by David Drake
“Kind of an old joke,” he said. “If everything was ideal, nobody’d be hiring mercenaries, would they?”
He chuckled again; and as he did so, the alert signal pulsed red. Sergeant Deseau was on his feet, reaching for his tribarrel’s grips before his eyes could focus.
Colonel Hammer’s voice rasped in their commo helmets, “Troopers, the United Cities and Republic of Solace in combination have hired us to wrest control of Port Plattner from the foreign invaders now holding it. Normally I don’t discuss the financial details of the Regiment’s contracts, but in this particular case I’ll mention that our payment is guaranteed by a consortium of planets which in the past have purchased about half the Thalderol base produced on Plattner’s World. They seem to feel it wouldn’t be to their benefit if Nonesuch controlled access to the product.”
Deseau whooped and clapped his hands. Padova had already dropped into the driver’s compartment. Huber switched the C&C box to display the download that would shortly arrive from Central.
“Your assignments are on the way,” Hammer continued. “Artillery prep will begin in three minutes, and the action elements will begin moving out of the firebases at the same time. Don’t get overeager—we want plenty of time for the shells to soften ’em up. For this operation we won’t enable the lockout on our guns. I’d rather take the risk of being shot by a friendly than having a software glitch keep me from nailing a hostile because there’s a friendly on the other side of him. But remember, the terrain is dead flat and your gun’ll shoot any bloody thing that you aim at.”
The hogs of Battery Alpha elevated their launch tubes. They faced outward in a clock pattern centered on the TOC; now their turrets rotated so that the whole battery was aligned to the northwest, the direction of Port Plattner.
“I don’t want any of you to think this’ll be easy,” Hammer continued. “They’ve got a hundred and fifty tanks and their other vehicles mount tribarrels too. It doesn’t matter how slow and clumsy they are, because they aren’t coming to us—we have to go to them. But troopers—we’ve faced worse. Get out there now and help me show people what happens when you try to cheat the Slammers! Six out.”
The satellites were up again; some satellites, anyhow. The download had full real-time coverage of the port. Approaches, lines of sight, threats and targets—the initial targets being the threats, of course— shimmered onto the holographic display in standard color overlays, as familiar to Huber as the grips of his tribarrel.
Four Nonesuch tanks moved in echelon to join the twelve parked in front of the smoldering terminal building. Each was built around a centerline 25-cm powergun. Though the big weapons could only be adjusted a few degrees in azimuth, their bolts were powerful enough to penetrate even the thick plating of a starship.
A line of dun-colored space-frame tents, sandbagged to the concrete, stood beside the vehicles. More tents—thousands of them—dotted the edges of the pad, most of them serving the infantry riding APCs. The latter, tracked like the tanks, had iridium armor and mounted a tribarrel in a one-man cupola.
Nonesuch fatigue parties worked on the perimeter bunkers without heavy equipment. Soldiers were mixing concrete in hand troughs. Huber wondered whether Lindeyar and his cronies had tried to buy construction mixers from Solace and been refused, or if this was merely a stopgap until dedicated support units arrived aboard later vessels.
Three ships, even such large ones, were barely enough to carry a division; the Nonesuch planners had concentrated wholly on combat personnel and equipment, accepting discomfort and inefficiency in order to frighten their possible opponents into quiescence. So far as the Solace Militia went, that may have been a good plan….
“Fox, this is Fox Six,” Captain Gillig said. Her voice had a pleasant alto lilt even when she was giving battle orders. “Fox Three will trail on the approach, but we’ll attack with all platoons in line. There’s a tank company in our sector, but the panzers’ll deal with it while we hit targets of opportunity. With a division to choose from, there shouldn’t be any lack of those.”
Deseau turned to Huber and said, “Hey, El-Tee? I couldn’t believe that bastard Lindeyar was going to get away with shafting us. Could you?”
Huber thought for a moment. Given the delays in star travel, this coalition must have taken weeks or even months to put together. Hammer must have started planning it almost as soon as the Regiment arrived on Plattner’s World.
“I did believe it, Frenchie,” he said. “But that’s all right—I’m just a line lieutenant. So long as I do my job, I can leave the rest to the Colonel.”
