Jump Pay

by Rick Shelley

  "I'm going to lay primary responsibility for Site Bravo on you, Van."

  Stossen barely had time to think, It doesn't surprise me. The 13th always draws the short straw, before Dacik continued.

  "We're going to try to take Site Bravo with just the 13th. Your lads have the new Corey belts. They'll land right on top of the enemy. The infantry, at least. The Wasps will go in to provide cover. Use half of your recon platoons to establish an LZ for the Havocs and the support crews for air and artillery, within gun range for the howitzers. With a little bit of luck, though, you won't even have to use the artillery.

  "The 8th and 97th will stand by up here," Dacik continued. "If you get into a bind, I'll send them in as reinforcements, or as a rescue party. But if the 13th can handle Site Bravo alone, the 8th and 97th will be diverted straight to Site Charley. Things are getting a little too sticky there. The 5th and 34th are in trouble."

  "We'll do what we can, sir," Stossen said.

  Dacik nodded. "The belts are our edge, Van. Make it count. You get done at Bravo, the 13th will be lifted directly to Site Charley. The Wasps will boost back up here and get dropped again right away. We need everything we can get for Site Charley."

  And hope that it's enough, Dacik thought.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After two full meals and, for those who could manage it, as much as six hours of sleep, the troops aboard the fleet transports prepared for another combat landing. While the men of the 13th knew that they were destined for Site Bravo, the men of the 8th and 97th could not be sure where they would be landing. Shuttles were ready for the reserve units. The men were dressed and ready to go, though still in their barracks bays aboard ship. They would move to the hangars and landers once the 13th was away.

  Thirty minutes before their scheduled departure, the men of the 13th filed through the ship toward the shuttle hangars. For the most part, the men were silent, almost sullen. It wasn't simply the prospect of more combat that affected them. It was more the knowledge that they were jumping back into the most oppressive climate that any of them had ever experienced. They had been warned that Site Bravo would be even worse than Site Alpha, that they absolutely had to be finished before sunrise brought impossible temperatures.

  There was not a man in the 13th who had not successfully faced the usual fears of combat before, if only during the one day that they had already spent on Tamkailo. Human enemies could be fought, and beat. The heat of the tropics of this world could not be fought effectively, could not be beat—except by retreat, by going underground or into well-insulated buildings during the hours when the sun was above the horizon. Long before midday, the heat at Site Bravo would be literally enough to fry a brain, to kill.

  This time, none of the troop shuttles were crowded. Normally, going into a campaign, a single SAT line company filled two shuttles, with the men crammed against one another, side by side with scarcely room to fall over. Two of the 13th's companies had lost so many men in the conquest of Site Alpha that each fit into a single shuttle. Other companies managed to squeeze two companies into three shuttles. Only three of the eight line companies still came anywhere near to filling two shuttles with their men.

  "Squad leaders, one more check of your men," Joe Baerclau ordered as Echo Company waited to board its shuttles. Echo still needed two, but it would not crowd either one.

  The platoon's three squad leaders moved among their men, looking at power settings on antigrav belts and Armanoc carbines, testing helmet circuits, talking to their men. When that was done, the squad leaders checked one another, and Sauv Degtree checked the platoon sergeant. The routine was more to occupy minds than because of any real need. Keep everyone busy, thinking about immediate—and manageable—tasks. Don't give them idle time to worry about things beyond their control. Keep them thinking as soldiers.

  First squad, second squad, fourth squad. As Joe received the expected positive reports, he had to think again about the third squad, wiped out except for its sergeant, who now had first squad. A fourth of the platoon gone right there, in addition to its other losses.

  Joe checked his own gear again, for at least the tenth time. Then he looked toward the door at the head of the passageway. It was time for Echo to be moving into the hangar to board their shuttles. While he stared, the door opened and a naval rating gestured the soldiers through. Four platoons into the shuttle on the left, four into the shuttle on the right. Once the two lines started moving, it didn't take long for the company to board the shuttles, for the men to strap themselves in place along the bench seats in the troop bay.

  Then it was time to wait again, but not for long.

  The hatches were sealed. Many of the men felt a momentary pressure on their ears as the shuttle was put through its own checks. Two minutes later, the green lights over each hatch were replaced by red lights. That meant that the hangar was being depressurized. The air was being pumped out of the hangar so that the huge outer doors could be opened safely. When the interior air pressure was down to less than a tenth of "normal," the doors would be opened and the two shuttles ejected with the rest of the air and by small catapults. The shuttles had to be clear of the hangars before they could turn on their own antigrav drives.

  "Prepare for separation," the shuttle pilot warned, giving his passengers the customary thirty seconds' notice.

  Joe took a deep breath and held it for a count of ten. He could not have recalled what had started the ritual, or when it had begun. Somehow, it had become part of his personal routine. Another deep breath was held to a count of five. He looked around at the men of his platoon. The faces were hidden behind visors now, the tinted surface a mask for the expression beneath.

  "Five seconds," the pilot warned.

  Joe blinked a couple of times, then looked up at the bulkhead across from him. There were monitors spaced around the troop bay. At the moment, the cameras feeding those monitors were divided between a view of the exterior door and the opposite side of the hangar.

