Soldiers

by John Dalmas

  "They muster each morning at 0911 hours to begin cutting." He gestured at his science officer. "Major Pelletier suggests the lateness is to let the sun dry the dew off the grain before they start cutting it. At 1308 they take a fifty-minute meal break, then return to the field and work until 1722. After another meal, most of them work until 2107."

  Pak looked his people over. "That's a long day, and the work is clearly hard labor. They should sleep heavily."

  He paused. "You're all aware that there are three different Wyzhnyny physical types, one larger, with blue fur, another reddish-brown and not so large, and a smaller, dun-colored type." The blues were few, and apparently high-ranking, while the reds seemed to be elite troops. Though experience showed reds in formations of the duns, perhaps as officers.

  He went on. "Major Naguib says he hasn't spotted any blues with the harvest crews, but he can distinguish both reds and duns down there. They're on separate work crews. There are somewhat fewer reds, and they don't work after supper. It's been asked why elite troops would be assigned to a harvest crew. They don't appear to be a punishment detail; their hours are shorter, and their work supervisors go unarmed. They may simply be undergoing reconditioning, after wounds or other injuries, or illness.

  "I told War House about this last night, and this morning they told me they want six prisoners of each type. That may complicate collection, but there are plenty of both kinds available, so it shouldn't be a serious problem."

  Actually Pak didn't like it; his audience read it in his face. The mission didn't need added complications. "Any questions so far?" he asked. "Comments? All right, let's look at the action plan…"

  ***

  Jerrie troops were excellent squatters, as Jerrie farmers had been, when there were Jerrie farmers. Their legs were thick and strong, the knees and muscles limber and enduring. And at Forest Base there were no benches, so 2nd Platoon squatted a lot. Squatted during occasional field lectures and while yakking on breaks. Just now they squatted for a talk from their ensign.

  With replacements drawn from other companies, 2nd Platoon was back at full strength, the only full-strength platoon in B Company. Nearly half of them were unfamiliar to Esau Wesley, who stood, not squatted, in front to one side, facing them. His hands were no longer bandaged. The new skin on his palms was bright pink.

  "You may wonder why 2nd Platoon has been brought to full strength," said now-Ensign Hawkins, "when the rest of B Company is so shorthanded. And you new men may wonder why you were pulled out of your old companies. Last evening, Division gave us their reasons, to share with you.

  "But first I want to introduce someone to the new people." He gestured at Esau. "Staff Sergeant Esau Wesley has replaced me as your platoon sergeant."

  Esau colored visibly. It occurred to him he didn't look like a platoon sergeant. B Company's senior noncoms were of every human pigmentation, but all of them, the survivors and the dead-were or had been tall. At least taller than his own five-eight. He nodded acknowledgement of the introduction, telling himself the Sikhs had chosen him for the job. That should be enough for anyone. And it was a job he'd wanted from the beginning, though he hadn't envisioned someone dying to make it available.

  "Esau's here to meet you, and to hear what I'm about to say," Hawkins went on. "Then he's going back to rehab. He'll be with us for good in two or three days. For you newcomers, Sergeant Esau got his job the hard way. He excelled throughout training, was my senior squad leader… and… at the tank park he took out the southwest flak tower single-handed. With covering fire from Corporal Jael Wesley and an unidentified trooper from another platoon. He climbed a rope ninety feet under fire, threw a phosphorous grenade in the firing port to suppress defense, and then, to make sure the guns would be out of service when our floaters arrived, he opened the turret door and threw in a thirty-pound satchel charge he'd carried up the rope on his back. Then he came back down." Hawkins grinned. "Fast, because he was being shot at. Left the skin from his palms and fingers on the rope, when he gripped it to keep from splattering on the concrete ground slab. It's hard to imagine anyone tough enough to do that on purpose. Great job, Sergeant."

  Hawkins paused. He'd learned delivery by watching and listening to Captain Mulvaney, unconsciously adding a dash of theatrics. "Now," he said, "down to business. 2nd Platoon has a new mission; that's why it was brought to full strength. You'll get a complete briefing on it after lunch, from the division briefing officer. I'm just giving you an introduction."

