Stark's War

by John G. Hemry

  You had the right answer, Anita. Just the wrong person. Stark shifted to the command circuit. "Lieutenant? Stark here."

  "Yes, Sergeant." Tired and worried. Scared, not that she didn't have every right to be. This wasn't the sort of tactical situation a new Lieutenant wanted to be trapped in.

  "Lieutenant, we can't make it across the plain before they occupy the crater edge and blow us away. We'll be sitting ducks as soon as they get in position."

  Several seconds ticked off as the pursuing symbology danced madly behind, continuing its slow closure on the Platoon. Finally the Lieutenant replied. "That's very likely, Sergeant. Do you have an idea?" Keeping it short, probably mad and frustrated, not seeing any way out, desperate enough to ask her senior enlisted personnel for advice even though everything officers were taught these days warned against that kind of display of fallibility. As if any enlisted ever believed their officers were infallible to begin with.

  "We need a rear guard," Stark stated calmly. "Someone has to hold them long enough for the rest to get under our perimeter."

  "No." The Lieutenant's answer came back immediately this time. "I'm not leaving your Squad behind. They'd be wiped out."

  Good for you, Lieutenant, Stark thought with some surprise. You care enough to reject that option, even though it'd guarantee you getting out safe. "I agree, sir. But we don't need a whole Squad. One good soldier can hold them long enough." Say it professional, like it was a tactical problem during a simulation. "It's the only answer, Lieutenant. One casualty, maybe, and the rest of the Platoon gains time to get across the open area." Stark figured Vic Reynolds was still listening in to Conroy's command circuit. It wasn't too hard to imagine how she had to be feeling right now, because she'd surely already figured out who that one soldier had to be.

  Lieutenant Conroy spoke slowly and reluctantly. "I can't order anyone to stay back alone."

  "You don't have to, Lieutenant. I'm volunteering. Only logical choice. I'm farthest back, and I'm one of your most experienced soldiers." Sell the Lieutenant on it, and sell myself. Make it make sense to both of us. "I've got the combat experience to hold them long enough, and to get away clear after." Hopefully, pray to God. "I have no intention of buying any territory out here, Lieutenant, but the only way to save the rest of the Platoon is for me to hold off the pursuit for a little while."

  Several more seconds. Odds were the Lieutenant was talking to Reynolds on the private conference switch, but for once Stark refrained from eavesdropping, even though he could easily imagine the conversation. Is there any other way? the Lieutenant would ask her, and Can he get out? The answers were easy enough, no and maybe. They wouldn't be easy for Vic to give, but she'd give them.

  "Okay, Sergeant," Conroy finally agreed, relief warring with the shame of abandonment in her voice. "You . . . are to hold as long as . . . you feel necessary. Use your discretion on when to withdraw."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Sergeant Stark, once you move, the rest of the Platoon should be in position to cover your retreat. We'll cover you the minute you start to move. Don't try to hold too long. Okay?"

  "Yes, sir." By the time I start to move, you'll be too far out to cover me. You're too inexperienced and probably don't realize that yet, but I knew it when I volunteered. No other choice. "I'm not bucking for a medal, Lieutenant. I'll be right behind you as soon as you're clear." Maybe if I keep repeating that, I'll believe it.

  "Roger, Sergeant. We'll cover you, Stark. We'll cover you."

  "Yes, sir." You could tell the Lieutenant was feeling guilty as sin. Good for her, again. It wasn't her fault, though, not her fault the war's vid ratings went low and her Platoon got picked to jack them back up. Not her fault the enemy had been faster and better than the officers in the rear had assumed. Not her fault the plan headquarters had dreamed up hadn't been quite as perfect as they'd hoped. "You did a pretty good job out here, Lieutenant." Maybe Conroy can turn into a good officer, someday, if such things still exist.

  That brought another pause. "Thanks, Sergeant Stark. We'll see you on the other side."

