Eye of the Storm

by John Ringo

  ". . . it shows you're not confident in yourself," Mosovich said. "Special operations, submariners, firefighters, they all have team names, they all play practical jokes and they all push all the time. If you can't handle the pressure, you're a pussy and don't belong in the unit. It seems stupid but it's a constant method of testing to ensure mental readiness to sustain the pressure of high-intensity combat. If you can't handle a little abuse from friends, you're not going to be able to handle the abuse from an enemy. The enemy is not going to care about your feelings, they're not going to let you hold up a stress card. They're going to try to kill you as hard as they possibly can so that you don't kill them. Horrible team names, practical jokes, psychological and verbal abuse, they're all methods that small high-intensity groups use to constantly test for the weak link. Most of them don't realize it, not intellectually, but they do it. The harder the job, at least ones that require team-work, the more you find people constantly testing. This completes your lesson for today, Glasshoppah . . ."

  "Skank, toss me a water," Adept Hoover said, not looking up from the schematic he was studying.

  The captain's cabin, not particularly generous in space, now had eight bunks arrayed in it. There was very little room to raise so much as one's head. To study the paper schematic, Dust-Devil had it plastered to the underside of the bunk above him and was moving it around using Sohon disciplines. He had the schematic for the ship already stored in his nannites but looking at the paper, for him, made it more real.

  Pawle, without looking at him any more than he'd looked up, pulled a bottle of distilled water from the compartment behind his head and shot it across the room at very nearly the speed of sound.

  Dust-Devil just held out his hand and caught it.

  Doesn't it matter to you that he calls you that . . . name? Adept Sissy Harris asked. The sixth-level Sohon adept was the lead for the Sohon support team that was going to be staying on the ship. Their primary job was to be making sure the Hedren ship didn't escape the trap rather than engaging the Imeg directly.

  No, Pawle thought back. You either live up to it or you're not good enough to be on the team. Even if you live up to it, you might not be good enough. But if you can't take a little pressure like an embarassing team name you shouldn't even bother.

  She was as aware as Mentat Chan of Pawle's problems. He had always been brilliant at the theory of Sohon, but unconfident of his ability to execute it. She had seen vast improvement in the last week and considered his answer carefully.

  Do you feel ready to face the Imeg? she asked.

  I don't know, Pawle replied. We don't know their power. If they are no more powerful than Master Chan, then yes. Especially if you guys give us cover fire.

  She could feel the doubt in his answer but it was not the usual self-doubt she had come to expect. It was simply rational unsurety based on their lack of knowledge of the enemy. It also lacked his usual arrogant tone.

  The Indowy trained on the basis of interest. They used the open hand, from it you could take what you wished or were able. They encouraged, they praised but they never pressed or stressed. Pressure was anathema to their methods of training.

  She was forced to wonder if that was the best way to train humans.

  Or at least human males, come to think of it.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  "Is the force going to make the schedule?" Mike asked, looking up at his daughter.

  "Yes," Michelle said, looking at him carefully. "The actions should be in close time proximity."

  "Then we'd better start shifting," Mike said. "You said four days, right?"

  "Yes," Michelle said. "But, really, we won't know what the true capacity of the Imeg is until the attack on the transport."

  "Never take counsel of your fears," Mike said, picking up his AID. "AID, I need General Tam, Tir Dol Ron and Rigas."

  "I'm going to go join the assault force," Mike said as soon as the threesome had joined them.

  "Even using a destroyer . . ." Tam said, his brow furrowing.

  "Michelle's taking me," Mike said. "And on the basis that even if it slips out, the Hedren can't get the information in time, the target of the assault force is not Gratoola."

  "What do you mean," Tir Dol Ron asked angrily. "Gratoola is the—"

  "Capital of the Federation," Mike said, sighing. "I know that, Clerk. And that it's strategically vital. I didn't say I'm not going to stop the attack on it. I'm just not going to defend from there."

  "Daga Nine," Tam said, his face paling. "I was trying to figure out why you had the damned SS load all those pallets and field projectors. Are you nuts?"

  "Crazy like a fox, Tam," Mike said. "You've got the reins while I'm gone. Don't let the Clerk screw you over. I will be watching."

  He winked at Rigas and then they were gone.

  "The condemned ate a hearty last meal," Harz said, taking three more slices of succulent pork.

  The troops had been brought out of Hiberzine practically on top of the objective. They'd been told that after the meal and a brief preparation period, mostly to let the food settle, they were going to be loading up. The major portion of the prep involved reconfiguring their gear. Normally, personal gear was primarily hung on the outside of the vehicles. In combat it might be destroyed, but with so little room inside the vehicles it was practically a necessity. The order, though, was firm. No personal gear on the outside of the tanks and AFVs.

  They were assured that, if possible, additional gear would be brought to them on-planet. But they were only to take what would fit.

  Frederick was picking at his first plate of food. He knew that as a soldier he should eat when there was food and sleep when there was security. But soon the Hedren would come. When he couldn't know and that bothered him.