The hogs lit the night with flaring backblasts, beginning to shower 200-mm missiles on the enemy. The roar shook the ground. Moving as smoothly as water swirling down a drain, 1st Squadron’s tanks and combat cars slid from the firebase, advancing toward Port Plattner twenty klicks away.
“Target!” said a machine voice in Huber’s ear as Fencing Master led the rest of F-3 out of the angled passage through the berm. His faceshield gave him a vector.
So far as Huber could tell, the careted point on the crest ten kilometers distant was a few meters of brush and low trees, no different from everything for a klick to either side, but you didn’t argue when Central told you to shoot. He laid his tribarrel on, careful not to overcorrect as the stabilizer fought with the combat car’s motion, and dialed up magnification as the sight picture slewed toward the target. Huber was using a false-color infrared display, so the caret was a black wedge thrusting down from the top of the image.
He actually saw them in the instant his thumbs squeezed: three soldiers wearing drapes that almost erased their thermal signature, pointing a passive observation device toward Firebase One. They’d remained hidden till now, so they must have just attempted to send information back to Port Plattner.
Huber grinned with fierce pride that the hiss/CRACK! of his tribarrel’s first round preceded the sound of Fencing Master’s other two guns by a fraction of a second. He didn’t often beat Frenchie and Learoyd to the punch, and neither did anybody else.
The eleven tanks of D Company—two more, deadlined for repairs but able to shoot, remained behind in the firebase for defense—had been first through the berm and were deploying across the wheat in line abreast. Colonel Hammer’s combat car and that of the S-3—Huber wondered whether Major Pritchard was in it, as he certainly would choose to be, or if he’d been forced to remain in the TOC to coordinate the attack—followed, taking the right of the tanks along with two five-car platoons of G Company; the remaining platoon and the command cars of Regimental HQ Section remained behind as base defense. Captain Gillig and the sergeant major were next out, followed by F-1, F-2, and finally F-3.
The engineers had sited the firebase on a low rise, so Fencing Master in the entrance was slightly above the vehicles already spreading out to the northwest. Central tasked Huber and his crew because they had the best line on the target. Huber’d chafed to wait for everybody else to get under weigh before his cars did, but it’d worked out after all.
There’s a lot of chance in life and especially in battle. Arne Huber just happened to be in the right place at the right time to send a burst of plasma bolts snapping straight as a plumb line into what till that instant was three enemy soldiers. His faceshield blocked their cyan core, but dazzle reflecting from the landscape quivered across his retinas.
Huber’s first round hit the observation device, probably a high-resolution thermal imager. It contained enough metal to erupt into a blaze of white and green sparks. After that it was hard to say who hit what, because the three tribarrels put ten or a dozen rounds apiece into the target.
Huber switched his gunsight back to its normal seven-point-fivedegree field. The freshly lit fire on the ridgeline was only a quiver at this distance. In the magnified image Huber had seen an arm fly from an exploding torso and white-hot fragments blasted from the granite outcrop behind the scouts.
His gunbarrels shimmered, sinking back from yellow heat. The clust
er continued to spin, pulling air through the open breeches to cool the bores.
Padova followed the course Captain Gillig’s C&C box had programmed. She didn’t ask about the shooting. Huber supposed she was scared—as the good Lord knew he was himself—but she’d shaken down just fine. She’d be driving Fencing Master until she got a promotion, which at the rate she was going wouldn’t be long.
F-3 followed two hundred meters behind the first and second platoons on the left flank, a reserve not only for Fox Company but for the whole squadron. Despite satellite coverage and the Regiment’s sensor suites, there was always risk of an attack from some direction other than straight ahead. Huber’s cars stayed back to deal with it.
“Good to burn in our guns like that,” Deseau said as his cluster stopped rotating. “A few rounds to make sure the barrels’re seated and there’s no cracks in the castings.”
Cyan bolts streaked up from the northwest horizon, ending in yellow flashes made ragged by the smoke of the explosions. Despite the decoy missiles of the first salvos, the Nonesuch defenses—over eight hundred tribarrels on the APCs and tanks—were shooting down the firecracker rounds that followed. The Nonesuch command hadn’t been caught napping, more’s the pity….