  "Yes, sir." Stark switched over to answer an incoming on the Sergeants' personal comm net. He knew it'd be Vic even before she spoke.

  "Ethan, you be careful." No hysterics and no anger, not from her. She knew as well as he that he hadn't any real choice.

  "Don't worry. I'm no hero, remember? See you back at R&R."

  " 'Don't worry,' he says. Don't be a hero, Ethan. Don't let the demon win this one. Don't hold too long. We'll be back." Reynolds' voice finally betrayed some of the concern she had been trying to hide.

  "Never doubted it. But I won't let you or my Squad down, Vic. Whatever it takes. You make sure the Platoon gets back safe."

  "I'll get them back safe. Don't you dare die for me, Ethan Stark."

  "I've no intention of doing so. Take it easy, Vic."

  "Yeah. You, too."

  "Stark." That was Sanchez, calm even when breathing pretty heavily from the long retreat. "Good luck."

  "Thanks. Look out for my Squad, okay?"

  "Of course."

  One more call, to Corporal Gomez. "Anita, I'm the rear guard." She tried to break into his call, but he overrode her signal. "Lieutenant's orders," he added, avoiding mention of his volunteering for those orders. "I'm farthest back and most experienced." He released the override.

  "Dirty trick, Sarge. It was my idea."

  "Nah, I'd already realized the same. Only option. You've got the Squad. Get them back safe."

  "How long you staying?"

  "As long as it takes and not one second longer. Don't worry about me. Worry about the Squad. I took care of them this far. Now it's your job."

  After a long wait, her reply finally came. "Roger, Sargento. Comprendo. Vaya con Dios"

  "Same." Nothing else seemed right at the moment. "Stark out."

  He started carefully checking out the terrain ahead. First, good sites for the two mini-claymore mines he carried. They needed to be emplaced near where the pursuit would pass, ready to hurl their loads of shot horizontally into moving targets. Then, a good location for himself. That location had to have a decent field of fire that would allow Stark to see and shoot at enemy soldiers coming at him from almost any angle. It also needed some protection out front, and solid rock behind. He didn't want to be silhouetted against the horizon every time he moved. Overhead cover would be nice, too, but probably impossible. Usually, natural overhead meant a cave of some sort in a rock face, which meant you might be covered for a while, but you had no way out once the enemy zeroed in on the entrance. Not that he expected to find a cave here anyway, not on this airless, waterless wreck of a world.

  Stark spotted a place that looked promising, up ahead just before the pass leading out onto the dust plain. The last of his Squad members were entering the pass as he placed his first claymore, covering the path along the direct route to the pass, then the second mine a hundred meters farther along. The way up to the position he'd chosen was a little steep, but that was good: He'd want to go back down fast when the time came.

  The firing point proved to be a good one, with a fine field of fire out to where the enemy would come, a few meters of rock rearing up behind and a rock rim forming a low natural entrenchment out front. Stark settled, making sure he liked just where he was. On his display, the riotous movement of the pursuers' symbology was rapidly necking down toward the pass and toward Stark's position. Out on the plain, the Platoon's symbols headed outward, steadily opening the distance, still way too far from safety. Stark placed his grenades in front, ready to fire, rested his rifle beside himself, and waited, amid the rocks and stars, solid shadows and brilliant light. He couldn't recall ever having felt quite so lonely.

  "You idiot." His father had been mad as hell. "You want to be a hero? Join the police, f'God's sake! At least then you could die in your hometown!"

  Dad was still in his coveralls, wet and smelling of fish feed. Stark had stood before him, two months out of communit
y college with a degree in inventory maintenance that qualified him to be a stock clerk in some big discount store owned and run by people who didn't really care about people like him. Twenty years old, unemployed-looking-for-a-job-that-didn't-doom-every-dream-once-dreamed, still dressing like the high-school kid he felt like inside. Nowhere to go, after wasting what educational chances he'd once had, until he ran across the recruiting spiel on vid during a break between old war movies. It had been a pretty forlorn recruiting spiel, as if even the actors used in it couldn't quite believe anyone would actually join the military. To Stark's own surprise, it hadn't taken much to convince him to join; no matter how bad it would be, it was somewhere else, one last chance to break away.

