Ideal War

by Christopher Kubasik

  "All right, lance, let's make our way up."

  "Sir," said Belgrade. "We usually wait here for the call. It increases our chances of surprise."

  "How many bloody guerrillas do you get by the time you run all the way to the point of the ambush?"

  "Quite a few, actually. Sir."

  "Well, today we're doing it differently." Masters took his 'Mech toward the forest, the other three 'Mechs following. When they reached the dark trees, they looked like mechanical monsters stalking through an enchanted forest.

  Masters thought of Chick and his men making their way through the woods, cut off from other soldiers, uncertain when their support would arrive. It was nonsense. Absolute nonsense.

  As he worked the Phoenix Hawk through the night forest, the 'Mech's speakers crackled with soft-spoken reports from the squads. He could hear the fear in their voices. Soldiers were never supposed to be cut off like this. Electronic communications did not make up for the isolation this kind of fighting imposed on soldiers. The Ares Conventions had marked the end of such warfare: senseless, stupid wars where troops had no idea what they were supposed to be doing.

  He remembered reading stories of the Terran world wars. The first of the two, at the beginning of the twentieth century, did things to men he could hardly believe. Gone were formations, gone the power of soldiers working together. Gone was movement, a soldier's sense of purpose. Once the Germans and the French had dug into their trenches, the war barely moved either way for month upon month. Soldiers sat in water-filled trenches that ran almost non-stop from the English Channel to the border of neutral Switzerland.

  His thoughts drifted into those trenches as he imagined living under such conditions. Across a desolate, bomb-shelled field the enemy waited in a similar trench sometimes only three meters away. Could he see a helmet there? Was that a man, waiting as Masters waited? Should he try to take him, charge across the field? How? Rifles would cut him down before he moved a few steps. The rifles let soldiers sit endlessly, guarding large stretches of worthless ground.

  Masters imagined the muck of the trenches rising up over his boots. Countless cases of—what was it called?—trench foot, yes trench foot—soldiers crippled just from standing in a water-filled trench. How much longer before trench foot set in and his foot had to be amputated? He imagined a corpse, a friend, dead in the water beside him. Wounded days earlier. He tried to keep the rats that swam through the water away from the body, but couldn't. Had to sleep sometimes. The rats came for him then. No one came to help. No one else is in sight. Troops are strung out for hundreds of kilometers. Not knowing when he'll see someone from his side again. Sometimes a full week, sometimes longer.

  The helmet again, just over the lip of the enemy trench. Should he shoot? No. It's the only person he can see right now. If he shoots, all he's left with is a dead friend in the middle of desolation. If he kills that man, he'll be truly alone. Waiting alone in the trench with a corpse and the rats, out in the middle of nowhere, not knowing why he's there. Insanity could not be far behind.

  Chick's voice came over the radio. "We're going to be slowing down a moment here. Tennison found a trip wire. We're checking—"

  The words broke off as a loud explosion cracked from the speakers, almost drowning out the sound of a scream.

  12

  Nagasaki Valley, Gibson

  Principality of Gibson, Free Worlds League

  23 January 3055

  The sound of the explosion and the scream slammed at Masters' ears and sent him back against his chair and clutching at his neurohelmet. Glancing down at his screen, he saw Chick's squad moving due west. He slammed down on the joystick and turned his Phoenix Hawk in a wide arc to the left to meet up with them.

  "Phoenix Hawk One," came Valentine's voice. "We shouldn't leave yet. We don't know if they've engaged the enemy."

  Masters didn't let up on his speed. "Well, the enemy certainly knows they're there now!"

  "Sir, respectfully, they might only have hit a mine. We don't even know if the Goffels are around. But you'll chase them off if you go in now with your 'Mech."

  Masters pulled back on the throttle. Trying to decide what to do, he realized his left hand was shaking on the throttle's large grip; this inaction was unnerving. Valentine was right, he supposed, but he couldn't be sure. He had no way of knowing how things worked on Gibson. The strategy and tactics revolved around too many odd concepts. Where was the engagement? Where was the enemy?

