by Mark Rounds
"Well, what happened?" asked Dietz.
"We hit them hard," said Jarl. "Hopefully, they will spend more time chasing phantoms than fighting the boys and girls on the hill. Now let's head back to our positions. There is little more we can do here."
Jarl watched the excitement drain away from his little band. He had realized that they would be able to generate precious little surprise in any future operations. His actions in training had taught him that. To go on raiding the Krasni would only invite defeat. It was better to take them home alive than to attempt another raid with little chance of success. Just then, he heard the sound of armor moving.
"What's that?" ask Dietz.
"That has got to be the Pershing," said Jarl incredulously. "Things on the hill must be getting rough. This changes everything. Let's hustle over to the road. If we get there fast enough, we may still get a side shot on that tank!"
They quickly shed every extra piece of equipment they could to move more quickly through the forest. Jarl rushed his troops through the woods until they stumbled onto the road. They barely had time to take cover when the first half track rumbled by. Dietz was loading his panzer faust even as the heavy Pershing rolled around the corner. The tank came within ten meters of Dietz's position and then passed.
"Damn," thought Jarl as the tank passed. Silently, he cursed himself for leading his unit off without proper preparation. His attention was drawn back to the present when he heard the rocket in the panzer faust ignite.
The projectile covered the few intervening meters in a split second and exploded in the rear of the heavy tank. Secondary explosions from ammunition and simulated fuel stores shook the ground as Jarl tore his eyes away from the spectacle. He grabbed the shoulders of his team members and roughly thrust them into the woods. This would not stop the Krasni long, and when they got moving they would hunt Jarl and his merry little band until that last bell tolled.
Jarl hustled his troops back to the clearing where they had dropped their equipment. They had just collapsed on the ground when a submachine gun opened up from the back of the clearing. Dietz and his two compatriots took rounds in the thighs and abdomen. Jarl was spared because he had been the last to leave the ambush site and had not yet entered the clearing. He saw that his troopers were in pain but not great danger of dying.
He took cover in the nearby brush and lobbed a grenade into the thicket at the rear of the clearing. The explosion was followed by a satisfying scream. Jarl bounded across the clearing and plunged into brush on the other side.
A foot snaked out and tripped Jarl as he rushed forward to take cover. Jarl saw the flash of a knife as his assailant pounced from cover. By the slowness of his approach, Jarl knew the grenade had hurt him.
Jarl rolled to his back and kicked his attacker in the knee as he closed in for the kill. The knee buckled and the Krasni trooper went down. Jarl noticed that this one was smaller and lighter than the norm for the high gravity world of the Krasni, and something about him was familiar.
Jarl drew the P-38 pistol from his holster and pointed it at the Krasni. The enemy trooper slowly looked up. Jarl could see he had several wounds of varying severity from grenade fragments. Something about his face was familiar. Suddenly, it all came into focus. The man facing him was Sergeant Duewekscu!
"Well, well, Lieutenant," said Duewekscu, "we meet again."
"How in the world did you get here?" asked an incredulous Jarl. Even with this shock, the pistol did not waver so much as a millimeter in his hand.
"Put down the weapon, Lieutenant," said a suddenly contrite Duewekscu. "We're not enemies, you and I. It is by a sad twist of fate that I am here at all."
"Like hell it is," said Jarl viciously. "This is an obvious flaunting of the Cannons of the Games. When they catch you, and they will, you’ll be lucky to sweep up after a game."
"Think for a moment, Lieutenant,” said Duewekscu quietly. “The sensors the Refs use are quite good. They know who I am and where I am. They have probably even recorded all the actions leading up to this little conference. Why have they not stopped me before now?"
"I haven't got a clue," said Jarl with a little uncertainty creeping into his voice. "But if that's the case, you won't mind if I hold you here until the end of the game and get this misunderstanding cleared up."
"I can't allow that," said Duewekscu as he threw his knife straight at Jarl's breast bone. Using the momentum of the throw, he lurched to his feet and lunged forward.
Jarl had been waiting for such a move, but speed and suddenness of the attack startled him. All he was able to do was tuck in his shoulder so that he took the knife in the arm and not the chest. Then the renegade Krasni was on him.
Jarl was surprised at the strength in the wiry frame of his adversary. With one hand, he was able to turn away the automatic pistol so that it pointed harmlessly skyward. Jarl instinctively pulled the trigger anyway. The slide opened with the force of the recoil to eject the spent cartridge and chamber the next one. It took most of the skin off of Duewekscu's thumb in the process.
The unexpected pain caused the sergeant to pull his hand away from the weapon. Jarl swung the pistol in a wild arc with all of his strength. The barrel struck Duewekscu's cheek with force enough to shatter the bone underneath. As the Krasni recoiled from the blow, Jarl scrambled to his feet and out of his adversary's reach. Duewekscu began to reach for his knife.
"Stop right there," said a panting Jarl. "Move so much as a hair and I'll plug you."