The lead combat cars began firing. Flashes and the sparkling detonations of sub-munitions bloomed on the other side of the high ground separating 1st Squadron from the port. At least one Nonesuch artillery battery was firing on the attackers, a much faster response than Huber had expected from planetary forces which probably had no experience of real warfare. The shells didn’t get through, but if the Nonesuch tankers were as good as their artillerymen this was going to be a very long night for the Slammers.
A long night, or a short one.
Much brighter cyan flashes lit the night: the tanks of Dog Company punched the ridgeline five klicks away with their main guns. Their thunder echoed across the fields.
Huber checked the C&C display, then said, “Fox Three, there was a Nonesuch infantry company picketed on the reverse slope. They moved into position and the panzers are taking care of them. Three-six out.”
One of the eight Nonesuch APCs opened fire before it had reached the crest. The bolts of its tribarrels streaked five hundred meters over the Slammers in a rising slant. When the APC advanced high enough that its gun might have been able to bear on the attackers, the tank which had been waiting for a target fired. A brilliant secondary explosion lifted skyward a divot of soil and wood-chips.
Moments later, a bum! bum! bum! directly overhead made Huber twist to look up. Cargo shells from Battery Alpha had opened at low altitude, sending fingers of smoke toward the ridgeline. Their thousands of anti-personnel bomblets hit to carpet the target with lingering white flashes, scouring the hasty positions of Nonesuch infantry who’d dismounted before their APCs tried to engage.
Dirty smoke hung over half a kilometer of the hilltop. Huber could penetrate it with thermal imaging, but there was nothing to see except bare rock and the pulped remnants of the trees and shrubs that had grown there moments before. The enemy troops and their equipment had vanished except for the continuing sizzle of a battery pack shorting through commo gear, forming a hotspot on the image.
“Nothing for us there,” Deseau said cheerfully. He patted his tribarrel’s receiver. “Well, we’ll have our chance yet tonight, I figure.”
“Fox Three, this is Fox Six,” Captain Gillig ordered. “Move up on the left flank of Fox One, keeping ten meter intervals between vehicles. We’ll take firing positions below the crest. Six out.”
Huber tensed as his faceshield flashed warnings. Chuckling, he relaxed. The squadron had torn through the fence separating the wheatfield from the pasture on the rougher terrain to the north. Wire flew up in springy coils around the vehicles, and the tug jerked the posts out of the ground in front of F-3. The motion was the same quick flicker men would make leaping to cover.
The northern sky quivered as with heat lightning. “Hoo-boy!” Deseau said. “Some a’ them firecracker rounds are landing where they ought to. I tell you, with a division of ’em down there, I don’t mind a bit a’ help from the cannon cockers.”
“We get paid the same if we get shot at or if we don’t, Frenchie,” Padova said. Her voice sounded artificially bright, but Fencing Master slid as if on rails to where it belonged on the left flank of the Squadron. “I’d just as soon get easy money.”
Deseau laughed. Huber glanced at him, then looked away. Frenchie wasn’t suicidal: he figured the risks that came with the job were plenty bad enough without doing crazy stuff. But when Frenchie had a chance to kill, the fact he might die didn’t concern him.
Fencing Master started up the final rise, tearing through three-meter shrubs with as little difficulty as it’d had with the wheat. Huber glanced back. Plenum chamber pressures compressed and deformed the loose earth of the plowed fields. Each of the vehicles had left a trench the full width of its skirts with a mound of soil and young shoots to either side.
Huber kept most of his attention on the Command and Control display. His cars were in the same condition as when they left the firebase, fully ready for battle if not for a rear-area inspection. The rest of the squadron was in similar shape, though a Golf Company car had lost a pair of fans and lagged behind on the slope. Sometimes bad luck was the only kind of luck there was; but if the car had been in Huber’s platoon, tomorrow its sergeant/commander would be proving the problem wasn’t because of a maintenance failure.
If the sergeant/commander survived, of course. And if Huber did.
