“Jack,” Brigadier Sturgeon said, accosting General Daly before he could leave the conference room. “We have the Straight Arrow, my men are trained in its use, but we don’t have nearly enough if we run into a big armored force down there. We’ve got to be assured we’ll have air and artillery support if we do.”
“Ted, you have ‘em, you have ‘em,” Daly replied, clapping Sturgeon reassuringly on the shoulder.
“Goddamn, Jack, we’re going into a built-up area, at night, lousy weather—”
“Ted, look on the bright side. At the most, you’ll only have to be there two days. And you’re not going in alone, the rest of us’ll be there right behind you, and then you’ll have 120,000 dogfaces to reinforce you. And you’ve known Andy for years, he always looks on the dark side—that’s good, that’s good—but this’ll come out all right, Ted. Think of what we’ll be up against once we move out of Oppalia.” He clapped Sturgeon on the shoulder again and walked off.
Brigadier Sturgeon stood by himself for a moment. He shook his head. He just couldn’t think ahead to the breakout. What waits for us down there? he asked himself. Shaking his head again, he walked off to the debarkation port to catch the shuttle back to his own transport.
Chapter 11
“Attention on deck!” First Sergeant Myer bellowed.
The assembled men of Company L sprang to their feet.
Captain Conorado marched briskly into gymnasium compartment HL/q/v/14-3 and down the aisle in the middle of the rows of benches that had replaced the exercise equipment that normally filled the space.
“Seat the men, Top Sergeant,” Conorado said as he stepped onto the small stage that faced the ranked benches. The company’s other officers followed him into the gym and took places at the rear of the room.
“Aye aye, sir,” Myer replied. He glared out at the men. “Sit!” he bellowed. The momentary clanking, thumping, and bumping of the men resuming their seats almost drowned out the rest of what the first sergeant said. “If there’s any ruckus or grab-assing, you’ll sit at attention.”
There wasn’t any ruckus or grab-assing as the 120 enlisted men of the company looked intently at their skipper and waited to hear what he was going to say.
Conorado spent a few seconds looking out at the faces staring back at him. He wondered how many of them would die in the next seventy-two hours.
“In two days,” he began, “at nine hours ship-time, we will board orbit-to-surface craft to conduct an amphibious assault. One hour later, at three-thirty local time, we will go over the beach at the city of Oppalia. Oppalia is a major industrial city. It has a fully developed seaport and spaceport, and it’s a transportation hub. Our job is to secure both ports for the ingress of follow-on army forces.” He paused for a few seconds to allow his Marines to hoot and cry out a few disparaging words about the army. The hoots and cries cut off immediately when he resumed speaking.
“It is the belief of Fleet Admiral Wimbush, who is in overall command of this operation, that the bad guys have no significant defenses at Oppalia. This belief is based on extensive intelligence gathered by the string-of-pearls and by reconnaissance drones. The nearest known enemy force is the First Armored Division, located at a mining complex a hundred kilometers away. We should have at least two or three hours, maybe longer, to secure Oppalia and set up our defenses before the First Armored can mount up and get to us. By then we should have four entire FISTs on the ground and in position around the city, and another FIST either already moving in with us or on its way.
“As you know, the First Armored Division comprises fully half of the enemy’s known armored forces. I assure you, if twelve hundred tanks attempt to attack four thousand Marines armed with Straight Arrows, those tanks will die in very short order.
“The army command believes, and the Fleet Admiral concurs, that this will be an essentially unopposed landing. We will secure the ports, the army will make planetfall behind us and go out to do battle against the tanks, and we can pull some liberty. That’s the plan,” he said very dryly.
“There’s one other thing you have to be aware of. Since we will make planetfall in a major city that is vital to the economy and postwar redevelopment of Diamunde, there is a restrictive rule of engagement in effect. We are to avoid, to the greatest extent possible, damaging the infrastructure. That means we can’t knock down or burn up buildings, we are to leave civilians and their housing alone, and we are not to tamper with the public utility systems.” Conorado paused a moment to let the implications sink in. “That’s right,” he said when he saw appalled expressions wash over a few faces, “under no circumstances are we allowed to invoke the Negev Protocol.”
