Breathing hard, McCormick turned back to the crowd, who looked angry and more than a bit frightened. "Now, back to the business at hand. We will be conducting a census of the town. Each resident will need to give us their name, birthdate, race, occupation and income, marital status . . . and if you have multiple spouses you'll need to speak to a legal advisor to codify the relationship. Unfortunately, there will be no new multiple relationships. It reduces the number of residences and therefore affects property tax levels. We can't properly pay for schools if everyone won't do their fair share . . ." The crowd was getting louder, and the soldiers gripped their weapons. There'd been outbursts and even a few potshots in other towns. " . . . religion and dietary restrictions, and you'll each be assigned an identification number. That also helps businesses by helping them identify bad credit risks."
There were mutters and milling about. McCormick let it settle before he continued. "And you'll need to register any weapons you have. We won't be asking anyone to turn them in yet, since this is a frontier town, but as soon as we can provide police in the town and perimeter deterrents for the farms against animals—"
"Rippers aren't deterred by sonics, you moron!" someone shouted.
"We will take care of it!" McCormick shouted back. "Must you people question everything?"
The milling settled down and the crowd stared at him. The looks ranged from disgusted to murderous. "It is because of people like your Mr. Worthington that society needs rules like this. As soon as proper government is provided, you'll find you don't need to work so hard or be afraid of crime—"
"It's not crime that worries us! Freehold!" someone shouted.
Automatic weapons fire erupted, along with precise shots from marksmen. In seconds, four locals were dead and almost one hundred UN soldiers. The fifty Freehold veterans in the front rows were spreading out, coats flapping from where they'd drawn their weapons. A few more sporadic shots coughed out, then silence reigned.
Joe Worthington was alive and well. The two thugs flanking him both had neat holes through their foreheads, under the helmet lips. The backs of the helmets oozed. "Thank your boy for me, Fred," he said as a neighbor helped him up and dusted him off. "That was fine sniping."
There were eleven dazed or wounded UN soldiers left, along with McCormick. "Anyone want to ask them any questions?" asked a burly retired sergeant.
"Nothing he has to say is worth listening to. You need intelligence?" someone suggested.
"Military intelligence from a political scientist?" the sergeant asked sarcastically.
"You're right. Up to you, Carpender."
Senior Sergeant Carpender, FMF (retired) replied with a string of twelve shots. McCormick cringed and wept as the bullets approached, then howled and tried to get to his feet. The last bullet took him through the base of the skull.
"All right, Joe, are you fit to fly?" Carpender asked. Worthington nodded. "You and Daffyd and Toth get those vertols hidden. The rest of you, toss these bodies into the woods. We'll let the slashers take the evidence. Fire Chief, hose down from here to there," he pointed along the road, where splashes of blood were visible, "and use lots of water. We'll also need to patch those holes in the building and replace the façade completely as soon as possible. Distribute those weapons to anyone who doesn't have any."
Chapter 31
"He who is skilled in attack flashes forth from the topmost heights of heaven, making it impossible for the enemy to guard against him. This being so, the places that I shall attack are precisely those that the enemy cannot defend. . . . He who is skilled in defense hides in the most secret recesses of the earth, making it impossible for the enemy to estimate his whereabouts. This being so, the places that I shall hold are precisely those that the enemy cannot attack."
—Chang Yu (after Sun Tzu)
Kendra stared at the weapon she held. It was a marvel of modern engineering and desperate improvisation. It had cost less than Cr100 to build and could take out UN aircraft or light armor.
Manufactured from polymer plumbing pipe, it had an assembly at the rear to feed air and propellant into a lathe-turned combustion chamber. Propellant was a pressurized can of any of several industrial hydrocarbons that might be available, ether in this case. A piezoelectric trigger and a safety were mounted on the grip. The top had a relatively accurate set of sights. The magazine was manually pumped and gravity fed. The shells dropped into place and the propellant mix would shove them through the smooth barrel and downrange.