  He looked his troops over. "Back at Stenders, airborne platoons were trained for a special mission, one we've had in the back of our minds ever since. General Pak has chosen 2nd Platoon, B Company to lead a company-strength jump force to take Wyzhnyny prisoners. The other platoons will be from C, D, and E Companies."

  Hawkins didn't tell them the general's staff had had misgivings. B Company, it was pointed out, was by far the most shot-up in the division, and if brought to strength, 2nd Platoon would be half replacements. It would "lack unit cohesion." But he did tell them the general's reasons. It was the only airborne-qualified platoon with experience in raiding deep inside Wyz Country. The only platoon with combat experience in the desperate, helter-skelter situations that historically too often developed in airborne operations. Murphy's Law in action. Every replacement assigned to Hawkins' platoon was airborne qualified, while its veterans had distinguished themselves in the chaos, and extreme and immediate danger, of the Tank Park Raid.

  "It's not that other platoons couldn't lead," Hawkins went on. "They could. But the entire force can feel more confident because of B Company's performance at the tank park.

  "And there's a third reason. The general wants B Company's CO, Captain Zenawi, to command the raid, even though he's the newest company commander in the division.

  "So you see the confidence the general has in him and in us."

  B Company's veterans already knew, via the rumor line, how Zenawi, as Bremer's subordinate, had prevented B Company's extermination. And been awarded captain's bars to go with his new mission. Captain Mulvaney would never be replaced in their minds and hearts, but the troops liked what they knew of Zenawi, and his platoon swore by him.

  "And that's it for now," Hawkins finished. "You'll learn the rest of it later, from Division's briefing officer."

  He converted then from Hawkins the seasoned older brother, to Hawkins their commanding officer. "2nd Platoon!" he barked, "fall in!"

  2nd Platoon got to its feet and formed ranks. There was no opportunity now to talk about it, but the excitement they felt as they trotted to the log yard had a definite mixture of nervous tension.

  The general had had an additional reason for deciding on Zenawi as mission commander. He'd been impressed by reports, but before deciding, had called him in and asked how he'd prepare his diverse platoons, if he was in command. Zenawi's off-the-cuff reply had clinched the job.

  ***

  Their real briefing came after lunch, from Major Naguib, Division's intelligence chief who often doubled as briefing officer. He showed them shots of the orchard. One of the Jerries commented that it looked like a "pecan" orchard, referring to a native species of nut trees. Afterward, all four platoons moved their gear from their own company areas to a new, temporary area with its own mess tent. For the two weeks of mission training, they'd live together, eat together, and train together. And play flag together in mixed teams.

  ***

  For six days they trained on sand tables-squares laid out on the ground and covered with sand. Each platoon had its own table, each with a simulated orchard. Woody fruit stalks, from what the Jerries called "cedars," served as trees. Among the trees, numerous plastic cutouts simulated squad tents and latrines. Two larger cutouts were mess tents. In the center of the orchard was a small plastic box representing the command center, and at a little distance, off two diagonal corners, smaller boxes simulated flakwagons. Wooden pegs represented Jerrie troopers; each trooper was given his own peg, and wrote his service number on it.
Everyone and every squad drilled their own roles.

  Each platoon was labeled with its company designation: B, C, D or E.

  When they'd drilled the mission to the satisfaction of their platoon leaders and squad leaders, Captain Zenawi threw in complications: troopers not reaching the drop zone, or the premature discovery of one squad or another. Or Esau being unable to fly the unfamiliar Wyzhnyny floater.

  On the very first day, Esau had asked three very basic questions: "How will we know how to fly their floater, and drive their flakwagons, and fire their flak guns?"

  Grinning, Zenawi explained. "Indi ordnance specialists flew to the howitzer cemetery almost before the hulls cooled. With salvage vehicles, and orders to bring in a howitzer and a flakwagon in the best shape they could find. They brought in three flakwagons, and cannibalized them to cobble together one that works. So you'll all get a chance to start it, and drive it a bit." The faces he looked at were very interested. "They also brought in two power drums that were only partly expended, so those who need to will get to fire a trasher."