More than twenty years earlier, Marines on a peacekeeping mission in the Negev district of Alhambra repeatedly came under fire from villages that were supposed to have only civilians in them. One squad on patrol came under particularly heavy fire and could see a large number of armed men preparing to assault them. The corporal leading the squad called in artillery to bombard the would-be attackers, and destroyed the village in the process. The brigadier commanding the mission backed up the corporal, so did the entire Marine chain of command. Ever since, the “Negev Protocol” was invoked when massive destruction of lives and property was the only thing that stood between Marines and death. They were being forbidden to use Negev in this war.
Conorado did his best to keep his face neutral. “I say again, Fleet Admiral Wimbush and his intelligence staff are positive that there are no enemy forces in or near Oppalia. Therefore, destruction of infrastructure shouldn’t be an issue regardless of this rule of engagement.” He left unsaid that the prohibition against invoking Negev was also why the artillery wouldn’t be landed until after Oppalia was secured.
“Your platoon commanders and platoon sergeants will give you more detailed briefings between now and the time we board the assault vehicles. Those briefings will include maps and VR chamber exercises. Are there any questions?”
It was normally a rhetorical question. What it means in Marine is, “Did I say anything you didn’t understand?” It is not an invitation to question whys and wherefores. But PFC MacIlargie was too new to realize that, so he asked the question so many others had but wouldn’t ask—and it wasn’t about Negev.
“Sir, if the landing’s going to be unopposed, why are we making it at night?” MacIlargie may not have known this wasn’t the kind of question he was supposed to ask, but he did know that night amphibious landings were uncommon—when Marines put on a display of strength, they want to be seen doing it.
“MacIlargie, your platoon sergeant and I will have a talk with you afterward,” Top Myer boomed. MacIlargie shrank back to the bench.
Conorado turned his head so few of the men could see his face and murmured, “No you won’t.” Then he turned back to the company. “That’s a very good question, PFC MacIlargie. Unfortunately, nobody told me. Maybe it’s so we can move through the city and get into position without civilian traffic getting in our way.” He shrugged. “Ours not to reason why, ours but to do. Any other questions?”
This time there were the expected none.
“All right, then, I’ll leave you to the first sergeant, who I’m sure has a few words of wisdom for you.”
“Attention on deck!” Myer bellowed, and the men sprang to attention as Conorado marched out of the compartment.
Top Myer waited until Conorado and the other officers were gone, then nodded at the senior NCOs, who secured the hatches to prevent anyone’s leaving—or entering unannounced. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced from side to side on the stage, glaring out at the men. Maybe it was only MacIlargie’s imagination, but it seemed to the young Marine that the first sergeant glared at him more than anyone else.
“Were you listening to that briefing?” Top Myer suddenly barked out. “Did you hear what the skipper said?
“We are making a nighttime assault landing. The skipper said the port is ‘supposedly’ poorly defended. The
‘nearest known’ enemy force. It is the ‘belief’ of Wimpy Wimbush. Intelligence gathered by string-of-pearls and drones. We ‘should have’ two or three hours. There ‘should be’ four FISTs. The ’army command believes.’ The last time I heard an army command believe something, it was that an asshole and an elbow might not be the same thing.” He glared so fiercely that none of the Marines dared laugh.
“You’ve all heard the old maxim, ‘No plan, no matter how good, ever survives first contact with the enemy.’ Well, I heard so many ‘ifs’ in the skipper’s briefing, I don’t think this is a good plan to begin with. I’m going to forget every part of it after ‘we are making an amphibious assault into a major city with a major seaport and spaceport and we’re doing it at night.’ I’m going in expecting major resistance. Any man in this landing who doesn’t go in expecting major resistance isn’t likely to live long enough to get his feet dry.
