by Rolf Nelson
“N-n-no, Sir!”
“And then, THEN, after alllll that, some douchewaffle cannon-jockey gets the brilliant idea to lob shells up at anything passing through, without even the good graces, to, oh, I don’t know, IDENTIFY THE TARGET! Could they grab a com and ask, maybe? Would that be too much to do?” The guard shook his head again. “This so-called battery commander is not only dumb enough to shoot, but lucky enough to score a direct hit with unguided munitions at twenty kilometers against an aerial target, and it’s only by the grace of God and the luckiest pilot in existence that we are not part of that greasy cloud of smoke on the horizon.” Harbin pointed to the still-rising plume in the distance with dramatic effect. “SO, now, you are going to get your commander on the line, and tell him that we are finally here, ready to march.”
“D-d-do what, Sir?” The private’s tone was incredulous.
“March.” The sentry looked at him confused. “To top it all off, do you know what the top-secret orders we have are? You know what almost got us all killed? A parade. We are here to march, MARCH, in some silly-ass founding day parade or some-such. And we are going march in there, wave at the kiddies, make your commander look good, let them all show support for the troops on the cameras. Then we are going to hit the bars, get outrageously drunk, find some willing ladies, and have that furlough.” Harbin’s tightly controlled anger started seeping through into his rising voice. “And if your boss wants to crawl out from his nice, safe little bunker deep underground where the biggest problem is having to use powdered creamer in his coffee and come into town and say otherwise, my boot is going to have a conversation with his ass that will leave birthmarks on his grandchildren!”
Harbin stopped, veins pulsing in his neck, and straightened up, breathed in deeply and exhales slowly, pulling his uniform and gear into proper place, visibly regaining his composure and continuing in a calm and professional voice. “Sorry, son…. It isn’t your fault we’re here. It’s been a rather long week.” He turned stiffly and came to attention, facing the formation, which had been listening silently in awe to his epic rant. “FALL IN! … Left, FACE! … Forward, HARCH!” The men follow his orders perfectly, with the column splitting slightly to go around the sentry, who was gamely standing in the middle of the road, still at port arms, watching as the two files march by him on either side.
Chapter XI
Town
Allonia sat in the bar having a whispered conversation with Roy and Sharon, surrounded by roaring revelry. The banker’s initial fluster at finding out the “party flight” would have five men and only three females that were not obviously attached was gradually put aside as the unattached three all seemed to be interested in him and his work to a much greater degree than he was used to. He spent a lot of time talking to cleavage belonging to the redhead, and the bare midriff of the blonde. Allonia’s nice but more conservative covering and less overtly flirtatious behavior didn’t bother him as she was still around and pleasant most of the flight over and in the rolling party they’d landed in the middle of. The whole town had turned out to party, with a long parade route lined with people, and everyone in town seemed to be in it or lining the streets awaiting it, unless they were in the clubs and restaurants nearby, ready to flood out and cheer. The impending fighting near at hand hadn’t seem to deter the locals in the least, who were dressed up and loud.
“Still drawing a blank. I’ve got no idea how to get word to Dorek and Helton that we’re here. They’d figure out the extraction point is close, but they may not be able to get there. Think we should just slip away and head for it on our own, then come back and find them in Tajemnica if they are not there already?”
“What about that crash? Can we even know they are here?” Sharon asked. The others to give her a look of annoyance, disdaining her pessimism.
“Kaminski’s smart. Once they land, I’m sure they’d go to ground, try to slip to the pickup-point as quiet as possible. He’d know such raw conscripts would have no chance in a real battle.”
“But this is Helton we are talking about.” Now it was Sharon’s turn to be annoyed by a barb. Brother Libra nodded agreement, and his wandering eyes follow a couple of revealingly-dressed young ladies pass, a smile playing on his lips. “Brother!” Allonia said accusingly. “You’re a man of God, why do you have to ogle girls half your age?”
“I may be a monk, but I’m not a dead man, yet. Situational awareness and biology, you understand.” As he continued to scan the room, his gaze fell on one of the many screens covering the parade. On-screen was a formation of soldiers in camo uniforms and field gear marching and doing basic drill maneuvers. One camera showed a close-up of the man calling commands, making Roy arch his eyebrows in surprise. He couldn’t hear the newscaster because of the pub’s noise, but the visage and orders are unmistakable.
“Someone is going to get killed for that.” Allonia looked at him questioningly, then followed his gaze, gasping softly at the sight. “Putting him in conscript cammies doing parade duty is just….” Words fail him.
The screen cut to another camera view, showing the leading rank of four men, Kaminski’s unmistakable bulk in the post position, stepping out properly, turning sharply, eyes forward in best parade ground form. Marching half-step, they execute the double-to-the-left-flank, double-to-the-right-flank, double to-the-rear MARCH! near-perfectly, before resuming a simple forward pace. The strains of the high school marching band behind them changes from playing Souza to Fat Bottomed Girls come out the screen. It also drifted in the open door from down the street. After a brief instrumental lead-in, a strong male chorus of the company joining in with a cadence-version of the song join in, to the enthusiastic shouting and swaying of the onlookers. Allonia’s squee of joy was drowned out in the crowd.
