by Michael Ryan
The craft suddenly surged into a banking turn. Balestain’s eyes were glued to the weapon screen.
<
“Watch this, sir,” the captain said. “We’ve been practicing this in the VR sim.”
The craft pulled out of a hard bank and headed straight for the enemy craft, nose guns firing a steady stream of armor-defeating rounds. The pilot in the opposing craft adjusted, sending his heli into a dive.
They pursued.
The weapons screen displayed a question.
<
The copilot fired two tracking missiles. “Pay attention to the Eagles, sir. The enemy can’t pick them up yet. They’re just falling objects, like a couple of bricks.”
The two tracking missiles appeared on the weapon screen.
<
<
<
The enemy heli pilot fired six missiles in a desperate attempt to escape the trap he realized had been set for him.
<
“Keep your eyes on the Eagles, Major,” the copilot said.
Balestain let the rhetorical slip go. The twin missiles appeared on the display, and Balestain watched with admiration as they came to life at a range that was impossible for the enemy to evade. The second tracking missile was destroyed, but the twin Eagles fired behind it and streaked toward their target.
The pilot changed his flight path so Balestain could watch the destruction from the front camera’s view.
He switched to full screen.
The enemy evaded the first Eagle, but the second struck his tail rotor. The heli-jet fired a thruster to fix its position. The pilot was skilled; he avoided going into a free-fall spin and managed to flee.
“Pursue, sir?”
Balestain smirked. “We have time.”
“You want to fly, sir?”
“Sure,” he said. Balestain enjoyed learning new skills. Adrenaline pumped through his system as a control system panel moved from the ceiling above his head and unfolded in front of him. Another set of controls opened below his feet.
“You have the heli-jet,” the pilot said.
“I have the heli,” he replied. His hands gripped the multicontrol, and his feet slid into position.
The heli-jet bucked and twisted as if he’d jumped on to the back of a wild bull that wasn’t in the mood to be broken.
“Steady, sir,” the pilot said. “Let it fly itself as much as possible. You’re there to outthink the AI. Just use a feather touch. That’s it. Very smooth.”
The enemy craft was diving to escape its pursuer, and locking the guidance system on the damaged craft gave Balestain a feeling of invincibility. He made minor adjustments to the flight path and then ordered the copilot to prepare a Falcon missile. “Fire on my mark.”
“Sir,” the copilot said.
The screen blinked a confirmation.
<
“Launch!” the major said. He watched the missile streak from the front of their craft and accelerated to follow its path. The distance between the heli-jets closed quickly, and Balestain banked up and to port. “Prepare to engage nose gun,” he said.
“Sir.”
The enemy fired a countermeasure and defeated the Falcon, but Balestain swept its escape path with rounds from the nose gun and further damaged it. “Fire another Falcon. Don’t wait for my mark, just fire that bitch when I come back around. Versus! This is a lot more maneuverable than those clunky mechas.”
“Firing Falcon, sir,” the copilot said.
<
The missile struck the left wing of the enemy heli-jet and exploded in a bright flash of orange-yellow. Only one ejection was successful. The craft burned for ten seconds before secondary fires caused craft-wide failure. Multiple chunks dropped toward the ground. Balestain used the time to bring the heli-jet around in a wide circle so he could dive on the free-falling pilot who had managed to escape.
“You think he’ll deploy his chute, second?” Major Balestain asked.
“Not until he’s nearly at the ground, sir,” he answered. “These Erru-trained pilots are very disciplined.”
“Good. Shall we let him go?” Balestain asked.
“It’s a common courtesy after a well-fought exchange, Major,” the pilot answered. “Sort of an unofficial acknowledgment of their skill. I’d prefer we leave him be, sir. It’s one of those debts that gets repaid. But of course, on your command, we can–”
“No,” Balestain said. “I’m in a good mood. Let’s follow custom.”
“As you wish, Major,” the pilot said. “May I have my craft back, sir?”
Balestain selected several prompts in his combat monitor and nodded. “You have the heli.”
“I have the heli, sir,” the captain confirmed.
They finished their primary mission twenty minutes later when they dropped several tons of high explosives on a university, a shopping center, and an elementary school.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The victor matters not to the dead.
~ Senator Colenstic Jollanertz
There’s a centuries-old axiom that I wholeheartedly believe: winners write history.
Some truth to this aphorism remained even after the decline and near-death of written histories. With recording devices mounted, carried, and hidden everywhere in the known universe where humans and purvasts traveled, it became difficult to fabricate entire narratives without anyone noticing. Not that those in power didn’t try, with great success in many instances.
Abrel, Mallsin, Callie, and I dropped into a political and ecological disaster.
Not to mention a bloodbath of innocents.
The populations of three planets had been led to believe, while watching the evening news, that the military action to stop Major Butcher was a minor skirmish. It was described as a substantial police action, not a lower-key continuation of the long war that had claimed billions of lives.
Those on the ground knew better.
Of the soldiers who learned the dark truths surrounding the Pugnale Ridge battle firsthand, over half died in the first three weeks. The campaign of terror lasted over four months. The death toll eclipsed four hundred thousand, or double that number, depending on who was reporting. Like most statistics, the truth depended on perspective.