“Let me tell you something about who we’re going up against. Diamunde doesn’t have a government, not what any of us know as a government anyway. A government ultimately has to answer to the people it rules. A democratically elected government can be voted out of office if it doesn’t perform up to the people’s expectations. A kingdom has to keep its people happy or face a coup or a war of succession. If a tyranny is too repressive, it will be overthrown.
“Diamunde doesn’t have a government. The whole damn world’s a company town. Today’s Diamunde is a wholly owned subsidiary of Tubalcain Enterprises—an interstellar conglomerate. The people of Diamunde aren’t citizens or even subjects. They’re employees. Anyone who doesn’t like the way the place is run either keeps it to himself or gets fired. That’s a one-way ticket on the next outbound starship with no job, no home, and no friends waiting at the other end of the ticket. It was a little bit different before the recent hostile takeover by this Marston St. Cyr character.” He looked like he wanted to spit, but didn’t have a place to do it. “Until then, if you got fired by Tubalcain you could go to work for the Hefestus Conglomerate, or one of the few remaining smaller corporations.
“So who does a corporation have to answer to, you may ask? It’s stockholders, that’s who. They’re the people who want to make money from the corporation without having to do any work for it. The stockholders aren’t on Diamunde, they’re spread throughout all of Human Space. They don’t know what’s going on here. If they do, they probably don’t care. What they care about is their dividend payments. They take a look at their credit statements once in a while, and if the amount they get from their holdings in Tubalcain is big enough, they’re happy.
“What’s the worst that can happen to St. Cyr and his corporate cronies? Well, some stockholders might decide to get a new board of directors. But boards have staggered elections. That means it can take years to change the majority view in a board of directors. But it won’t happen. Look at what St. Cyr did to the old board when it didn’t want to do what he wanted. The son of a bitch killed them. So what alternative do the stockholders who don’t like what’s going on have? They can sell their stock to people who don’t care, that’s what. And St. Cyr stays in power. How many more people will he kill?” He shook his head sadly. “I don’t even want to think about it.
“Some of you may be wondering how come we’re conducting our landing at a major city. Nobody told me this, but here’s what I think is the reason. The high commanders think St. Cyr won’t want to fight in Oppalia because he won’t want to risk damaging such an important part of the planet’s infrastructure. Just like we can’t invoke Negev.” He shook his head at that folly. “If I was in his position, I’d be willing to have it completely destroyed rather than let an invader have it. That’s why I think we’re going to face strong opposition.
“There’s something else here that’s bothering me. Tubalcain is very rich—richer since this takeover. When you look back through history, you can see that there’s a pretty direct correlation between wealth and political power. The richest people, those who control industry, manufacturing, mining, banking, and all other forms of production, have the greatest access to and influence over the people who run government. There wasn’t any attempt at negotiation with St. Cyr, just a quick decision to go to war. And we have been ordered to avoid damage to infrastructure. I have to wonder if someone’s being influenced here, and who’s doing the influencing.”
Top Myer stopped abruptly and a look of consternation flashed across his face. “I don’t want anyone to repeat what I just said,” he growled.
There were nods and murmurs from the Marines. They understood that the Top had just said something that could be taken the wrong way by the wrong people. Even if he did glare, growl, and bark at them too much, nobody wanted the first sergeant to get in trouble.
“That is all, people. Platoon sergeants, take over.” First Sergeant Myer headed for the nearest exit.
“First platoon, company area, on the double!”
“Second platoon, stay in place!”
“Third platoon, VR chamber!”
The final briefing and training was about to commence.
Chapter 12
Klaxons blared throughout the amphibious battlecruiser Tripoli. The carefully modulated female voice that came over the ship’s speakers intoning the ancient words, “Commander Landing Force, prepare the landing force for landing,” galvanized the Marines of 34th FIST into action.
“First squad, fall in,” Sergeant Hyakowa called from where he stood in the passageway just outside the squad compartments. Throughout 34th FIST’s areas, other squad leaders were also calling their men to the ready.
