The Tetra War

by Michael Ryan

  “Sanctioned orders, Master Sergeant Veesteeb?” I asked, stalling for time.

  “Yes, I thought I was clear in my question.”

  “Never!” I declared.

  “Bullshit,” he said in an even tone. “You’re giving me the textbook answer.”

  “Sir?” I asked, my expression perplexed.

  “The primary responsibility of an infantry soldier is the mission. If more missions are completed satisfactorily by one force than by the opposing force, then those missions fit together like puzzle pieces. The picture formed will be victory.”

  “But, Master Sergeant Veesteeb, I’m confused,” I said. “You seem to be telling us that sometimes we shouldn’t follow sanctioned orders?”

  Veesteeb chose his words carefully. “Let me be perfectly clear. As a duly appointed instructor and a master sergeant in good standing in the Guritain Armed Forces, I am obviously not instructing any of you to disobey orders.”

  “I’m confused,” I said.

  “Me too,” another student said. “You disputed Avery’s answer when he said never.”

  “There are three ways an infantry soldier in the field can willfully disobey direct orders. First, he may sabotage his communications systems. Second, he can purposefully misunderstand his orders in such a way as to provide reasonable doubt that he understood them. Third, he can tell the superior directly that the orders are insane, stupid, or suicidal, and won’t be followed.”

  “Isn’t that insubordination?”

  “Yeah, I thought telling an officer his orders are foolish and disobeying them could lead to a capital court-martial,” another student said.

  “It could, yes,” Veesteeb explained. “If a young lieutenant gives a seasoned veteran in the field an order that is perceived to be foolish or disastrous, and the veteran disobeys, what must the lieutenant do if he wishes to pursue punitive action?”

  “File an LC-54-b,” I answered.

  “We have a young lawyer among us,” Veesteeb said. “And what do you suppose will happen in the 54 hearing if the veteran’s assessment is perceived to be correct?”

  “You’re not saying he’ll be exonerated?” I asked.

  “No. If the court-martial determines that a sanctioned order was blatantly disobeyed in the field during an engagement, the punishment is death. Our fictional veteran will be executed the following morning at dawn, and there’s no appeal. But what do you think will happen to the lieutenant?”

  “What do you mean?” someone asked.

  “What will happen to the lieutenant?” Veesteeb repeated.

  “Nothing, right? I mean, he was just doing his job,” the first student answered.

  “Technically, you’re correct. The army will not sanction him, but if the veteran’s claim that the disobeyed order was reckless, foolish, or naive was meritorious, our fictional louie will never see advancement. No officer wants to go before a court-martial committee and be forced to justify an order that was perceived to be so stupid that a veteran soldier was willing to face death to disobey it. If the case happened to be an egregious one, the officer would find himself shunned at best, and fragged at worse.”

  “You mean someone would actually kill one of their own officers?” someone asked.

  “It’s happened in every war,” Veesteeb answered. “Perhaps to good effect, although I’m certainly not endorsing such action. Let me pose to you all another question. What if you’re ordered, by an incompetent or inexperienced or frightened officer who’s safely tucked away in a command post, to reposition your team on a hilltop, and you know with certainty that your entire squad will die?”

  “You’re still supposed to follow orders,” a student said. “Maybe Command sees things you can’t see.”

  “Yes, you’re still supposed to follow orders, I agree,” Veesteeb said. “But let’s discuss this like we’re in the field. Mr. Ford, please stand to my left. Mr. Blueton, please stand to my right. Ford, you’re our platoon leader for this exercise, let’s say acting platoon leader because half your fellow troops have watered the ground with their blood over the course of a week as you’ve attempted to advance to strategic high ground. You’re out of food. Nearly out of water and ammo. You’ve gone days without sleep. Over the company comm, your platoon is ordered by Mr. Blueton, a green louie who only recently landed in-country, to advance on the hill at fifteen hundred hours. It’s a sanctioned and binding order, no question about it. What, Mr. Ford, do you do?”

  “Advance on the hill, Sergeant, at fifteen hundred hours,” I answered.

  “What if you know that this course of action is suicidal and that all your troops will die?”

  “I’d still follow orders,” I said.

  “What if you knew, beyond a doubt, that you had a better plan, a way to achieve the objective and not get everyone killed?”

  “I’d still follow orders,” I said again.

  “Let’s imagine that you didn’t follow orders, your new self-directed actions allowed victory, and most of your squad remained alive. You’re now facing a court-martial that will result in your death. What outcome is better for all other parties besides you? The first one, where you’re all dead and the mission fails; or the second one, where the mission is a success and only half are dead?”

  “I don’t think that’s a fair question,” I objected.

  “Why not?”

  “You’re saying I should be able to predict the future.”

  “Indeed. Yes, students, it’s true, nobody can predict the future; but tell me, which of you would rather have scenario number one as the outcome instead of scenario number two?”

  Nobody answered.

  “I’m confused,” a female in the first row said. “You say you’re not telling us to disobey orders, but you also seem to be saying that sometimes we should.”

  “I’m not saying any soldier in this army should disobey sanctioned orders.” He paused. “Does anyone here know why the military doesn’t just use droids and artificial intelligence to go to war?”