“Apparently, Helton got put in charge of low profile,” the monk said to no one in particular, as he lifted his mug and toasted the screen before finishing it off and following the ladies outside.
When the song came to an end, another Souza march started up. Kaminski spied the other three ahead on the parade route and subtly signaled Harbin.
Seeing them and knowing what all it implied, the First Sergeant smiled genuinely for the first time in days. Two simple maneuvers later was the perfect time. “Mark-time, MARK!” he barked out. “Position-of-kiss-a-lady-in-the-crowd-and-return-to-formationnnn…. MOVE!” he sang out, to much delighted shrieking from the spectators. The formation dissolved in all directions, some men moving boldly, other much more shyly, a few getting waylaid by the ladies, some collecting more than one kiss, several kissing hands of women who seemed to have male accompaniment, others taking full advantage of the moment. Even the previous hesitant Nesbit got a proper buss on the lips from a young lady. Kaminski, a lead figure in the formation, got the full camera view broadcast taking Allonia into his arms and dipping her in a deep, romantic embrace, kissing her firmly. It was much to the delight of the media to have such a photogenic couple, and the crowd cheered on her obviously enthusiastic response.
When they stood back up, she whispered loudly in his ear “Taj on the beach, midnight, twenty kilometers south! Be there!” He scrambled back into formation, a huge grin on his face, and got back into step while Allonia recovers, flushed from the brief but passionate embrace. Maurice the banker, having seen the up-close shots on the screens inside, had rushed out to join them. Seeing Kaminski still right in front of her, he compared himself to the camouflaged and armed giant leading the column in the street. In one of his few wise decisions of recent note, he determined it would be better to not make a scene. Allonia paid him no notice, nor did any of the other females in the crowd, though a few darted envious looks in her direction.
Sharon, scanning the formation, spotted Helton and tried to get to him. He’d kissed a young woman’s hand, with a deep bow and flourish while wearing a devil-may-care grin, and returned to formation before Sharon got back to that end. With a nod and wink he acknowledged his sister, then kept marching with Harbin
’s renewed string of orders.
“Route-step, MARCH!” Kaminski called out, having replaced Harbin at command-bellowing duty. The hard-packed sand of the beach wasn’t easy to walk on, but they’d taken the road as far along the coast as it went, and the low headlands above were rough and rocky. They had paused briefly at the end of the parade to scarf down some hot concession-stand food, refill canteens, hit the toilets, and rest a moment, the unexpected celebrities of the hour. They deferred all questioners to Harbin and Helton, who largely brushed them off with brief but polite non-answers and general platitudes, often citing “operational security” and ambiguous “enemy intelligence” to close down problematic lines of questions. They gave the distinct impression they were taking an unauthorized leave to have a hard-earned, but entirely unofficial, celebration.
In command bunkers and higher offices elsewhere in the system, majors and lieutenant-colonels and admirals were not relaxing or talking to the media as they tried to figure out who just showed up and what in the name of the frozen ninth level of hell was going on. They were in charge, dammit, they HAD to know what was happening, because they made things happen! Nobody having answers that made any sense was deeply unsettling, and the fact that every new piece of data seemed to shed darkons rather than light wasn’t helping anyone’s digestion. Of course, having a major in charge of a handful of conscript scows with an intense interest in figuring everything out before he said anything to the higher-ups, and hedging everything he did say, significantly helped muddy matters. The town was officially off-limits, yet appeared to have enemy troops celebrating and walking through it in a parade, kissing the locals and making a mockery of field duty two hour’s walk away. Everyone thought that someone else had done it. But, because there was no electronic communications with what was being dubbed the Parade Company that could be positively identified or traced, no shots were fired or offensive action that anyone would specifically object to has been seen, or unauthorized weapons identified, the lawyers were tearing their hair out trying to figure out if a breach had occurred, and if so who was responsible.
All in all, it was turning into quite party.
Panic
Lieutenant Colonel Marks paced back and forth in his bunker, and every time he went to take a drink of his coffee the words from the sentry’s report seemed to echo in his ear. He didn’t like powdered creamer. He hated even more not having a clue what was going on. He hated shooting down friendly craft, or even thinking he might have. He hated being made a fool of. The carefully planned media campaign was a shamble, he’d gotten yelled at by higher ups for everything he’d done, things he’d not done, things the enemy had done, and things Parade Company had done. Those in his command were now questioning his decisions. And in spite of a lot of surveillance in town and on the news broadcasts, they’d not been able to pick up a single exposed name tag among them. They were all obscured by gear or straps, and there were no rank insignia or shoulder patches visible on the clearly conscript-patterned uniforms.