Command sent our new platoon to augment a regiment of ground infantry. The lightly armored grunts in the Twenty-Seventh Regiment were attached to the Sixth Armored Cavalry Regiment, which consisted of five tanker companies. The boots were being used as support and logistics on Tuesdays, as recon patrols on Thursdays, and for a floating detail on Fridays. The end-of-the-week assignments usually resulted in a lot of sitting around doing nothing until someone put them in a heli-jet transport to fly somewhere to wait around again.
A lot of them died being transported from point A to point B.
By the time of our drop, there were nineteen forward operating bases and six command bases in the rear. It seemed like a lot of bases for a minor skirmish, but I had the sense not to ask too many questions.
After ten days, we hadn’t seen any action, which proved to be the antithesis of what was coming. As time crawled by, we discussed amongst ourselves why we’d been dropped in the first place. It wasn’t as though drop capsules were cheap.
But it’s the army…enough said.
One of the things the regular army troops can’t seem to remember is that TCI-Armored Infantry soldiers can’t talk. We’re in a suit filled with gel, which forces us to use typed messages or premade snippets that are sent via a display screen text message or an audible message that’s delivered through an internal or external speaker.
That’s one of the reasons the army keeps TCI-Armor units together as much as possible. Learning to communicate quickly when under pressure with new suits isn’t easy. Mistakes are made. People die. I’m not convinced the army cares as much about the dying part as they do ab
out preserving expensive hardware, but I like the part where they try to help us stay alive.
“I’m glad we’ve been in these suits two weeks for no reason,” Callie said.
“It’s been ten days,” I said.
“Don’t be pedantic,” she said.
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“Look it up.”
I did. Besides everything you’d expect in the CPU regarding weapons systems, army rules and regs, personal messages, and all my service and medical records, I had a lot of books, one of which was a dictionary. “Sorry,” I said. “You’re right. I’m just cranky.”
“Don’t take it out on me,” my partner said.
“I said I’m sorry, Callie.”
“I heard you,” she said.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Want to watch a movie together?” I asked. “Pick anything. I promise not to interrupt.”
“I’m not in the mood,” she said. “Let’s see if Mallsin and Abrel want to play spades.”
“Sure.”
We played cards using our display screens because picking up cards with power-amplified gloves is nearly impossible. Besides, it’s hard to cheat when you’re using a random number generator to deal.
“I was thinking about Pow,” I said while the computer dealt a new hand.
“Yeah,” Abrel said.
We were using a private comm that Callie had set up, one that couldn’t be recorded. Her hacks came in handy for more things than finding ways to manipulate weapons, de-suiting, or adjusting duty rosters.
“Yes,” I said. “It was something I saw while studying the terrain maps. I was reminded of the catrilla’s territory, and hunting moose, and living among free people.”
“You think they’re really free?” Mallsin asked.
“Sure, why not?”
“They don’t have refrigeration, Avery. We lived in a world with no medicine, no communication–”
“Yeah, no shoes,” Callie said.
“We had kind of…sort of shoe-like things,” I objected. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“Says a man,” Mallsin said.
“Exactly,” Callie added. “There’s a lot of things about being a woman in the forest that–”
“Okay, too much detail,” Abrel said. “I think I understand what Avery’s saying. The tribe had violence. We witnessed it. But nothing like massive troop movements, heli-jets, and high explosives.”
“Dead is still dead,” Mallsin said.
“Yeah, okay,” Abrel said. “But nobody was making millions and billions of–”
“Versus,” I said. “Not this again.”
“Versus?” Callie asked. “You’ve gone full native Chemecko now?”
“Well, I never believed in Jesus.”
“So what? Now you don’t believe in Versus?”
“I’m an equal opportunity blasphemer,” I said. “Let’s play cards. Jesus. Quit nit-picking.”
“Sorry, babe. I’m cranky, too.”
“You’re forgiven.”
“Ah…never mind.”
When we finally saw combat, we were more than ready. That sounds bizarre, but don’t let anyone tell you that killing an enemy combatant in a dangerous theater isn’t a thrill after you’ve been stuck in a mechanical cocoon playing cards for a couple of weeks. Dying is obviously terrible, but boredom is a slow death, too. I was anxious to move.
Our platoon leader was a young Earth-born Gurt lieutenant fresh from Purvas named Marvin Gooulling, who’d never seen combat.
It showed.
“Squad leaders,” he said over the all-platoon comm, “I’d like to see you in five.”
We’d already gone over the day’s mission and had stored the meeting notes on our CPUs; if there was any doubt about our responsibilities, all we had to do was open a file. I knew he was nervous, and that hardly inspired our confidence in his decision making. Newbies were usually unwilling to admit to themselves how scared they were; some overanalyzed everything to accommodate their nerves, whereas others became despondent and quiet. The ones who lived were the ones smart enough to hand over all the important calls to their squad leaders.
After the Tetra War had decimated both the Gurt and Ted militaries, to be a squad leader with a rank above sergeant-one meant you were among the most capable soldiers in the history of warfare.