  Chick's voice came over the speakers. "Phoenix One, this is First Squad H-craft. We've lost Tennison. Quiet now. No idea—"

  A rapid popping of machine gun fire came over the radio now, followed by Chick's voice. "Deploy! Deploy! Sir, we got em! We got 'em!"

  "Let's go, lance!" shouted Masters. He slammed his 'Mech forward once again. At a full trot it would take five minutes or so to get to the First Squad. But through the trees, maybe an additional four minutes. "Second Squad, Fifth Squad. Move back to the base."

  "On our way, sir," Donald said.

  "Same here, sir," said Peterson.

  A roar of automatic fire ripped over the speakers. First Squad's heavy machine gun came up loud, tearing through the night air. "Any time you want to show up, 'Mech lance, we'll be more than willing to hand this over to you," Chick shouted.

  Masters ran his Phoenix Hawk through the forest, the leafy canopy becoming thicker and the forest darker as he went. He clicked on his infrared screen. The window itself became tinted, showing Masters the objects outside according to their heat signature. The trees gave off a faint heat trace stronger than the air temperatures, appeared on the IR screen as faint pillars of dark green outside his window.

  "What've you got, First Squad?"

  "Two, three squads, sir. One up north, the other to our east. Don't know for . . . Chub!" A loud burst of autofire filled Masters' cockpit.

  "Chick!"

  He wound his 'Mech through the trees, turning wildly left and then right, desperately looking for openings in the heavy woods. Even with the IR, piloting at high speed was difficult. He slammed into smaller trees and tore them down, making far too much noise and putting unnecessary wear and tear on his machine. It might not matter at the moment, for a BattleMech was very tough, but in the long run the damage might be enough to spell doom if someone hit him just the right way. The air in the cockpit warmed as he pushed his 'Mech harder. Reflexively he checked the heat monitors. The heat sinks were doing fine; they absorbed most of the heat the machine generated and kept the 'Mech from frying out from under him.

  "Sorry, 'Mech lance," said Chick. "We're here. Fine." The automatic fire continued. Then Chick screamed, "Fall back! Fall back!"

  Masters glanced down at his screen. Almost there. The rest of the lance had fallen back. "Masters' Lance!" he shouted into his microphone. "Where are you people?"

  Valentine answered quickly, awe mixed with the sound of her quickened breathing. "Frankly, sir, we're not used to going this fast through forests."

  "Well, learn now! Valentine, Belgrade, split off west and come around the northern Goffels. Spinard, stick with me. We're going to plow right through the center of the eastern group."

  "Confirmed." Spinard's voice sounded metallic and soulless. It chilled Masters just briefly, but then he saw flashes of red through the IR filters of his window-patches of heat as the GFL guerrillas moved through the shadows of trees for cover.

  With his right hand he pulled up his joystick and watched the cross hairs float up and over a group of glowing red figures moving due east through the forest. His 'Mech's left arm rose up and pointed ahead. He let his thumb slide over the blue fire-control button, waiting for a clean shot. Not yet, not just yet. Too many giant trees blocking the line of sight.

  He led the cross hairs a bit to the right, trying to anticipate the movement of the guerrillas. He couldn't be sure, but he thought the cross hairs were targeting a path that would intercept the guerrillas. He glanced down and checked to see that Chick's beacon was
not about to run across the front of his 'Mech; they were over to the west, everything was clear. The guerrillas came up to his cross hairs, about a dozen of them. He gave them a meter or so more lead, and then lowered his thumb against the blue fire-control button.

  A roar began as two short-range missiles streaked from his 'Mech's outstretched arm and the large laser fired into the group of guerrillas. The laser bolt ripped through smaller trees and crashed into the center of the group like lightening hurled by an ancient god. It killed some of the guerrillas instantly, and sent others to the ground.

  Meanwhile, an intense spray of golden fire rushed from two missiles racing toward the guerrillas. The red forms scrambled up and began to make a break for it, but too late. The missiles slammed into the ground at the center of the breaking group and sent the guerrillas flying through the air, the metal shards of the missiles ripping through their bodies.