  “They can’t reason.”

  “They’re too predictable.”

  “After they were destroyed, it would still come down to human boots on the ground.”

  “They could rise up and rebel and take over both worlds, making humans and purvasts extinct.”

  “Okay, okay,” our teacher said. “Those are all fine answers. But before I dismiss you today, I want you to consider a very possible reason that we don’t use machines exclusively to wage war. A programmed machine cannot disobey orders. A thinking mind can. We are not an army of sheep. Class dismissed.”

  ~~~

  Over the course of a year, I was continually amazed at the new conundrums I faced, both in the classroom and in my own mind. I decided, after much deliberation, that I was going to enter testing for the Specialized Drop Infantry. SDI was under the umbrella of Infantry Command, but included many subspecialties. Drop groups needed troops who could fire assault weapons, build rail launchers, communicate with local populations, analyze tactics and report, defend against air attack, navigate, and perform hundreds of other highly refined tasks, such as those of the sniper-observer team where I eventually found myself serving.

  I wish I could say that long hours of introspection led me into SDI.

  But the truth is that not knowing what I wanted was what did.

  Little did I know that confusion would result in my being in a position to determine the fate of billions.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The smallest crowd – as usual – will cheer for the war.

  ~ Master Malkz Teezled

  Master Sergeant Veesteeb stood with Company Command on our graduation day and personally handed each of his charges a small bronze pin that signified we’d completed our Substratal Training with honor and distinction.

  “Well done, Private Avery Ford,” he said, becoming the first to acknowledge my official status. Graduates were the lowliest rank, and until we passed our advanced training courses, our titles w
ere largely ceremonial. We would all remain in this limbo until finishing that training, with only the temporary and provisional status of squad or platoon leader given any privilege, along with the extra responsibility. “When do you ship out?”

  “In a week and a half, Sergeant,” I said. “I’m going home to visit my grandfather first.”

  “Well done, Private. You’ll be a fine addition to SDI.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” I said. “Can I ask you a question? A personal one?”

  “Speak freely, Private,” he said.

  “Is there ever a time to disobey orders and still be a proud and honorable soldier?”

  “What do you believe, Avery?” he asked in a fatherly voice.

  “I think, when the greater good of the people, the true mission of the war, is best served, then to follow orders that hinder that mission, even if sanctioned and binding, is wrong.”

  “And if the soldier is punished? Even put to death?”

  “Then he’s merely done his duty to the people, Master Sergeant. He’s laid down his life for the greater good.”

  “I see,” he said.

  “And?”

  “And what I can say to you, as a man, is that if you were put to death for such action, I’d still find pride in you as a citizen and a person. But of course, I’m in uniform, so my position as an NCO and a teacher is that a soldier must always follow orders.”

  His face could have been carved from basalt. I nodded and tried to hide the hint of a smile that tugged at my lips. “I understand.”

  He shook my hand.

  The following day I went home, although calling it home caused an unusual and odd feeling in my gut. I spent time with my friends, realizing every minute that I’d likely never see them again, and even if I did, it would only be for short visits. My life, for at least the next fifth of a century, was spoken for.

  ~~~

  Guritains were citizens of Gurita.

  Guritain was also a race.

  Guritain was also a nationality.

  I was Guritain, by nationality and by race, even if only by one-quarter. My official records listed me the same as any full-blooded Gurt who’d been born on Purvas. This didn’t mean that I wasn’t a little different. Even though I was reasonably tall, at a hundred and ninety centimeters, I was a good ten centimeters shorter than the average Gurt and thirty shorter than quite a few of them. I suppose I should also mention I was the same height as millions of them.

  Had my records not been uncovered in primary school and again in junior college, I don’t think I’d have ever had to deal with bigotry or racism. Once I entered the SDI school, I was just a soldier. Everyone who trained along with me judged me on my performance and actions. Nothing but my character was used as a measuring device among those I fraternized with and befriended.

  The nation of Gurita includes every square millimeter of land occupied or controlled by the Guritain government. It also applies to space stations and starships that fly or orbit under the Guritain flag. Colony planets settled by only Guritains are considered provisional territories, and the populations can become citizens if they raise enough money to pay into the tax system, based upon obscure formulas that take into account the natural resources of the planet and the projected cost of defense. Usually colony planets, with the exception of Earth, had been unoccupied upon purvast arrival, and were divided up among the Gurts, the Teds, and the less aggressive Errusiakos.

  The moment I officially became a soldier, I began accruing pay. As a full-time member of the military, especially one in training, I had nothing much to spend money on. Sure, we had leave most Sundays, and we could even travel off-base in groups of no less than four, but I’d still not quite recovered from my breakup with Melony and was usually behind on my studies, so I didn’t participate in many activities that had significant costs attached to them.