The conscript scow was still hot and burning. It was a standard design that was used by dozens of nations and planets that could have been used by anyone, but Brigade telemetry said they were sure it was a part of a formation of four that were expected two hours later across the river, only three of which showed up. Of course, his opposite number was swearing up and down it wasn’t theirs. It normally would have been easy to know, but the ionosphere was still totally hosed up from a multi-national barrage of air-burst nukes that were having lingering effects, messing with communications, GPS, and all passive electronics as well as most active surveillance systems. Drones were not allowed in the district, and the news flights had been charmed by Parade Company into covering other things. The latest word from Admiral Stark, comfortable light hours away, was blistering.
A knock on the door brought his mind back into the room. The sentry was let in to stand before him at attention. “At ease….” He returned the salute, then did what he could to make the very nervous young man relax a bit, to allow him to recall as much as possible of the encounter. As the private worked his way through the encounter and his thoughts, the officer did his best to not interrupt, to pound the table and demand what were you thinking letting them pass like that?! He hoped to hear something new when listening first hand, in person, watching body language and facial expression, and hearing the subtleties of tone. Near the end of the recounting, he suddenly held up his hand to the private.
“Say that again,” he ordered intently.
“He asked if it looked like the right name to me. I didn’t think Unknown was a proper name, so I shook my head.”
“So you saw his nametape?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I understood it as his name was unknown?”
“It is, sir. Well, it wasn’t apparently, sir.” Marks raised an eyebrow in confusion, asking for clarification. “He pulled his gear aside, so I could read it. It said Unknown M 12/19 V, I think, sir.”
“The man’s name tape actually read - it had the word - Unknown?” The private nodded. “Are you sure about the unit designation?”
“Not one hundred percent, Sir, but mostly.”
Leaning back in his chair, the Lieutenant Colonel stroked his chin thoughtfully. A standard-format name tape, with a unit designation even, that read UNKNOWN was an entirely different thing than a merely unknown name. Finally, a piece of specific intel he could try to track down, and try to match with the images of Parade Company. It might take a while, but at least it was actionable. He reached for his coffee, looked down into its cold, muddy gray-brown color, made synthetic and even more bitter from the powdered creamer, then set it back down on his desk.
“Parade” company dug in a perimeter in the dark. The moon wasn’t up yet, and they had made good time in reaching the coast opposite the nearest island, barely visible as a black blot on a dark horizon. The sea breeze was fresh and cool, but the company, not very physically fit to start with, was exhausted from a much longer, faster march than most of them had ever done. Though spirits were generally high, hamstrings were screaming, feet were blistered, backs ached, and the last thing they wanted to do was dig foxholes, but the veterans prodded them into setting up something like a proper defense and guards while every other man dug at least a shallow pit and berm to hunker behind before switching roles. None of them knew how soon Taj would show up, though Allonia had said midnight, no com and no direct word made that time uncertain, and none of the three that knew her wanted to share any of their fears.
The piece of shoreline they picked had a steep but climbable bluff leading up to a low hill, with a gently curving beach westward toward town, and a small cove to the east. Harbin established the perimeter in a wide semi-circle around the hill, with pairs or trios stationed at intervals depending on the skill of the men and the specifics of the terrain, with several positions further back, three positions just below the military crest of the hill, and two pairs positioned on the beach anchoring the ends. In spite of their reluctance to start, by demonstrating proper industry in the sandy soil he encouraged them to dig substantial defensive arrangements, making respectable progress in a relatively little time. Kaminski made sure they had the idea of fields of interlocking fire, fallback positions, and cover versus concealment. It might not be impressive, but they hoped it would be enough.
Colonel Fischer, CRSN (ret), walked into his away-office wearing hip waders. Not the sort he metaphorically wore around politicians and most of the REMFs he worked with, but the kind he used fishing in the biggest king salmon run he’d ever seen on Delta Continent. The secure screens and com link to his cabin on the river delta were nothing special, and even less special with a fouled up ionosphere slowing bandwidth substantially, but it did allow him to get away from time to time from the normal rat-molesting and political games of the capitol. The last few weeks had been especially bad from all the trojans and computer bugs that had royally screwed things up when Tajemnica arrived. But with her nuked into ob
livion, the repair work was proceeding well enough, though slowly and incrementally; he’d been able to get away and let them repair the damage without him.
Now, this. Highest priority, absolutely MUST respond right now! They said. They nearly always said that, though.
Some days, he really hated wireless communication. Next time he’s require they use human couriers, or maybe carrier pigeons.
He flopped in his chair, still wearing his wide-brimmed hat and tackle vest, palmed the ID pad, and answered the insistent incoming call signal. “The Colonel-Man is here! Talk to me, Big Mama!”
The diminutive blonde on the screen, Lieutenant Seven, shot him a dirty look, with her image jerky and pixilated from the poor transmission. “I really wish you would not call me that.”
“I’d rather you not call me at all, so I guess we’re even. What’s the apocalypse?” He punched an icon for voice only and the image froze while he leaned over and tossed a new teabag into his cup and set it under the hot water dispenser and listened to her give a brief recounting of the situation.