  Masters tossed the throttle forward and began stomping through the trees again. His face taut with concentration, Masters slid his thumb over the green fire-control button. He jerked the joystick to the right, targeting a group of guerrillas running for a heavier section of woods.

  He pressed down on the green button and a thick hail of bullets and pulse laser beams cut through the forest. The pulse beams slashed through the trees, chewing them up and knocking them down. The bullets rushed past the fallen trunks and cut into the guerrillas. Masters saw the red forms spin momentarily and fall to the ground.

  Spinard came up behind him. A few of the guerrillas were continuing west, and Masters told Spinard to pursue them. Then he turned his 'Mech back toward Chick's squad. Valentine's and Belgrade's blue squares were moving around quickly, probably pursuing guerrillas in close chases.

  "First Squad H-craft, this is Phoenix Hawk One," he said into his microphone. "What's the status?"

  Chick's voice was soft. "First Squad H-craft. We're down a few. Tennison, Fowler, Hunter. Maybe more. The Goffels have broken up, though. We've got what sounds like missile fire from the west. Think it's Valentine. ..."

  Masters spotted a group of four guerrillas moving quickly north; distant flashes of red drifting in and out behind trees. As he listened to Chick give status, he turned his 'Mech and began pursuit. The guerrillas stopped for a moment, probably looking back at the juggernaut rushing toward them, then began running at a faster pace. Masters turned at a clump of trees and bore quickly down on them, the adrenaline of battle pouring through him. The cabin had warmed up, and he felt his body melt away as his spirit rode the BattleMech.

  He raised the cross hairs, and jabbed the green button without aiming precisely. Machine gun fire raked over the bodies of the guerrillas and sent them quickly to the ground.

  "Phoenix Hawk One, this is First Squad H-craft. Sir? You there?"

  "Here, Chick."

  "Everything seems wrapped up. We've been hurt bad."

  "Valentine?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Status."

  "Got mine. About five."

  "Belgrade?"

  "Three, sir."

  "Spinard?"

  "Four, sir."

  "And ten or twelve or so for me. Let's ..."

  "We'll need an accurate count, Sir Masters. And a count from Chick's squad when they were engaged."

  "Four," said Chick.

  "Estimate or actual?" pressed Valentine.

  The airwaves held a long pause, and then Chick said in defeat, " Estimate."

  "What are you talking about?" Masters asked. "I said about a dozen. Chick said about four. It's night. We got them. Let's get out."

  "Sir. We need accurate counts. It's how we determine our progress."

  "I say we're getting out of here and back to—"

  "Precentor Martial Arian will be expecting accurate body counts, sir. It's standard operating procedure."

  "So we're going to stand around here in the dark and count bodies?" Masters made no attempt to hide his contempt.

  "Sir. Yes, sir. If you will allow it."

  He didn't want an argument in the middle of the field, nor did he want to countermand standard operating procedures without first talking with Arian. "Fine. Let's get it done quickly. Spinard and Belgrade, to the First's beacon immediately. We've got to check our trophies."

  * * *

  The four 'Mechs stood guard around the wounded of the First Squad, waiting for the hovercraft, which would arrive momentarily. As Masters climbed down his 'Mech, he glanced below and saw flashlight beams floating around ten bodies from First Squad, the soldiers lined up neatly on the forest floor.

  He continued down the ladder. Valentine assured him the guerrillas never attacked after a firefight—as long as a strong force remained in place. She wanted to come down and supervise the body counts while Spinard and Belgrade remained in their 'Mechs. Masters agreed, wanting only to get back to the base quickly.

  Reaching the bottom rung, he stepped onto soft ground and walked over to the prone men, where Chick was tying a wounded man's arms with a tourniquet. Some of the men groaned. Others were completely silent, their eyes open and glassy, catching light from the flashlights and reflecting it brightly.

  "Chick," said Masters softly. "What happened? I thought you said you were down three men."

  "I didn't know at the time, sir," Chick said, still wrapping up the man's arm. "I had no idea what had happened. Most of these guys ain't going home." He stood up. "Finished. Eight dead. Two wounded and stable. They'll be able to walk themselves into the H-craft."