  "I think the yellow-shit does not have the stomach for good food," Joachim said, taking a bite of curry wurst.

  "He will not be a yellow-shit much longer," Harz said, cutting into the pork. "That is, if we don't send his fiancée an urn of his ashes."

  "I have asked to be given a decent burial," Frederick pointed out.

  "When one of the modern tanks burns there is rarely much left to bury," Harz said. "The ashes are going to be mixed with those from your seat and personal gear."

  The rejuv was no longer looking at his food but off into the distance as muscle-memory that was burned deep shoveled food into his mouth without the slightest slip or any need for thought.

  "Actually, sometimes the drivers were almost intact. It depended on what hit. An HVM would sometimes kill them from pure overpressure. A plasma blast? Well, if it hit the turret often they survived. Direct hits and it was find any bits of bone that hadn't been turned to gas and scrape some of the char up. The ones that were really write-offs were the inhabitants of the turret. The blow-out panels worked more often than you'd think. But when they did not it was not worth looking for the bodies. I recall . . . damn, can see his face but I can't think of his name. Berlin was what we called him. Anyway, they took a plasma hit directly in the ammunition compartment and the blast penetrated into the turret. At least that was what we figured out later probably happened. The turret didn't jump. You saw that often. This time it stayed on but the ammunition just . . . burned. Very very fast. The cupola blew off, but not the turret. It was a pillar of white flame. Night-time . . . cold. Just this thing like returning lightning to Thor. It seemed to go on and on but it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. It heated up the tank so much we couldn't touch it. When we came back through a few days later, retreating as we generally were, it was still warm but we could look inside. And there was nothing. At least nothing that wasn't heavy metal. Even the springs for the seats were gone; the fire had been so hot they'd been turned into iron gas. All the electronics, the sights . . . Just gone. Crew? Heh. The driver, though, he was still there. Sort of. We got him out in pieces. It must have been hell for him . . ."

  He stopped and blinked his eyes, looking at his two crewmen.

&nb
sp; "What, Joachim? Lost your appetite?" Harz said, taking another bite of pork. "Damn, am I done already? I must get more. This pig was raised with care just to feed me . . ."

  "Yellow-shit," Uberfeldwebel Ginsberg said, sitting down with a filled plate. "Nothing kosher?"

  Hagai had a plate of fruit and salad with a small beef steak. That was it.

  "No, Uberfeldwebel," Hagai replied, shrugging. "It will be fine. I don't have much appetite, anyway."

  "Of course you don't, yellow-shit," Fredrik said, grinning as juices ran down his face. "My, this pork is good . . ."

  "And of course if it is not kosher, you must not enjoy it," Ginsberg said. "You can eat it as a last resort, but it must be eaten only to push off starvation."

  "Yes, Uberfeldwebel," Hagai said, looking at him quizzically.

  "I had a friend in school who was a Maccabean," Ginsberg said, shrugging.

  "Is he in the Maccabaeus, Uberfeldwebel?" Hagai asked.

  "No." Ginsberg took a bite of weiner schnitzel. "He was killed by a Posleen when we were on a training patrol. He used to try to jokingly convert me. He told me all I had to do was cut off the end of my dick and I was in with God. And I'd point out that that was the God who got so pissed at you guys for bitching about being out of water in the desert that he made you wander for forty years in same. Adding cutting off my dick was a bit much." He reached into his cargo pocket and pulled out a package.

  "It's not much," the Uberfeldwebel said. "Just some rugelach. But you should have a good last meal before an operation. If you can't eat it, though, hold onto it. You'll find soon enough that you'll eat snails if they'll slow down enough. And be too tired to chase them."

  "Thank you, Uberfeldwebel," Hagai said, looking at the small twists of dough wrapped around a filling. "I think I will just hold onto it. Now . . . is not the right time."

  "Whatever," Ginsberg said. "Don't go crying on me. I can't stand men who cry. The next thing you know they're listening to emo music and then they might as well get an earring and move in with their best friend from school."

  "Yes, Uberfeldwebel," Hagai said, grinning. "I will attempt to refrain from crying."

  "What the hell is that?" Frederick said as he clambered over Three Track to get to his.

  Additional equipment had been moved into the bay since they were loaded and, in fact, where there had once been an open area was now a continuation of the platform also filled with equipment. The driver was unsure how in the hell they were going to get the tank out of the bay. Certainly they were going to have to wait for the entire rest of the brigade to get out of their way.

  But the oddest part was that, somehow, someone had gotten a big platform installed under their tank. It looked like an aluminum loading pallet, but large enough to take the entire vehicle.

  "That, my fine yellow-shit, is a P-5297 loading platform," Harz said, climbing up onto the turret and squeezing into the hatch. He had to duck and crawl because the overhead was just barely enough for the cupola to raise to full extent. "And on the rear of the platform, if you had time to look, you would find an M-3698 field generator."