  The outer door opened. It always seemed to "pop" open to Joe, who had never been able to suppress his amazement that anything so large could be moved so quickly. Or so silently. He knew that sound could not travel through a vacuum, but the outer doors were connected to the hull of the ship, and when the doors opened, the shuttle was sitting on the hangar deck. There was a solid connection. But there was no sound, no physical rumble or vibration.

  There were several minutes of weightlessness once the shuttle was clear of the ship, while the fleet of shuttles formed up for the assault. Although the shuttles were powered by antigravity drives, no specific provision had been made for providing artificial gravity for the people inside. But all of the troops were strapped in, and they knew how to deal with zero gravity. It took some of the pressure off where straps and gear confined the men. And added different, lesser pressures where their harnesses held them in place.

  Once the shuttle was under acceleration, they would know the feeling of weight again.

  Joe closed his eyes. He had actually come to enjoy the sensation of losing track of up and down—as long as it didn't last for long. The shuttle pilot was short on commentary. Some pilots kept up a running account of what they were doing in these early moments. Not this one. After announcing separation, the pilot didn't speak again until it was time to warn the troops that the power descent was about to begin.

  An attack descent was like nothing any civilian passenger was ever likely to experience. Civilian shuttles providing service between passenger liners or spaceport satellites and the ground would merely use enough power to set them in a fuel-efficient glide, using engines minimally to adjust course and cushion the landing. Troop shuttles carrying men into a combat landing, or a drop, were more profligate with fuel. Instead of trusting to a planet's gravity to bring them down, pilots accelerated toward the surface. The surfaces of military lander were designed to take the extreme heat that was generated pushing down through the atmosphere, and the entire structure was able to withstand far
more stress during braking maneuvers than any of the humans who rode it were.

  The weight of acceleration moved above two gees for most of the ride in and topped out over three. The men in the troop bay could judge their approach as easily by which way seemed to be "down" as by watching the monitors on the bulkheads. Some stared at the screens. Others kept their eyes shut throughout the descent.

  On most previous descents, Mort had been one of the watchers, keeping up a running commentary—on almost anything but the coming fight. This time, he remained silent. He glanced at the monitors only rarely. He spent much more time staring at the piece of deck immediately in front of his feet. He stared and concentrated on that small area of metal, using it as a focus to try to keep his mind blank. He did not want to think, not about the coming fight or the fight of the day before, not about anything. The only time he snapped out of his near trance was when Sauv Degtree or Joe Baerclau spoke to him, for the necessary squad checks. He was still the leader of a fire team. He had duties.

  "Take care on landing," Joe warned the platoon. "We're going to be aiming for rooftops. Watch the edges. Give yourself as much leeway as possible, away from the sides. You get too far over to maneuver safely to the roof, go for the ground and jump up, if you've got the juice in your batteries. If not, attach yourself to whatever platoon you're near until we can get you back." On the buildings and in between them. The 13th hoped to have so many men in the middle of the base that the Heggies would be unable even to begin any significant defense. They hoped that there would be no real battle at all at Site Bravo.

  "Unstrap!" the jumpmaster said over a radio channel that reached everyone in the troop bay. Men hit the releases on their safety harnesses. Down was below their feet now. The gee-level was high, but declining.

  "Stand in the doors!" was the next command. Every man knew which of the four exits he was to head toward.

  "Thirty seconds!" This jumpmaster shouted everything, although that was totally unnecessary. For all practical purposes, he was speaking directly into the ears of every man aboard.

  Second platoon would jump through the left rear hatch in two columns. First and second squads would go out together, left and right. Fourth squad filled out both lines behind them.

  When the hatch opened, Joe Baerclau and Sergeant Low Gerrent, second squad's leader, would be the first men out. At the right front exit, Captain Keye and First Sergeant Walker would be first out.

  "Opening up!" the jumpmaster announced, and as soon as the hatches were up, he shouted, "Go!" even louder than his earlier commands.

  Joe Baerclau took a deep breath and jumped out into the slipstream.

  —|—

  "This is going to be tricky," Zel Paitcher whispered to himself. He had said that to the squadron commander during the preflight briefing, had repeated it to his men as they moved to their hangar and their Wasps. It was something they had never practiced, even in simulators—taking close ground support to what Zel hoped would not prove to be its reduction to absurdity.

  "We need to get our licks in against the Heggies at Site Bravo, but we don't want to give them a second more of warning that we're coming than we absolutely have to," Major Tarkel had told the 13th's pilots. "And since the mudders are going to be jumping in on belts, right on top of the enemy, we're going to have to get under them and make one quick pass just seconds before they ground. Between the jumpers and the rooftops."

  "And let them fry in the explosions of our missiles?" one of the pilots from Yellow Flight asked.

  "That's where timing comes in," the Goose said. "Missiles first, then cannon. Judging from our efforts at Site Alpha, you're unlikely to start any secondary explosions. The construction at Site Bravo is just as solid, thick stone and concrete. Just get in and out, crack open doors, break windows, give the mudders entry points and confuse the hell out of the Heggies."

  That was the point where Zel had cleared his throat and said, "This is going to be tricky," for the first time.

