"Let's go," Stark grunted, leaping across the gap to plant his back against the wall, rifle aimed down the new corridor. Two civs were walking slowly toward him, apparently deeply engrossed in conversation. First one, then another, became aware of the armored figure menacing them and came to a gap-jawed halt. Stark waved his Privates forward, triggering his external mike. "Attention. This installation has been occupied by armed forces of the United States," he recited. "All personnel will be taken into protective custody. Any resistance will be met with appropriate force."
The Privates reached the two civs, both apparently too stunned by events to resist, and prodded them against the nearest wall with their weapons. "Billings," Stark ordered, "bring them along. Murphy and I will head for the lab." On his Tactical, the laboratory loomed as the largest room in the complex and as his final objective.
Deciding that speed was necessary to exploit the surprise they'd apparently achieved, Stark sprinted forward, following the map on his Tactical display, down another corridor, through a right turn, and then tried to turn right again, only to face a solid wall of stone. "Oh, hell."
"Sarge?" Murphy asked anxiously. "Isn't there supposed to be another passageway here?"
"Yeah, but there ain't. Guess they never finished building according to the plans Intelligence got their hands on."
"What do we do, Sarge?"
Doctrine was explicit on that point. No deviation from actions ordered by Tactical were allowed, which meant Stark was now supposed to call up the chain of command until whichever Colonel was calling the shots for his sector could confirm that Stark indeed faced a wall of rock, then download a new set of actions for Stark to follow. Can't have grunts thinking for themselves. On a hunch, he checked his suit's comm system for update delay times, then grinned. As he hoped, the blizzard of communications during the assault had grown so heavy that the Brigade comm system couldn't keep up. Delay times had grown from seconds to minutes, giving him precious moments to do something before anybody in charge realized he had deviated from Tactical.
"Follow me," Stark barked at Murphy, heading at a run for the next closest entry to the lab shown on his map. Stark's HUD revealed that his other fire teams had already covered this ground, so he didn't bother with caution, simply trying to cover ground in the few minutes available before some officer noticed he was off the track dictated by his Tactical.
Sometimes that was a good idea. This time it wasn't. They came around a corner to find a man in what seemed to be a law-enforcement uniform, complete with a holstered sidearm, staring at them. A moment of mutual surprise ended as the man grabbed for his pistol. Stark, off-balance in the middle of a long, low-gravity step, watched as Murphy lined his rifle up, then hesitated. "Shoot him, dammit!"
"But Sarge, that pistol can't—"
Stark, finally stable, brought his own rifle to bear on the foreigner and fired, the round catching him in the midsection with enough force to fling the man backward a meter. "Get his gun," Stark ordered Murphy. "Don't ever do that again."
"But Sarge—"
"But nothing!" Stark's weapon didn't waver from where it focused on the wounded man, but his fury was aimed squarely at Private Murphy. "I don't care if that thing probably can't penetrate our armor. You don't take chances. You don't think. If they have a gun, you shoot them. I don't care if it's a water pistol."
Murphy, scooping up the pistol, avoided looking at Stark. "I'm sorry, Sarge."
"You sure as hell are." Stark fought down his anger, lowering his weapon as the blood from the wounded man's abdomen spread higher in the low gravity than Earth combat experience said it should. "Look, Murph. Take a good look. I don't want that to be you. Now use your med kit on that guy and then bring him to the lab."
"Okay, Sarge. Don't worry, Sarge. I know how I screwed up."
"Good."
Stark headed for his objective once more, sliding into the main lab just as an angry query resounded. "Sergeant, why aren't you following Tactical?"
"I am, sir," Stark responded in tones of injured innocence. "Tactical shows this as my objective, and I'm in place."
"But—" the officer began to object before apparently being distracted by some other display of unauthorized initiative. "Ah, okay. Carry on."
"Yessir." Stark sized up the situation. A large gaggle of civs, most in variations on the universal white lab coat but a few in whatever they'd been sleeping in, stood staring at his Squad members with looks of varying degrees of incomprehension. Stark singled out his acting Corporal. "Any problems, Gomez?"
"No, Sargento," Gomez reported cheerily. "Oh, a few of the civs didn't want to come along at first, but they didn't need much convincing."
Stark took another look at the scientists, at least one of whom seemed to be developing a black eye. "Any of them get hurt?"
"No, Sarge. Well, maybe a little."
"Fine. We'll let central processing deal with them." Stark switched to his outside speaker, broadcasting his voice to both the civilians and his Squad. "This facility is now under U.S. military occupation. You will be held here under guard for your own safety until a vehicle arrives to transport you to a central point from which you will be repatriated to your own countries back on Earth. No one will be harmed as long as—"
A civ stepped forward, interrupting Stark's speech, her dark eyes flashing with anger as she raised two hands in emphasis. "Leave here! You are interrupting our work and trespassing on private property."
"Ma'am, as I just stated, this property now belongs to the U.S. government."