  "Thank you for the information, Uberfeldwebel," Frederick said. He recalled the conversation with Hagai about the devices—since he'd been in hibernation it was more or less yesterday—but hadn't had time since to think about it.

  "Get in, get your shit secured and dog your hatch," Harz said. "There's a pressure check coming up. They're going to evacuate the whole ship to unload us this time."

  "Very good, Uberfeldwebel," Frederick said, scrambling in quickly and setting his gear in place. There was no room in the driver's compartment, but he managed to slip in the few items he'd chosen to take with him for the initial landing. There was an issue sleeping bag, which fortunately was very small, a small amount of "comfort food," a spare pair of socks and a picture of Marta. Even those few items squeezed the space uncomfortably. He might have to ditch the socks.

  He dogged his hatch and did a pressure check. His ears popped as the pressure in the compartment climbed and he worked his jaw to clear them.

  "Seals are nominal, Uberfeldwebel," Frederick said.

  "God help anyone's whose aren't," was all the tank commander said.

  "Track Three, Seal Check."

  "Nominal," Harz replied.

  "Track Three Seal Check Nominal, acknowledged."

  "Ten vehicles with bad seals," 1A reported. "The Indowy are on it. They report ten minutes, maximum."

  "Very good," Mühlenkampf said. "The Kobolds have saved this operation. Tell the commodore we will be prepared in ten minutes maximum. Order all vehicles to remain closed up."

  "We're to stay closed up," Harz said.

  "What is this bullshit?" Adler said. "We only have so much air."

  "The scrubbers are good for a full day," the Uberfeldwebel replied. "There is plenty of time. And it is an order so that is enough."

  * * *

  "Seals are all repaired," 1A reported. "Visuals confirm that all vehicles have remained buttoned up."

  "Commodore Winston," Mühlenkampf said, keying his microphone. "This is Vaterland Commander."

  "Go Vaterland Commander."

  "Vehicles are ready for EVA. Give me five minutes."

  "Roger. Emergence in five."

  "Stand by for retrans from Generalmajor Mühlenkampf."

  "Here goes," Harz said, a grin in his voice.

  "What goes?" Adler asked.

  "My Brethren. Due to enemy spies it was necessary to keep all of you uninformed of the true nature of our mission. In less than five minutes this task group will emerge in the orbit of the Hedren-held world of Daga Nine. These assault transports will then open up and spill out the finest soldiers in the known universe. Following a bombardment we shall drop upon the enemy from orbit and take their transmission system, preventing them from striking deeper into Federation territory and in this way protecting the Fatherland. It is possible, even likely, that our forces shall be scattered in reentry. As your fathers and grandfathers before you did, move to the sound of the guns. Close with the enemy in your panzers and combat vehicles. Give them no mercy. Teach to those who would endanger the Fatherland that there is no force more fearsome in the universe than the Panzer leaders on the move.

  "Today we strike like lightning from the hammer of Thor. For the Fatherland."

  "Oh, he has got to be joking," Adler whispered.

  "He's not," Harz said, a grin in his voice. "But I bet there are very many people peeing themselves right now."

  "You knew about this," Frederick said. "That was why you asked me about the platforms and the field generator."

  "The platforms have repulsion systems on them," Harz said. "They have also been modified with a ribbon chute. We will drop very fast but the repulsion system will stop us instantaneously with contact with the ground. It has been tested. The ACS used them for resupply from orbit during the war. It will work."

  "And the field generator?" Frederick asked.

  "It is going to get very hot on the way down," Harz said. "The field generator will only prevent us from being burned up from reentry. It's still going to be hot."

  The Marro sensor technician knew his duty. His duty was to curl in place and carefully watch his sensor readings. And he did his duty. Day in and boring day out. There was no real possibility of attack. A task force of battleships covered the approaches and he would have long warning of any attackers. But duty was duty and any disregard of duty might come to the attention of the Imeg.

  It was, however, very boring. He didn't know how many times he'd wished that something, anything would happen to relieve the bore—

  His eyes were fixed open with thin membranes shielding them from dehydration. Despite that, he would have blinked if he could have. Because what just a moment before was a very empty screen was now filled with icons. One, two, three, four . . . Nine ships!

  It took him a moment to process any of the information. And then his first reaction was to run a diagnostic. By
the time the short diagnostic was finished there were more symbols popping up. Thousands of them. There were more than a dozen ships in orbit and now it showed thousands of ground strike fighters being disgorged. And now there were icons of incoming kinetic weapons. Big ones. But the diagnostic said that the system wasn't suffering some sort of malfunction. That meant—

  He couldn't move his tentacle fast enough to hit the alarm button.

  The bombardment ship GFS Mound had rarely been used in the war. Even the task force that relieved Earth hadn't needed its services. One of the first Posleen planets that had been retaken had received its attention. The Posleen had not enjoyed the experience and the Hedren were about to find out why.