  The more he thought about it, the trickier it looked. The only bright spot was that there was no evidence that the Heggies had any fighter planes stationed to protect Site Bravo.

  The 13th's Wasps followed the troop shuttles down, staying close enough so they would be able to dive past and make their runs ahead of the jumpers. The landers carrying the artillery and all of the support equipment—as well as regimental headquarters—veered away from the rest early on, aiming for a landing zone some dozen kilometers from the Schlinal base. Two Wasps from Yellow Flight went along to provide air cover for them. It would take a little time for the Havocs to get out and ready to lend their long-range support to the mudders, though. By that time, the Wasps would be looking for a chance to land and replace batteries and munitions. The descent from orbit took a lot of power, even this descent with the pilots holding back, staying with the shuttles instead of accelerating past them.

  As shuttles approached their drop altitude, three hundred meters, they shifted formation. That was the signal that Zel and the other Wasp flight leaders had been waiting for.

  "Time to get into position," Zel told Blue Flight. "Follow me in."

  He took a slow, looping curve to the left, losing two hundred meters of altitude in the process as he lined up to make an east-to-west run across the base. The other five planes of his flight (spares had been brought out for the two pilots who had lost their planes at Site Alpha) spread out to either side of their leader. Blue, Yellow, and Red: the three flights would crisscross one another's path over the enemy base, hitting it from three directions. That would leave only one side of each building free from attack. Major Tarkel had ruled out splitting the three flights four ways. "This is complicated enough as it is," he had said. "Three sides will have to do."

  At least the Schlinal base was laid out on a perfectly rectangular grid. There were nine primary buildings, three by three, with four smaller buildings in a separate row along the western side. The avenues between buildings were a uniform fifteen meters wide. At this site, the Heggies had even foregone the customary fences. It was too obvious, even to them, that there was no escape for anyone confined to the location. The spyeyes had only pinpointed ten guard posts: bunkers at the corners of the rectangle, two additional bunkers along either of the long sides, and one in the center of each of the short sides. Bunkers: low, stone structures that seemed to be contained more underground than above. They also appeared to be connected by tunnels to the buildings. The Wasps planned to ignore those bunkers. With the mudders landing inside the perimeter, they would be tactically irrelevant.

  "Remember, if those bunkers are connected underground, it's likely that all of the buildings are connected the same way." The pilots had been told that during the briefing. It seemed to be a logical conclusion, even though there had been nothing of the kind at Site Alpha. "The Heggies know they can't venture outside during the daylight hours."

  Neither can we, Zel thought as he waited for word to come from the shuttles that the mudders were about to jump. We've got no more than nine hours to wrap up this operation to give us time to get off before sunrise.

  Zel was listening to the jumpmaster in the lead shuttle, the man who would set the timing for the entire flotilla of landers. Thirty seconds. Ten.

  "Here we go," Zel warned his flight while he mentally counted off those last ten seconds. "Into position."

  With their antigrav drives, the Wasps could hover in place, waiting for just the right instant, then loose their missiles from that position or accelerate into the attack. With no enemy aircraft, and no sign of ground fire, they did just that. In the dark, it was virtually certain that they wouldn't be sighted before they switched on their target acquisition systems, if then. If they were spotted, it would take the Heggie forces time to get that word to men with surface-to-air missiles. The Wasps represented the pinnacle of more than three millennia of technology designed to make aircraft as nearly invisible to enemies as possible.

  Infantrymen started jumping out of thei
r shuttles. In the first second or two, the men were blown by the landers' slipstreams. As they fell clear of those, the antigrav belts took hold. Some men swayed like pendulums until their stabilizers locked them in proper attitude.

  Blue Flight moved under then, across the Heggie base, firing rockets and cannon, trying to open ways into each building—as many ways as possible. There was absolutely no return fire. Like a practice run on the range back home, Zel thought, delighted at the lack of enemy fire—but worried just the same. It wasn't like the Schlinal military to take without giving back full measure.

  "Okay, now we go cover the LZ," Zel told his men after they, and the other two flights, had completed their one run across the target area. "Make sure we've got some place safe to land."

  —|—

  Joe Baerclau felt an instant of panic after jumping out of the shuttle, worse than he had experienced since the first time he had done a practice jump with an antigrav belt. In that moment, he managed to bite through his lower lip and draw blood. He seemed to swing back and forth for an impossibly long time, enough to start him worrying that the gyro stabilizers on his belt had failed. Only slowly did the pendulum motion dampen and stop. Joe worked at his belt controls, slowing his descent to fifteen meters per second. Jump altitude had been three hundred meters. He had fallen fifty meters before he got his drives adjusted. He had a couple of seconds before he would have to slow his descent again.

  The Bear swallowed hard and looked around for his men. They were where they belonged, most a little higher than he was. No one was falling out of control. Once assured of that, Joe looked down. He didn't see the Wasps streak by beneath him, except as shadows that eclipsed the ground and the buildings, but he did see rockets explode, the flashes coming back out of door and window openings along the sides of buildings.

  Joe slowed his descent again. Two more seconds passed as he made certain that he and his men were over the building they were supposed to hit.