Three shells from the Nonesuch battery burst several klicks back, sending spouts of black earth into the sky. Air defense hadn’t bothered with them since they were no more danger to the Slammers than they were to the guns which’d fired them.
“Fox Three, this is Three-six,” Huber said, glad to have good news to point out to his troopers a few seconds before they jumped into a tough one. “The hostiles are shooting where we used to be, so they don’t have us under direct observation. When we reach our firing positions, we’re going to get the first shot. If we can’t kick their asses then, Via! we don’t belong in this line of work! Six—”
Because of the way the ridge curved, Fencing Master pushed through the brush into a clear view of Port Plattner a heartbeat before the rest of the squadron did. Huber already had his tribarrel aimed at a predicted location even before his faceshield gave him real targets.
He squeezed the butterfly trigger as he shouted, “—out!” to his platoon.
A company of ten Nonesuch APCs had left the pad and was driving toward the ridge at the best speed turbine engines could move their caterpillar tracks. Their side armor, though thinner than that of the combat cars, was iridium, but hatches on the roofs of their troop compartments were thrown back so that the infantry in back could use their personal weapons.
Huber depressed his tribarrel and raked the hatches. Nonesuch troops carried powerguns; the blue-green flash of their stored ammunition melted the APC’s frame from the inside so that the bow tilted upward. Fuel cells on the underside blew a circle of orange flames around the glowing wreckage.
Tanks and combat cars were firing all along the ridgeline. Though Huber couldn’t have seen most of the Slammers’ vehicles even if he’d taken the time to look to his side, streams of cyan plasma from their tribarrels and the tanks’ stunning, world-searing flashes stabbed downward into easily visible targets.
The tanks were in hull-down positions where the firecracker rounds had scraped and sculpted the ground in erasing the Nonesuch picket. They shot as quickly as their gunners could work the foot-trips of their main guns, aiming at the company of Nonesuch tanks below. A 20-cm bolt hit massive frontal armor, rocking the target back on its treads in blinding coruscance.
To Huber’s half-conscious horror, the centerline 25-cm gun shot back despite the Slammer’s direct hit. The bolt gouged the hillside at least fifty meters from the nearest target, but the fact the tank fired at all was
amazing.
A second bolt from the same Slammers tank struck where the armor glowed pulsingly white from the first. This time the glacis failed. The 25-cm magazine detonated, scooping the hull empty. The thick shell remained as a white-hot monument.
Huber swung his gun onto a company of buttoned-up APCs moving slantwise left to right in two echelons. They were several kilometers away, still on the concrete, when Huber hit the nearest vehicle in the lead row. Its side armor blew inward under the hammer of his 2-cm bolts. As the rest of the line drew ahead, Huber shifted his aim slightly onto the next APC and slashed it open the same way.
Huber steadied on the third APC, but as he did so the four second echelon vehicles opened fire on Fencing Master with their cupola tribarrels. One of them walked his burst up the sod, then splashed two bolts on Fencing Master’s bow slope and a third into the armor of the fighting compartment.
The combat car rocked at each impact. Huber’s helmet deadened the clangs, but the jolts transmitted through the floor of the compartment buckled his knees. Before the Nonesuch gunner could finish the job, Deseau raked the APCs’ cupolas, dismounting their tribarrels in rainbow brilliance.
Huber’s third target exploded in a mushroom of crimson flame. As he hammered through the cab of the fourth and last, he saw Deseau’s and Learoyd’s guns crossing his burst to slaughter the soldiers bailing out of the vehicles Frenchie had disarmed.
The infantry weren’t much of a threat now even if they got clear, but Huber shifted his own fire onto a car that his troopers hadn’t hit yet. Body parts flew up at his lash before a secondary explosion finished the job in a saffron fireball.
Despite the filters over Huber’s nostrils, Fencing Master stank of ozone and the vile slickness of burned metal. Vaporized iridium had burned the side of his neck, and his seared left sleeve stuck to his elbow. Blood and Martyrs, that was close!
Fencing Master jumped again. We’re hit! but it wasn’t incoming: a strip of the automatic defense array at the top of the skirts had gone off, sending a load of small osmium slugs out toward the left front. They met the anti-tank missile homing on the combat car.