  Stark, facing his father, fought to speak calmly, but his words had come out sounding like a kid caught coming in after curfew. "I thought you'd be proud." The hell he had. Like most of the people he knew, Dad had never hidden his contempt for the military, but it had sounded like a good potential reply when Stark had rehearsed the conversation beforehand.

  "How could you have believed that?" Dad took a deep breath, looked around as if lost, then back directly at Stark. "Look, there're laws. You get to change your mind. You've got, what, seventy-two hours? Tell them you're not joining."

  "Enlisting." Just knowing the term had somehow set him apart already. "And I'm not changing my mind." He had gotten mad, too, playing out another in the long series of fights for control, for independence. "I'm an adult. I can enlist if I want."

  "You don't know what you're doing." His father looked half frantically toward the living room, hoping to see Stark's mother there, hoping for an ally, but she wasn't due off her shift at the store for another four hours. Stark had planned that, knowing he couldn't have faced both parents' pleas. "For once, just this once, listen to me. I don't know what they tell you, I don't know if they wave a slick uniform in your face, all I know is nobody cares about the military. Do you know anyone in the military? Of course not. They're not like us. They get sent to places no one wants to go, to kill people, and usually end up getting killed themselves. Is that what you want, for your mother and me to get a letter saying you died doing something worthless, fighting a war someplace no one cares about?"

  Stark felt himself wavering. His father couldn't usually speak so well about important things, usually tongue-tied with anger or emotion, but this once at least he was managing to call up all the doubts Stark had earlier suppressed.

  Then his father had gone one step too far and blown it. "Don't be a fool, like you always are! Don't waste your life!" Old words, words that provoked an old reaction in Stark.

  "Waste my life? You know all about wasting a life, don't you? I may be a fool, but there's no way I'm spending my life feeding fish. I'm going somewhere, anywhere, just so's I don't end up here!" Stark had waved around the room, including his father's entire life in that last declaration.

  His father had flushed red, then paled, then turned and walked away. They hadn't spoken since. Stark had left before his mother came home, unable to bear the thought of facing her. It would've been better to have said good-bye to her, he'd often thought since. His leaving like that must have hurt her something fierce. There'd been letters to and from home since then, not very often and always through his mother. Always regretting the last words he'd spoken to his father, Stark had increasingly thought about a way to apologize, to start over. Let his dad know he respected him, now, for the hard work and the hard choices. Let his dad know he'd accomplished some good things in the mil after all. Made a man of him, in ways that really counted.

  Funny thing, as your third and fourth decades of life rolled by and over you, all the mistakes your father had made suddenly didn't look so dumb. Somewhere along the way, you realized how hard he'd tried, and how tough a job being a dad was. Being in charge of a Squad wasn't all that different, except you had twelve kids and both the enemy and your own officers kept trying their level best to kill them. He had a letter for his dad, back at the bunker, he'd been kind of working on for a year or so, but he'd never gotten the words right or the nerve to send it. Right now, he wished he had.

  "Heavy jamming," Stark's suit announced in the same calm tones it would use to provide a routine status report. "Tactical picture lost." The symbology representing his own Platoon as well as that of the rapidly closing enemy froze and was overlaid with last-contact time ticks. The battle armor was compensating for the enemy jamming by boosting all its power to the command link, keeping audio and vid going to Stark's chain of command. So they could track him, know what was happening to him, and tell him exactly what to do. But not this time. Don't give the Sergeant any orders, and when he gets wasted it won't be your fault.

  Stark had no doubt, though, that the brass was still feeding the command-and-control vid to the citizens clustered around their vid sets. Your heroes on the Moon, featuring Stark's Last Stand in almost real time, brought to you by the makers of . . . Funny to think, so many people probably watching what he could see right now. Hopefully, headquarters was putting a long enough time delay on it that the enemy couldn't use it tactically against him. Usually the brass did, but sometimes they fed it out too fast. Sometimes, when the story was too good, or the action too hot. At least it may be the last time they screw me.