“Second squad, on me,” Sergeant Eagle’s Cry, a few meters away from Hyakowa, commanded. Thirty-fourth FIST’s areas reverberated with the thudding of feet on metal.
“Guns up,” Sergeant Kelly shouted. The commands of other squad leaders echoed along the passageways.
Before the squad leaders finished calling for their men, the Marines of third platoon were scrambling through the hatches to line up in front of their squad leaders.
Gunnery Sergeant Bass, virtually invisible in his chameleon field uniform, stood watching at one end of the passageway. Ensign Vanden Hoyt, like Bass, visible only as a face hovering in midair, stood observing at the other end. Between them, the squad leaders were readily detectable only by the Straight Arrow tubes slung over their shoulders—their hovering faces mere blurs behind their helmets’ infra screens. The men of the platoon also had their infra screens down, so they could see more of each other than just the Straight Arrow tubes every third Marine carried at sling arms. The rushed manufacture of the antitank weapons hadn’t allowed for any chameleon effect on the weapons. Instead, they were a drab, light-absorbing green.
As the Marines lined up before their squad leaders they flipped up their infras, fully exposing their faces. As soon as they were in formation, the squad leaders flipped up their own.
Hyakowa stepped sharply to his first fire team leader, Corporal Leach, to give him a final inspection. The inspection was perfunctory and mostly manual—he couldn’t see Leach’s gear and had to touch it to make sure it was present and secured. He moved on to Schultz and gave him an even more perfunctory inspection—he knew Schultz would be the most ready man in the platoon, maybe in the entire FIST. His inspection of Dean was more detailed. Even though Dean had acquitted himself well during the two operations he’d been on, neither had involved an amphibious combat assault. He looked into Dean’s eyes. Leach’s eyes had been tensely ready. Schultz’s eyes were relaxed, almost sleepy. Both of them had made combat assaults before and survived them, they knew what to expect. Uncertainty and nervousness showed in Dean’s eyes.
“We’re Marines, Dean,” Hyakowa said crisply. “We’re gonna get some!”
“Kick ass, take the names of the survivors,” Dean replied.
Hyakowa clapped him on his invisible shoulder and moved on to Sergeant Ratliff.
The squad leaders completed their inspections and reported their men read
y in less than five minutes.
“Marines,” Vanden Hoyt said in a voice that wasn’t a shout, but carried clearly to each man in the platoon, “we are about to go into the unknown. Thirty-fourth FIST is the first wave. Companies L and M will cross the beach in Dragons, Company K will be directly behind us and cross in hoppers. We will have air cover from our Raptors. Thirteenth FIST,” the other FIST on the Tripoli, “will follow in two waves at half hour intervals. We will cross the beach in the small hours of the morning. Intelligence says the landing should meet little or no resistance. That’s nice to hear. But we’re Marines. Marines are always ready for the unexpected. Even though the bad guys aren’t supposed to be waiting for us to show up then and there, be ready to breathe fire as soon as you step off the Dragons. Let me hear it.”
The men of third platoon roared out, “OOH-RAH!” Vanden Hoyt’s eyes flicked to his left in surprise—Lance Corporal Dupont, the platoon’s communications man, was “oohrahing” along with everyone else.
“Sta—Gunnery Sergeant Bass!” Vanden Hoyt said
“Aye aye, sir,” Bass called back. He didn’t need to be given any more orders, he knew this routine too well. “Platoon, right face!” he commanded, then paused for a beat while the Marines of third platoon turned to face him. He took off his helmet to allow the men to see him in visual. “Follow me. Route step, march!” He led the way through the maze of passage and ladderways to the number-one well deck, where 34th FIST’s Dragons waited in the seven Essays that would carry the two lead companies to the surface of the planet. Ten more Essays held the hoppers and Raptors of 34th FIST. The final three Essays in the cavernous hold stood ready to carry the FIST’s command and combat support elements to Diamunde’s surface. M Company simultaneously entered the well deck from a different direction. Shortly, Company K would enter the well deck and board the hoppers waiting on five of the other Essays.
Steel Gauntlet Page 12