Those projectiles would then ignite a rocket engine and could reach decent distance and excellent velocity. Incendiary and high explosive were the only options, but she had a precious handful of fuses for them: proximity, laser-guided and infrared and magnetic distortion seeking.
The combination was cheap and effective, and the initial launch was relatively cool and harder to trace than pure rocket shells. It was produced by the technical branches of Special Warfare, and the craftsman responsible had added a quick engraving of 'Another fine product of Hell's Kitchen.' She smiled at that, then marveled again at the deadliness and simplicity of its design.
It was hot. Summer was brutal even at this slightly higher altitude and latitude and the humidity in the woods was reminiscent of her former home in North America. Glare from Io hurt her eyes, insects and dirt and twigs itched. She carefully wiped sweat away from her eyes and adjusted the sopping bandanna she wore. She could smell her unwashed body and feel her toes squelching in her boots in a mix of pondwater, sweat and grime. No one ever claimed war was pleasant, she thought. The towering cumulus clouds were pretty, though, as was the thick, tangled growth of the forest.
She looked back over the engagement area below. One of the UN support battalions had bivouacked in. For three days Dak and Kyle had observed their activities. The kitchen trailer would open and a line of troops would form, spaced five meters apart. The idea behind that was to minimize casualties.
But that kitchen trailer made a fine target, she decided, and killing the cooks, despite any jokes about the concept, would be disastrous to morale. No one wanted to eat nothing but field rations.
As the troops began to filter in and line up, she checked the foliage around her and took a good position for shooting. She would need to fire several rockets quickly, both for best effect on the target and to ensure the rest scattered for cover. That would give her enough time to retreat. The Simonsen's neighbor, Jack Connor, was to her left, ready to cover her retreat with a light machinegun that was a slightly modified ranch rifle. She could cover him in return and the four with rifles could provide suppressing fire. They'd appear to be a much larger force and too spread out for a counterattack to be effective. Hopefully, both for tactical effect and moral principles, they'd have no casualties of their own.
The first soldier entered the trailer to be served. She checked the mechanism, charged the chamber and began launching.
Thump! Hishhh! Pump the charging handle. Thump! Hishhh! Charge, thump! Hishhh! She fired all seven rockets, contact fused. She quickly opened the bulky magazine and commenced reloading. There were explosions, and a quick glance showed the trailer burning furiously, tilted from damage to one side. The metal was torn and distorted and she could see three still figures. The other two were likely at least wounded, as was the troop being served.
She finished reloading and held still, ready to launch again to support Kyle or use her rifle if anyone came her way. It appeared, however, that total confusion reigned below. She clicked her radio twice to indicate withdrawal and slithered slowly backward out of the blind.
They all met up one by one, a good distance away. Dak was last. "They're still clueless," he said. "That was a nice job."
"Thanks," she nodded. "Tomorrow, I'd like to hit the cooks between units, assuming they have replacements by then. If we can get the cooks to mutiny, morale will really suck."
"I'm curious," Kyle asked. "Why not hit the electronics or a support weapon?"
"Several reasons," she explain
ed. "Taking out one piece of hardware will make no tactical difference. They have more resources than we do. Any stand-up fight, they'll kick our asses. Sorry, but it's true. Second, that's expected and not too intimidating. So we are confusing them by being unpredictable. Also, if they report bad morale because of food, the brass sitting in climate-managed comfort are likely to get upset with them, which will further reduce morale. I think if we hit the cooks every chance we get, we can destroy their fighting efficiency.
"It's also important that we run everything as quietly as possible—no war whoops, insults, graffiti, anything. That works fine in the city, with echo surfaces and lots of hard cover. Out here, silence is scarier. Most of the UN forces are city kids and those who aren't are from very different terrain. We'll keep them scared. I'm hoping they have cooks again by breakfast. If we take them out in the dark, it'll be that much more effective."
"No argument there," Kyle agreed. "Hell, I grew up here and these woods give me the creepies."