  A new symbol glowed brightly, outlining an object on the nearest crater wall. He sighted in, carefully, magnification swelling the object to an armored body scrambling over the crest, IFF on his HUD screaming red for enemy. Stark fired, a three-round burst. The figure froze, no doubt warned of incoming but with no time to react. It suddenly bounced back against the rock, once and twice under multiple impacts, then lay still, tiny streams of atmosphere venting from the new holes in its armor. The enemy would be more careful now, advance slowly, try to feel out how many soldiers were in the rear guard and where they were positioned. With any luck Stark could keep them guessing on both counts for a few more minutes.

  A rush to the left. Several figures darted among the cover, evading forward. They were good, not leaving him any decent shots. Stark waited, until he was rewarded with another rush, slightly to his right. This group wasn't as good; one slipped in haste, hauled itself up to get under cover, then fell again as one of Stark's rounds hit it in the upper abdomen. Two down, but they were probably getting a good idea where he was by now. Stay, and they'd target you eventually. Move, and they'd see you right away. Stark stayed.

  The figures on the chrono in his HUD cycled slowly. Stark no longer paid attention to the crimson digits of his timeline display, angrily proclaiming his failure to meet Tac objectives. Once again he marveled, briefly, at the lack of comms or interference from headquarters, realizing again that Vic had been right and no officer wanted to leave any fingerprints on what surely seemed a hopeless battle.

  Stark's Tac had continued estimating the progress of the Platoon, three clusters of symbols tracking steadily across the dust plain but still too close to the ridge. Still too early for Stark to leave. Maybe the APCs came out, picked them up. They could be safe now. No, I can't be sure that happened. Have to assume the worst. Have to hold the enemy a little longer, give the Platoon time to make it across the field. Not too long now. A figure moved suddenly forward amid the rocks before him as a barrage of covering fire laid down around his position. The sight augmented brightly on the enhanced figure as Stark sighted and squeezed in one motion. His HUD tracked the round directly into the other suit's faceplate. A blossom of gas and metal erupted as the enemy trooper stiffened, then slowly dropped like a burned-out toy.

  The enemy barrage hesitated as the attacking force picked up the loss, then redoubled in fury. Damn. Mad as hell now, and they pretty much know where I am. Okay. Keep down. Let them shoot. Save your rounds. Stark occupied his mind by carefully inventorying his remaining ammo as the storm of fire raged around and above him. Can't get rattled. Can't get hit. Have to be ready to roll soon. He rehearsed an escape plan in his mind, fretting over details. Roll right, down the rid
ge. Got to go fast before they lock on. Then over the back, drop to the dust plain and run to the first rock cluster that offers any cover. Fire and fall back. Or just run and dodge. That'll throw up a lot of dust. Confuse their aim. Easy. I'll manage until the relief gets close enough to help me.

  Something suddenly erupted through the surface on his near left, the concussion blasting rocks into fragments that slammed into his side. They fired an antiarmor round. Damn it! His left arm wasn't working right, now. The battle armor med kit hummed as it automatically shoved and shock drugs into his system. The armor hadn't suffered a large rupture, thank God. A plume of gas would have pinpointed him in a heartbeat.

  Okay. Going to be harder with one arm but still doable. Drugs will compensate, keep me hot. He hoped, anyway. Not a lot of experience with getting hit. He'd usually been lucky before. Maybe not anymore. Stark had been avoiding looking at the Tac's estimated position for the Platoon, but he glanced now. Not quite there yet, but the Platoon should be almost close enough to home now to get help. Then some relief could come out a ways, help cover him. Should be on the way real quick. Nice heroic rescue. Make real nice footage on the vid. Boost ratings and everybody happy. Not long now.