"Pirates! Mercenaries!" Stark sensed his Squad tense at the second term, their pride affronted.
"Ma'am, we're not mercenaries," he corrected harshly. "We don't fight for money."
"I don't care what distinctions you draw about yourselves!" The foreign civ glared at Stark. "This is illegal. You Americans own everything on Earth! Isn't that enough? Do you have to come here and take this, too?"
"Ma'am, my orders are—"
"This is piracy!" she repeated, glancing around at the other civs in the room for support. "You have no right to seize this installation."
"Ma'am," Stark answered slowly, emphasizing each word, "that's not my department. You got a complaint, you bring it up with my Lieutenant. I'm just following orders."
"Then tell your Lieutenant you must all leave at once."
Stark hefted his rifle, its dull metal glinting evilly under the laboratory lights. The simple gesture drew the civs' eyes, which widened in fear and apprehension. "My orders are to take possession of this facility and secure any personnel here."
"I don't care about your orders!"
"That's your right, ma'am. But any resistance will be met with appropriate force." Stark canted his weapon so the barrel leaned in the direction of the civ scientists. "Your choice."
Most of the civs hastily raised their hands toward the rough ceiling, suddenly sweating despite the cool of the room. As the others were trying to decide, Murphy arrived, carrying the wounded man, who was white with shock but still breathing. Every other hand shot up as the scientists absorbed the sight, leaving only the angry female civ still defiant. "You killed him," she half demanded, half questioned.
"He'll live," Stark advised coldly. "Anybody else who threatens my people will get the same treatment."
The civ clenched her fists. "I will not grant legitimacy to your actions by cooperating."
"Whatever." Stark looked toward Gomez and hooked a thumb in the direction of the female civ. "Take her down."
Even with her expression obscured by her faceplate, Stark knew Gomez was grinning as she stepped forward, swinging her rifle butt in a swift blow against the civ's left shin. As the civ collapsed with a gasp of pain, Gomez reversed the weapon's motion to catch her on the chin, then dropped to one knee beside the dazed woman, expertly locking a pair of Dally-Cuffs around her wrists. The Dallys tightened automatically, their composite fibers forming an unbreakable second skin just above the civ's hands. "You can try
cutting these off, Senora" Gomez advised the civ in a pleasant conversational tone, "but if you do, you'll bleed to death. ¿Comprendo?"
The civ nodded numbly, allowing herself to be shepherded with the other prisoners into a corner of the room. "Lieutenant?" Stark called over the command circuit. "We've taken possession of the objective."
"Roger. Any resistance?"
"One apparent law officer wounded. Noncritical."
"Too bad. Brigade Staff is already complaining the assault lacks enough combat action."
Stark took a deep breath, staring angrily toward nothing. "We didn't suffer any casualties, Lieutenant."
"That's fine, Sergeant. An APC should be by your position in about thirty minutes to pick up your prisoners. Don't let them build any nukes in the meantime."
"Yessir." Stark's angry stare shifted to the civ scientists, standing next to stacks of equipment he couldn't identify. "Gomez, make sure they don't touch nothing. And I mean nothing. If one of them reaches to scratch their butt I want their hand broken."
"Si, Sargento. You guys hear the Sergeant?" Gomez asked the civs, all now standing so rigidly still that few even risked nodding in reply to the question. "Good. No trouble, then. I don't like fighting people who can't fight back. But I will."
Stark didn't relax, restlessly patrolling the halls of the lab complex, scanning for threats, until the APC had come and gone, running thirty minutes later than the half hour promised. Desoto showed up on the same APC, disgruntled at missing the assault despite the lack of action. "I should've been with the Squad," he protested to Stark.
"Sure, then we could've spent the whole action trying to keep you from baking inside your suit. I've got enough things to worry about during an attack without adding that."
Desoto stared at the floor for a moment, then nodded. "You're right, Sergeant. I shouldn't have complained."
"Hell," Stark said with a grin, "you can always complain, Pablo. That's the one thing the mil can never take away from you." The smile faded into grim seriousness. "In a combat situation I can't spend time thinking about anything but the job. My feelings don't matter and neither do yours. Neither do the likes and dislikes of every ape in this Squad. You're a Corporal, Pablo. You gotta remember that. I'll bust you if you don't and promote someone who can."
Desoto hung his head again. "Truth. I won't forget, Sergeant." He peered around, taking in the portions of the lab complex he could see. "How much longer we going to be here?"
"If we're lucky, maybe quite a while. They had about twenty civs billeted here, with a full kitchen in the bargain. All the comforts of home, plus the power plant that supplies this place got taken over by some combat engineers from Second Battalion, so we've got no worries there."
"Wow." Desoto's elation quickly faded into gloom.
"Some officers from staff will take it over as soon as they hear about it."
"Nah. I hear there's a lot of places nicer than this." The ability to see basic accommodations as a luxury was one of the few benefits of the living arrangements soldiers usually had to accept.