"Glad to hear it," she said, grinning. "I almost wet my pants after that bailout. Now let's hit the cave and get some rest. We'll be up all night."
* * *
Very early in the morning, the six of them were quite close to one of the county roads. It was a hardpan surface, but in bad need of repair. Clicked code on the radio had told them that a replacement services detachment was in fact coming from one of the nearby units. They'd strung wire across the road in thick coils. Now they waited, several meters off the road, each covered in clothes and foliage to minimize infrared signature.
Shortly, the sound of vehicles was audible. Two vehicles. Presumably, one was an infantry escort. Not unexpected, but Kendra had hoped to avoid it. She shrugged and sat still.
The utility transport got tangled in the wire and stopped. The cooks in their vehicle stopped behind it. An infantryman, probably the ranking sergeant, jumped out of the first vehicle cursing.
"Back up you fucking morons! Can't you see they're trying to get us bunched up? Probably mortars over that ridge, with airborne recon! Back the fuck up!"
Kendra grinned at his assessment. This was not that technological a war, but she clicked a message to the others to wait. Once the entanglement was thought an accident, they would strike. Meanwhile, it was a very amusing scene. She was certainly glad not to be with the UN forces. Their common denominator was mediocrity and that was about to get more of them killed.
The driver of the second vehicle tried to reverse, but was panicky and inexperienced. He managed to jackknife the trailer into the ditch. The sergeant came back screaming again.
"Goddamn shit for brains! Are you trying to get us killed?" He turned toward one of the troops form the front. "Skaggs, go out to the right, Brunner, take a look out there, about a hundred meters," he said, indicating Kendra's general direction. She came instantly tense, ready to act.
"Yeah," Brunner agreed. He sauntered in her direction, got just into the trees and stopped. Shortly, there came a splashing sound. She laughed inwardly in relief. He wouldn't come looking for anything, she was sure. Her guess was borne out when he fastened his pants and leaned nervously against a tree, facing the vehicles. He was just deep enough in the trees not to be seen by his buddies.
The sergeant continued, "Everybody else, stay still and stay quiet. It doesn't look like an attack, but I don't want any problems. If you hear aircraft or arty, yell and take cover."
Nothing moved for several minutes. Brunner took an occasional nervous look to either side. After a bit, he sat carefully down, back to the tree. The troops on the road waited, twitching nervously. Eventually, the sergeant had them start work.
Two of the troops were untangling the wire, four pushing on the stuck trailer. The sergeant was still too loud, and too scared to realize how conspicuous he was because of it. Kendra decided to make an initial move. She stood slowly, careful not to brush any growth. Choosing her steps cautiously, she walked toward Brunner's position, drawing her knife. There was enough noise from the road to keep him from hearing her.
Shortly, she was behind his tree. Her left hand clamped over his mouth and chin and pulled his head back against the trunk while her right drove the point of her blade vertically into his shoulder. It scraped through the thick fabric of his armor and off bone and through rubbery flesh, then penetrated the subclavian artery. Brunner struggled, making the damage worse, and tried to yell. Cringing in distaste, she held him firmly as his movements ceased. She wiped the gory blade off on his shoulder.
Calculating the risks, hoping someone else would follow her lead, she moved to the edge of the road. Taking careful aim from the ditch, she squeezed the trigger, felt the recoil kick her shoulder, clicked the selector and squeezed again.
Her grenade slammed into the trailer, the explosion shattering a good part of its rear quarter and tossing two of the troops to the ground. She felt the blast slap her as she triggered a series of bursts at the others.
Up at the front, there was fire, so someone had apparently picked up on her move. She made sure all four men and the woman at the rear were dead, sprinted up front to see Kyle standing over two corpses and hissed, "Down!"
The remaining soldier was still out to the right. Kyle followed her order instantly and she dove into the ditch. She eased her way up to the far edge and waited as slimy water leaked into her boots.