  Back on Luneburger's they'd been quickied on driving light AG ground vehicles, and had loved it. Now the idea of driving a flakwagon, perhaps even firing its heavy weapons, really brightened their eyes. Most of them, he reminded himself, were in their late teens and early twenties. "As for the floater," he went on, "Sergeant Esau, you'll have to settle for learning to fly one of ours, you and your squad. An instructor will talk to you about some of the possible control differences you may encounter in a Wyzhnyny machine. Then it will be up to you to fly it if you can."

  For despite his promotion to platoon sergeant, in this raid Esau would wear another hat. He was regarded as the best stealth man in B Company, so he'd been assigned the most critical single job on the raid: to steal the Wyzhnyny command center.

  And as 4th Squad's sergeant-they had a 4th Squad again-Jael had one of the next two most critical jobs.

  ***

  The next week they went over it all again, this time on a full-scale mock-up, with themselves in the action roles. Themselves and F Company, which played the Wyzhnyny much more effectively than calves had. In the struggles, lips were inevitably split, eyes blackened, noses bloodied. But when wrists and ankles had been securely taped, the captives were dragged from the orchard no more roughly than necessary, to be loaded onto genuine cargo floaters. The injuries were minor, and gave the medics something real to do. They also "treated," and transferred to medivacs, jumpers designated as casualties by umpires from Division. After the second day they ran their drills at night, for realism, and slept late in the morning.

  When each drill was over, the casualties were declared whole and sound again, the enemy ordained human, and they all attended a critique of the exercise by the Division referee and Captain Zenawi.

  The mock-up had been prepared in advance by a company of Burger engineers, on a prairie area 380 miles from base. To serve as the orchard, they'd planted rows of stout, ten-foot posts at appropriate intervals. Among the posts they pitched actual squad tents in which the troops would live that week, along with two mess tents and canopied latrine pits. They also installed the two inoperable, partly stripped Wyzhnyny flakwagons.

  By the end of the second week, everyone had familiarized themselves with the operational third flakwagon, and dry-fired its light, four-barrelled trasher. Each member of 4th Squad had manuevered it around and live-fired its trasher.

  Esau and his team had each flown a floater, with a certified pilot beside him. And, on each subsequent day a new floater was brought, each with the control system differently rigged, for them to figure out if they could. Only once did the Indi floater tech have to solve a problem for them.

  And every raider became proficient with the short bola-a tough, slender, thirty-nine-inch cord with weights on both ends. Properly thrown, they tangled the legs of rustled Wyzhnyny livestock. Coupled with a quick, aggressive, three-man follow-up, and tough plastic tape, the bola would hopefully serve in lieu of stunners.

  On the last night at the prairie bivouac, Esau and Jael walked out of camp beneath a richness of stars that both beggared and lifted the soul. The Candle had set, and the Lamp wouldn't rise till near dawn. Esau had carried a poncho and an insect repellent field generator, and they'd gone to a cedar grove, to make love in the privacy of its deeper darkness.

  Afterward they walked slowly back to camp, holding hands.

  "Do you recall," Esau said, "what I asked you after the Tank Park Raid?"

  She didn't answer at once. Not as if she didn't remember, but as if she was thinking about it. "I remember," she murmured at last.

  "What do you think?"

  Again her answer lagged, then finally she told him. "I'm still against it, for me. But if you want to, I won't complain or say you shouldn't, because in most ways, to sign up is a good thing."

  His only reply was a nod, and after a moment she spoke again. "I read something when I was a child, in Elder Hofer's Contemplations on the Testaments. Even then it struck me as right, and I've reread it since. `Beware what you set your mind on, lest you thereby create it in the world of phenomena.' He was writing about wishing ill on people you don't like, and the debt it might create for you in the eyes of God. But it seemed to me the meaning went beyond that.

  "And I'm afraid if I sign a bot agreement, I might bring harm on myself, and maybe those around me, in order to fulfill it."

  Esau frowned. He didn't find it convincing, but again said nothing. After a minute they made out the darkness of tents beneath the stars. "But if you want to," Jael repeated softly, "I won't say you shouldn't. Because… because I may be worrying about nothing."

  He turned, gripped her shoulders. "I'll let be," he said, "for now at least. And if I change my mind, I'll tell you before I sign."