  "Eight?"

  "It was a bad one, sir. I get the feeling we stumbled on them as much as they stumbled on us. They had us outnumbered three to one, though, and—" Chick moved his eyes, indicating he wanted to step away from the men.

  They walked a short distance away, the branches of the underbrush illuminated harshly by Chick's flashlight. "It seems like you want to know these things, sir, so I'll tell you. Morale here is terrible. When the attack came, they all folded. They're so strung out, they don't even know what to do when the Goffels come in after them."

  Masters began to ask a question, but Valentine came up, a flashlight in one hand, a comp pad in the other. Chick immediately shut up, and half-turned, pretending he had somewhere to go. He didn't, so he simply stood there.

  "Looks like we got the squads we were looking for," said Masters.

  "Yes, sir," she said, but paid him little attention, seeming anxious to get on with the body count. "GI-Div was right. One platoon out here. We found them and bagged most of them."

  "And we lost eight men. Two more wounded."

  Her back stiffened, but Masters did not think it was because of the loss of the soldiers. Masters' Lance would suffer a huge debit.

  "Well, we'll probably even out against the guerrillas by the end of the month."

  Valentine wandered toward the 'Mech perimeter, her flashlight bobbing along in the darkness. Masters wishing the Imperator from his back and followed. "Come on, Chick, let's get this done."

  A stillness hovered over the forest now. Apart from a few birds and the buzz of insects, all was at peace. Not Masters, though. On edge, he peered out into the darkness. First, he felt exposed, wandering around a combat zone outside of his 'Mech. It made no sense. Why travel around in a dark forest with nothing more to protect you than a thin wall of flesh? Second, his mind was once again seized by the madness of this war. First they sent men out to get shot up as decoys, then they waited around to count the bodies. The GFL must be laughing at them from behind nearby trees, waiting for a clear shot.

  He imagined how they saw the war from Portent. What seemed like insanity in the middle of the war— the search-and-destroy, the body counts—helped make it manageable and understandable for the bureaucrats back in the city. They weren't counting bodies in the middle of a forest at night; they did it from nine to five in the safety of the Old Walls, tabulating the reports the soldiers sent in. For them the war was very clean, very precise, very logical.

  He glanced at Chic
k, who was eyeing the trees suspiciously, also waiting for an attack.

  Valentine had no such concerns. She kept her attention focused on the ground, the beam of her flashlight flitting about the forest floor.

  "Ah!" she said softly.

  Masters looked to where her light pointed and saw a thick trail of blood leading along the grass. "What?"

  "Blood trail," Chick said flatly.

  Valentine punched a number into the keypad.

  "Does that count?" asked Masters, amazed.

  "Yes," said Valentine, already moving on.

  "Whoever left that there might not be dead. Just wounded. He could be ready to fight tomorrow."

  "Counts. Policy." Her voice made it clear she had nothing more to say about the subject.

  They moved on. When they found a body or a blood trail that went on for more than five meters, Valentine tabulated it. "What if the blood trail belongs to a person whose body you've already counted," Masters asked at one point.

  "We acknowledge the presence of statistical errors. They are all calculated into our final results."

  Masters didn't know how to respond to that, so all he said was, "Oh."

  Then they came upon the main group of men Masters had attacked with his short-range missiles, pulse lasers, and machine guns. In truth, these men and women were not whole. The weapons had chewed them up and scattered bits of their bodies throughout the forest area. Some of the corpses were so badly torn up that Masters could barely distinguish the flesh from shredded trees and foliage.

  A dizziness came over him as he viewed the carnage. He had used his 'Mech to do this. He had attacked infantry before, of course. Back in the Fourth Succession War, when he had just begun piloting a 'Mech, the soldiers on Procyon threw themselves at the 'Mechs of his unit in a suicidal frenzy. Even that had pressed his sensibility of the warrior code to the limit. But it had at least been a true battle, with 'Mechs fighting 'Mechs. The infantry had made their attack in a last, desperate gesture. Hundreds of troops had attacked. It might have worked. It was an assault.