Nothing happened for several segs. She stared into the dark, sparingly using the night vision gear to conserve its batteries. Eventually, there was movement. She ascertained that it was definitely a human shape, and click-coded her radio. Shortly, she heard five clicks in response. The figure in the trees did not take cover, so he was not one of her squad. She took aim and squeezed the trigger.
"Hey-" the UN soldier said, cut off by the cough of her weapon. His head shattered and the body slumped. Kendra grimaced. It had sounded as if he had been about to surrender. Oh, well. They had no way to take prisoners, anyway. This avoided a conflict between the laws of war and a successful mission.
Quickly, they stripped all useful gear from the troops, cannibalized parts from the vehicles and set incendiaries to destroy them. The bodies went into a hastily dug pit, covered with lime to keep animals away. The pit was distant enough from the road that she felt sure no UN troops would find it. That done, they ignited the incendiaries and departed.
The devices in question were remarkably low-tech. They consisted of blocks of sawdust that had been cast with melted wax. Once the fuse sections—glorified candles—burned into the body, they flared quickly and hot. Segs after they left, the vehicles were charred heaps of slagged polymer and distorted metal.
They returned to the farm, where they planned to rest for several days before making further assaults. Kendra typed a coded report of their activities, suggesting similar tactics be used elsewhere to disrupt morale. The div-ten upload transmitted the information as a burst. She wasn't sure who was receiving it, but supposedly it was fast enough and scrambled sufficiently that it would be hard to track. She was still nervous, but felt the information important enough to relay.
It had been a good start. They'd killed eleven enemy troops, disrupted two units, created morale problems and destroyed the kind of basic vehicles that were always in demand and always prioritized last for replacement. Killing was not the shock it had been the first time, she decided, although the last one had bothered her a bit. She just wished Rob or Marta were around so she could brag and celebrate. She tried to block off thoughts about them.
Late that night, Kyle woke her. She stumbled outside, wrapped in her cloak. "There," he said, pointing. He handed her binoculars.
"What is it?" she asked. There were flashes and streaks writhing through the air.
"Skywheel Three," he said.
She watched the metal and fiber vapor glow incandescent below the cold points of stars and considered. It didn't slow the arrival of landing craft—that was predicated on the number of landing sites. It did increase the expense. It also took away some of the pr
edictability of the schedules. It seemed rather petty. There was no clear advantage to it, it was simply done to obliterate another part of the local society.
Or had it been done by the resistance to annoy the UN?
Chapter 32
"The limitation of tyrants is the endurance of those they oppose."
—Frederick Douglass
Joren Lang was furious. Bad enough to have an assignment like this, but the UN Senate was unsympathetic and totally useless. He wanted to tell them what to do with their "advice" from "committee."
"Create, implement and initiate procedures and policies designed to provide basic governmental infrastructure for the Grainne Colony," his orders read. He made a list.
There was nothing to work from. He'd have to start with a census.
He couldn't do a census while people shot at his forces.
The locals showed no desire to assist him. They cheerfully shot at anyone from the UN, in or out of uniform. They even shot at contractors, civil service employees and other technical noncombatants. Of course, proving those attacks were deliberate for a war crimes tribunal would be almost impossible.
There were no records for income, no medical records, no safety standards, no central air traffic control, no standards on anything. No basic safety standards on toys. No public medical records, driving records, consumer standards. Nothing. Well, military records, seized. Many of those were scrambled and most of the military were dead. No help there.
There were no records on weapons. When he'd insisted that the ownership rate was well above the five percent estimated by the committee and that most of the weapons were not simple sidearms, he had been rudely ordered back to his task.
He couldn't even find building plans or property records for most areas.
There were no bureaus to run any of this. The assumption had been that he'd take over with force if necessary and that the workers would assist him because it was in their best interests. There were no workers and no one with any training insystem. He'd have to import clerks, techs, everybody. There were civilian specialists, certainly, but almost none had accepted the offer to be hired and learn governmental procedures.
Freehold Page 36