"Sarge?" Murphy called from the room they'd designated their command post. "We got a call for you from Sergeant Reynolds."
Reynolds looked comfortable on the comm screen, lounging in a chair that would have been nicely upholstered on Earth but was ridiculously overstuffed for the fractional gravity on the Moon. "Everything secure, Ethan?"
"No problems," Stark reported. "What's the word?"
"Might as well settle in," Vic advised. "Orders are to occupy the installations we seized until further notice."
"That's it? Not that I'm complaining. They've got some good rooms here. But no digging in?"
"No digging in. The brass don't want anything damaged in case we have to trade back some of what we just grabbed."
"Fine. When the counterattack comes, we'll just surrender quietly."
Vic grinned. "There's no counterattack in the offing, Ethan. It appears we're the only mil on the Moon right now."
"You think it's going to stay that way?"
"I don't know. It takes a while to get here, though, so you can sleep easy tonight."
"Maybe," Stark half-agreed, visibly uncomfortable.
Vic shook her head. "What's eating you, Ethan? Lighten up. Combat's over."
"Combat hasn't happened yet," Stark disagreed. "I'll lighten up when we're back home in garrison."
"Suit yourself." Vic mustered another smile. "My Squad occupied the supervisors' housing for this area. Civ bosses live good, Ethan."
"Figures. So where's the Lieutenant going to stay?"
"Here." Vic somehow kept smiling.
Stark smiled back this time. "Ain't that nice? A few months, maybe, with the Lieutenant breathing down your neck twenty-four hours a day. Have fun, Sergeant Reynolds."
"I will. But don't worry. I don't relax too much when I'm on the line, Ethan."
"You're not a new recruit, Vic. Sorry if I sounded like I thought you were. Hell, you're better than me." Stark chewed his lower lip, eyes hooded in thought. "I don't like this idea of not digging in. Do the brass really think the guys we took this stuff from are just going to accept it?"
"Apparently. Or settle for us handing back a little."
"Vic, we've fought against some of the people whose property we just grabbed, and alongside some of the others."
"Technically, by act of Congress, Ethan, it's our property. We just took possession."
"Sure. The corporations back home who own our politicians don't like the idea of all these First, Second, and Third World types getting their hands on all the goodies up here."
"They're the only goodies left, Ethan. We've got all the goodies back on Earth sewed up. There's advantages to being the only superpower. If you play it smart, you can stay the only one."
Stark grimaced. "Sure. Like I said, Vic, we know these people. They're tired of being held down so we can stay on top, and they're not going to take this quiet and peaceful."
Vic shrugged in reply. "Not our call, Ethan. Careful, you sound like a Third World symp."
"I'm just tired of being ordered to fight and die just so some big shots can get a little richer. Pax America, hell. There's nothing pax about getting ordered into combat everywhere on Earth and now on this godforsaken hunk of rock."
"I thought you liked your accommodations," Vic teased.
"Nothing wrong with the rooms. I just don't like where they're located."
"Wrong sector?"
"Wrong planet. Or Moon, or whatever. Vic, this is one ugly place. There's nothing living out there. It's dead. Totally dead."
"You better hope so. Would you be happier if a hostile battalion of mechanized infantry was outside your front door?"
"Very funny." Stark shivered, cold despite the calm efficiency of his battle armor's thermostat. "Vic, there's no grass or anything. Just rocks."
"I thought you didn't like grass, though you've never said why."
"I don't. But I like dead less." Stark fought down another shudder. "It doesn't help that it's such a big change. You know, from Earth, especially our last operation. I didn't like it there, but I like it here less."
Five months before, they'd been on a peace-enforcement op on an island where the indigs didn't appreciate the efforts of outsiders to keep them from killing each other. An island crawling with so much life you had to fight your way through the vegetation and hope the assorted poisonous creatures that lived in it wouldn't also get in the way. So much life that losing a few pieces of it here and there didn't seem to matter one way or the other.
"History can be a terrible burden," Mendoza had observed, and that particular island had enough history to bury any trace of common sense. The one thing the locals were able to agree on was that, if they were going to be restrained from internecine murder, then killing peace enforcers was the second-best option. Especially since the peace enforcers were actually only there to keep things quiet enough for oil corporations hired by a corrupt government-in-exile
to search for and exploit the island oil reserves that had become increasingly rare and valuable as the twenty-first century wore on.
It had been an ugly op, running patrols through heavy vegetation, scanning constantly for booby traps, worrying about when the next bomb would go off in the latrines. It didn't help that the island, like every other hot spot, was overloaded with ancient but still deadly firearms left over from the last century's Cold War. Stark and the other soldiers were used to encountering that state of affairs, but that didn't make it any nicer to deal with. "I thought the old M-16 had all these problems with jamming and stuff," Stark grumbled to Vic.
Stark's War Page 3