“Squad leaders,” the young lieutenant said once we’d gathered in the makeshift conference room, “today’s mission parameters have changed slightly. I just received an updated report that the Teds have moved a squadron of heli-jets into sector four. Also, they’re likely to have a partial platoon of heavy-armor tanks with support from two mechas of the newer XT design. I think we need to reconsider the line through the sectors. If you’ll open your maps–”
“Sir,” I said, “permission to speak.”
“Okay.”
I knew I had to be diplomatic. Having just graduated from the “latest and greatest” training program on ultramodern warfare techniques, and believing they knew more than their uneducated sergeants, many newbie louies ended up dead. That wouldn’t be so hard for me to swallow, but they always took a handful of unlucky bastards down with them. “I’d like to point out, sir, that ‘day-of’ and even ‘moment-of’ intel is nearly always wrong or, at the very least, misleading.”
“This comes straight from Command,” he said. “It’s based on the most recent battle reports. They used field-supplied screenshots and expert analysis from the intelligence units in orbit.”
I opened the latest update concerning our mission. “Sir, this update I’m looking at now–”
“How did you get that, Sergeant?” he snapped. “It’s classified for line officers only.”
“Sir, excuse me. I’m going to speak frankly and with all due respect.”
“Go ahead,” he said.
“We used a simple crack to get those reports downloaded to the squad leaders. It’s to your benefit. As I said, those reports are usually wrong in that even if the information is correct, it’s out of date by the time they’re issued.”
“You realize, Sergeant Ford,” he said, “this is a punishable offense. You can’t possess those reports unless you’re duly authorized.”
“Sir, understood. And it’s Master Sergeant Specialist Ford, Lieutenant Gooulling, sir.”
“Are you being pedantic with me, Ford?”
Luckily, I’d just studied the dictionary. “Yes, sir,” I said. I figured I had nothing to lose by being honest. “I’m also trying to help you save lives. The reports are helpful only if you can, from years of experience, decipher them. What they don’t report is usually more useful than what they do. You’re going to have to trust your NCOs, sir.”
“Okay, Master Sergeant. I don’t want to have this argument right now. We’re due to load the troop transport in fifteen, and I won’t stand for tardiness. Or insubordination. Or illegally downloading classified battle updates. You need to come see me tonight at twenty hundred. That is all.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
He spent the next ten minutes giving us advice on how to incorporate the new intel into our squad tactics. “Okay, Sergeants, get your teams ready for troop transport. We’re assigned to dock sixteen, bravo slot. We’ve got four minutes. Dismissed.”
I found my squad.
“And?” Abrel asked over our private comm.
“Hold one,” I said, and switched to the all-squad comm. “Our presence is required in slot bravo, dock sixteen, in two minutes. Move your sorry asses! It’s as good a day as any to die young and brave, so make it happen to the other guy. None of you slugs has my permission to fuck up today.”
I switched back to the four-person private comm I’d had Callie set up. “Jesus, this new lieutenant isn’t going to make it to the end of the week. Stay on your toes so he doesn’t take too many of us with him.” As a result of the joint-task-force nature of the battle to come, the Gurts had mixed units from the Errusiako
s and the Rhanskads into our companies. Our squad was much larger than what we’d typically launch into battle – which would probably lead to a lot of needless deaths due to the inevitable confusion that would ensue, but nobody had consulted me.
“So what did the cherry want to discuss a few minutes before we’re scheduled to load up?” Abrel asked.
“Updates.”
“Shit,” Mallsin said.
“I tried to explain, but he’s one of the stubborn ones. Watch what happens in thirty seconds,” I said, predicting the behavior of a dogmatic rule follower.
“He’s not going to take a confirmation roll call…?” Mallsin asked.
“I’d bet a week’s pay on it,” I said.
Over the all-platoon comm, the lieutenant requested a vocal roll call with the company’s motto. The first of our platoon filed into the troop transport and called out their rank and name as they passed him.
“Private Terrison, Lightning Strikes!”
“Private Voolstband, Lightning Strikes!”
“Corporal Hennrison, Lightning Strikes!”
And so it went through the platoon. Then we sat in the transport for three hours waiting to be green-lighted.
Callie’s hack continued to deliver. I wasn’t worried about the lieutenant’s threats to have me punished. The worst that would happen if he managed to get me brought up on misconduct charges would be some extra duty for a week. He, on the other hand, would train-wreck his career. Not that I suspected he would live long enough to have one. I felt a slight amount of sadness for him, but I brushed the sentiment away like a piece of lint on my dress blacks.
Abrel sent me a fresh battlefield pic. “You see this?”
“Yeah, that’s one of those Erru-designed mini-mechas. A cross between an armored suit, a robot, and a heli-jet.”
“And a demon,” Callie said.
“Looks really expensive,” Mallsin said.
“Yeah, and what’s weird is that the Errusiakos sold the damn things to the Teds only a few months ago,” I pointed out.
“Nothing like getting killed by an enemy who’s using your own guns against you,” Callie said.
“I’m sure the profiteers who sold them will cry themselves to sleep tonight.”
