to splash on the floor below.
Inside was a scene of boundless confusion and disarray. Tables and chairs had been pushed against the walls and windows for whatever cover they might provide. Women soldiers crouched low and indistinct amidst the tangle, their eyes searching out the windows for a threat. A six-foot section of flooring had been torn away. From the hole flew metal and wooden boxes of what was plainly ammunition. Women soldiers ran to and fro, moving the boxes to where other armed women were breaking them open and passing the ammunition out.
To one side Maria’s platoon’s optio, what some armies would have called a “platoon sergeant,” spoke frantically into a radio. “What a nightmare! Half of us aren’t here yet! Dead, wounded, held up by traffic; I don’t know. Everyone is doing someone else’s job… No, I haven’t seen a trace of Zamora… Yeah, yeah. I know. ‘Never to expect a plan to really work. After all, the goddamned enemy gets a vote, too.’…Roger, I’ll keep you posted. Out.”
The optio dropped the microphone to rest beside the radio. She took one look at Maria and said, “Sergeant Fuentes. Good to see you. Your people aren’t here yet. Go help Gupta drag the rest of the ammunition out of the hide.”
Obviously, there wasn’t time for questions. Maria did as she was told.
The “hide” was that hole in the floor, normally kept hidden under a table, which held roughly three quarters of a ton of ammunition. The women all kept their personal load at home, of course, but that was mostly rifle and machine gun ammunition. The hide had enough for a real battle: mortar shells, antitank rockets, mines, demolitions, grenades. The hide had never been designed for highly complex and degradable ammunition, like the light, shoulder-fired, antiaircraft missiles. Those would have to come later, from elsewhere, if they did.
As she eased herself down, Maria wondered how many people had eaten at that table never knowing they sat above enough explosives to blow them halfway to La Plata.
“Ouch! Watch where you put your feet, Sergeant Fuentes. That was my
shoulder.”
“Right. Sorry, Gupta. Move a little so I can get down there with you.”
Whatever the origins of her name, Gupta was white and approximately blond. Once she’d stepped out of the way, Maria eased herself into the concrete-lined hole, then planted her feet on the floor of the hide and began to help. Some of the boxes took the two of them just to lift. She was struggling alone with a heavy crate when Marta stuck her face into the hole.
“We’re all here, Maria. I also picked up two militia types—Sanchez and Arias—on the way.” With that, Marta brushed off an hour’s stark terror.
Marta turned her head away and ordered, “Sanchez! Relieve the sergeant down in the hole.” Marta reached down a hand to help Maria climb out to make room for Sanchez.
Once back on her feet, Maria reached up to give Marta a quick hug. This was awkward as Bugatti was not only a head taller, but huge breasted to boot. Maria had to really reach.
“Good girl, Marta. Line ’em up.”
Bugatti turned away and in that La Plata-accented Spanish that might as well have been Tuscan began to bellow to the troops.
After Marta had put the squad into a line Maria started her inspection. This was no time for parade ground bullshit. Sure, naturally she checked their ammunition, weapons, equipment, food and water. Mostly, though, she checked them.
“Your kids get picked up all right, Cat?” She asked of her machine gunner, Catarina Gonzalez.
For answer Cat just nodded her plain face on her stocky neck.
Scared, Maria thought. Don’t blame her. If I had three kids I’d be three times more frightened than I am. She patted Cat’s cheek for reassurance’s sake and continued down the line.
Cat’s ammunition bearer, Arias—a tall, slender, blond girl—was next. Arias was so new the Maria couldn’t for the life of her remember the girl’s first name. While hands jiggled Arias’s canteens to check the weight of the water, Maria asked about her ammunition to cover the memory lapse.