  Like dating, drinking excessively, gambling.

  ~~~

  On my first day of Specialized Drop Infantry training, we ran on hard-packed dirt, surrounded by conifers and lush greenery that smelled of dew and spring.

  Our drill instructor yelled as we entered a small clearing. “Pick up the pace!”

  A trio of white-tailed does darted into the shadows.

  “Everything in this universe that would oppose us is prey, my new friends. Move it, move it, move it! I will not allow any one of you to fail me! Goddammit! My reputation is on the line, and I mean to preserve it!”

  Our DI’s name was Sergeant Veelanzer, and he barked a question as if he weren’t even breathing hard, even though we’d been running for an hour.

  “Who are we?” he demanded.

  “SDI, who fall from the sky, Sergeant!”

  “Goddamn right!” he screamed.

  He ran us until we puked.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  If the leaders who began our wars didn’t make them holy and sanctioned from above, what purvast would be foolish enough to put on a uniform?

  ~ Maltosa Vulembra

  We trained for two months in the classroom and laboratory before our first field exercise. The simulators didn’t prepare me for the physical experience of wearing armor. I initially felt as if I were being enclosed in a sarcophagus. Ironically, this metaphor would become literal for many of our ranks.

  After being fitted into our personal suits in the armory, we did a platoon march to test our dexterity.

  This generation of suit did not incorporate liquefied oxygenated nutri-gel, as later models would, but did use liquefied meals, as well as waste collection and recirculation. Communications were transmitted similarly, but we could talk, or yell, as well as send typed messages, pictures, and maps. With battery changes and nutrient fill-ups, a soldier could stay in a suit indefinitely, although even with recirculation through purification filters, there was a minor loss of water with waste disposal, and eventually a suit required fresh water as well.

  For training purposes, we were required to remain suited up for six months from the day of fitting. It was called “acclimation training,” and it was typical that a few trainees dropped from the program in the first week due to an inability to cope. We were never alone, yet always alone. No skin-to-skin contact, no tactile sensations, no real food, no sex; you couldn’t even masturbate in a suit. It was more than many could handle.

  “Move it! Move it! Move it!” our DI yelled on that first march. “You look like a bunch of toddlers with shit in their diapers!”

  The first run in a suit is surreal. I collided with the soldier in front of me a dozen times, and the private behind me crashed into me two dozen. Even the slightest miscalculation in pressure, speed, or direction was disastrous, because the power assist magnified everything. We slipped, fell, jumped too far – and too short – and ran into each other, and boulders, and trees.

  “Platoon, halt!”

  Several collisions ensued as we attempted to come to a stop in some semblance of order.

  “Dress it up!” he shouted.

  We tried.

  “Take a knee,” he ordered. “By hand count, how many of you have your rear cameras turned on?”

  I think a few raised their hands, but not me. I found the constant reverse image far too distracting.

  “That is unacceptable,” he said. “You will keep this window open and on your display screen at all times. Situational awareness is more important for armored troops than for any other infantry in history. Your enemies have guided missiles, high-energy grenades, armor-piercing rounds, and remote-controlled tanks. You must maintain 360-degree vigilance on the battlefield…and that is a sphere, not a circle. You can get killed from above, behind, below, and from more ways than you’ll be able to memorize or predict. Questions?”

  “Drill Sergeant, should we also run with our upward-facing camera turned on?”

  “Good question. In an open-canopy theater, the manual says no. You can, and should, have the camera auto-open if you look up. You should always be running detection above you as
your default, and you’d better have a damn good reason to hack into the system to turn it off. The suit’s programming makes your survival high priority.”

  “Drill Sergeant, do you recommend iris-controlled view or head movement?”

  “That’s a question of personal preference. The best SDI have developed their own programming to incorporate a little of both. If you’re good, you’ll find a way to seamlessly view in any direction without thinking too hard about it. For beginners, keeping it simple is the best advice I have. Reprogramming and hacking is officially not permitted during the training period; however, I’ll personally back any recruits who are inventive enough to make their own survival and mission accomplishment more likely by bending the rules.”

  “Drill Sergeant, how long does it take to be able to walk straight?”

  The questions lasted another hour before we were up and running again.

  Puking in a suit is disgusting, and the cleaning procedure cumbersome.

  ~~~

  After two weeks of running, doing obstacle courses, and practicing manual dexterity, we went to the firing range for our first experience with an M73-APA. The all-purpose Gauss rifle was used by infantry troops, slightly modified for the type of armor being worn. The morning of our firing exercises, we were issued ammo for the first time, although we’d been carrying the weapon since day one.

  “Line up!” our DS shouted. “Get in your lane and prepare yourself to fire.”

  I found my place, raised my rifle, and waited.

  “This is not sniper training,” he said. “Your weapon should be set to a six-round starburst. We’ll be zeroing on the center punch. Prepare for live exercise.”

  Our lanes were three hundred meters wide and five hundred meters deep. A small beep sounded, and the range jumped to life. Targets popped up everywhere, like I was playing the home version of Eternal Death Zombies Part Seven, one of my favorite RPGs when I was a kid.

  Three troops bunched together at two hundred meters would appear in front of me, then a single target would pop up at four hundred and fifty meters, then at three hundred meters – and at the edge of my lane, a silhouette of a helmeted sniper would show for a second. The moment I got off a shot at a single target, a platoon’s worth of quickly moving bogies would move across my field of fire.