  "Thank you, Esau," she said, and reaching up, pulled his face down and kissed him. "You're a good husband, a good person, and I love you dearly."

  ***

  Two nights later, at 2350 hours, the Candle was well down, and high thin clouds screened the stars. Esau was planing in from the north, navigating by his HUDs. Now, by night vision, he could see the orchard itself.

  What he didn't see were the sparks and vivid flashes far above.

  As he drew nearer, he watched for the edge of the uncut grain. It wouldn't do to overshoot it. His night vision showed the standing crop darker than the stubble field. Ensign Hawkins had explained it-something about dew and "evaporative cooling"-but it hadn't meant anything to Esau. He could also make out the broad path a crew had trod through the stubble, and steered so he'd land near it, but in the uncut crop. He could see two others who'd landed ahead of him. They were stuffing gear.

  His encased blaster and stuffbag dangled on a line below his feet. The ground leaped upward, the 1.42 gees of gravity jarring him even as he rolled. Then he knelt and looked around. He was, he decided, about three hundred yards from the orchard. Looking back he saw two more jumpers incoming. Their chutes and thermal coveralls were black, but by night vision the coveralls shone faintly golden, barely perceptible.

  After pulling in his blaster, stuffbag and chute, he shucked out of his coverall, removed his musette bag and gear, and stuffed chute and blaster case into the stuffbag. It took seconds. By then two more troopers were on the ground. Another was coming in fast, and still another was in sight.

  He called up a time readout; keeping on schedule was more important than having the full team. "Bag your gear," he murmured into his helmet mike, "and be ready to move. And keep low." The ripe grain was pale. Their black night-fatigues would be conspicuous against it. Dismissing the no-show from his mind, he murmured, "I'm moving out. Keep twenty-yard intervals crossing the stubble." After two weeks of rehearsal they knew what to do, but reminders were standard.

  He straightened just enough to locate the path through the stubble field again, then moved through the crop on all fours. Thirty yards brought him to the stubble's edge, where he paused, prone. The footpath didn't
reach the uncut crop. He had twenty yards to go through pale stubble eight to ten inches high. There was no way to avoid it. Leaving his bulky stuffbag just within the crop, he began creeping, pulling with his elbows, pushing with his feet, blaster cradled on his forearms. Then he reached the footpath, where Wyzhnyny feet had scuffed and trod the stubble down, baring dark earth.

  Once more he paused, scanning for a sentry along the orchard's edge, a sentry on four legs, with a muscular torso rising from the shoulders like a short-furred neck with arms. When he'd finished his scan, his night vision had found just one. The Wyzhnyny stood unmoving, perhaps forty yards left of where the path led.

  The sonofabitch could be looking at me right now, Esau thought. If I was him, I'd let me crawl closer, wait till I was almost there. Meanwhile, all he could do was keep crawling and watching, and if the Wyz raised his blaster, pot him first.

  That was the first serious complication the captain had thrown into the drills: premature firing. If it happened, he'd have to change his team mission, and speed things up as much as possible. Until then, slow and easy were the key words.

  Before he reached the orchard, he could see the sentry's head hanging. The sonofabitch was dozing on his feet! That was bound to be a bigger problem with four-legged sentries than with two.

  Within the orchard's edge, Esau rose, moved ten yards to his right, then knelt waiting by a tree while Morris and Avery crossed, and spaced themselves. Only then did Esau start slowly through the orchard, threading his way among tents, avoiding tent ropes. He heard no sound, not even a Wyzhnyny snore.

  The control center, if that's what it actually was, sat in the middle of the orchard. Timbers had been set as a foundation, keeping the chassis twenty inches or so above the ground. No tents stood within ten yards. Its door was closed, but light shone weakly through the windscreen. There was no sentry. When Morris and Avery had reached the small opening and stopped, Esau lowered himself and crept slowly to the floater, belly to the ground. The floater was light-enough green, he didn't want his two-legged form outlined against it. When he reached the door, he looked around, then rose to one knee, slung his blaster, drew his stunner, and tried the external latch. It seemed to work like those on Terran floaters. Within the orchard there was no discernible breeze. Very slowly, very carefully, he opened the door half an inch. Dull light emerged. Quickly he stood, pulled it wide and stepped in.