"Cadet, you don't impress me as someone who would shoot an unarmed man," said the sergeant through broken teeth as he lunged at Jarl.
Jarl fired until his magazine was empty. The first round had been enough.
Chapter XIX
Sokolov began the task of reorganizing his force. He sent jeep patrols to the north and south of his current location to suppress any observation posts. He was surprised that only four infantry troopers were killed on the hill. Another half dozen were wounded, but only one was hurt bad enough to be unable to fight. He got the infantry back into squads and set Ustinov to the task of readjusting those squads so that they were as close to full strength as possible.
He got back to his jeep just in time to hear Monty call for reinforcements. Apparently, he and the headquarters group had been ambushed, not once, but twice.
"Colonel Sokolov," said a panicked Monty, "are you on the air?"
"Here Warlord."
"Cadet forces have been harassing us unmercifully,” said Monty on slightly more under control. “We will need reinforcements to secure the rear area. You will have to postpone your attack until that time."
“Excellency, you have our heaviest armor and a section of armored infantry, not to mention all of the headquarters troops, surely you can deal with them yourself?"
"I regret to inform you," said Monty choosing his words carefully, "That the Pershing tank, the section of infantry, and some of the headquarters staff have become casualties. I have barely enough troopers to drive all our vehicles."
"I'll see what I can do," said a stunned Sokolov. He quickly switched off his radio to keep from having to speak further.
"He has meddled in our affairs for the last time," thought Sokolov in a rage.
He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth in a peculiar fashion. The highly miniaturized transmitter that had been surgically implanted in his jaw switched on. Even bringing this sort of high tech communications gear into a gaming arena was enough to get his team disqualified. Because of the risk, he rarely used this system. The transmitter operated at very low power on an extremely high frequency which he hoped the Refs didn't monitor. Since his set was only a transmitter, he could only hope its limited range would reach its intended listener.
There was only one receiver in the arena that could pick up what Sokolov transmitted. That receiver was implanted in Yosep's inner ear.
“Yosep, are you listening?" mumbled Sokolov. If anyone was recording him, he hoped his sub vocalizations would not
carry past the noise of his vehicle.
"The time of revolution is at hand," he continued. "I repeat, the time of revolution is at hand. Be discrete."
Colonel Sokolov didn't dare say anymore. He could only hope that Yosep would hear and be able to discern his meaning.
#
Yosep did indeed hear the Colonel's transmission. Since the most recent attack, Monty had taken the headquarters unit off the road and set up defensive positions. Their vehicles were in a roughly circular perimeter on a little rise that overlooked the road.
The remaining headquarters staff was manning various weapons mounted on the halftracks and jeeps that were left. Yosep had no trouble slipping from his station at one of the fifty caliber machine guns of the supply section. After their most recent casualties, everyone had to drive something to get all their equipment down the road.
Mindful of the Refs’ sensors, Yosep was carrying no special equipment, merely a fighting knife. For all his bulk, Yosep could move quickly and very quietly when he chose to. He was able to enter Monty's command vehicle without disturbing the Warlord. Monty was poring over a map, trying to pull some form of victory from the jaws of defeat.
He closed the door behind him to obscure any visual sensors. With the canvas cover that Monty had so thoughtfully provided, most of his actions would be screened from view. Now all he had to do was make it sound like the elimination of the old Warlord was an authentic accident.
In this task he was helped enormously by the fact that Monty, in his long career, had made many enemies among the Refs. If he gave them a plausible out, they would be sure to turn a blind eye to whatever really happened.
Yosep grabbed the map the Monty was studying and ripped it out of his hands.
"Just what do you think you’re doing?" said a startled Monty as he turned to face Yosep.
"Apologies, your Excellency," answered Yosep subserviently, "I was merely trying to find the book I was reading. The watch is boring."
"You had thought to read, on duty, during a game?" said an incredulous Monty.
"Warlord, in the past, you have never hazarded combat. I didn't think you would now. I just wanted to pass the time."
"I never hazarded combat? You reject from a ...," Monty's exclamation was cut short by the impact of Yosep's back hand that struck with the force of a sledge hammer.
Yosep's game became crystal clear to the old Warlord. After all, Monty had shared in several scams where they did exactly this same kind of set up on unsuspecting opponents. He also knew that this meant he would not see tomorrow if he didn't act fast. Monty went for the .45 automatic at his hip. Another sledge hammer blow met this attempt, sending Monty sprawling.
"I meant no disrespect, sir," said Yosep in a high whiny voice. "Please, don't shoot me!"
Even though his voice wavered and broke, Yosep's eyes where as hard as diamonds as he closed the distance between the two.
Monty opened his mouth to utter one final plea. That plea died stillborn, for a final pile driver blow knocked him senseless.
Yosep quickly rushed to the Monty's side, though aid for the injured was the furthest thing from his mind. Using the unconscious Warlord's own hand, he drew the pistol from the holster at Monty's side. He quickly fired a couple of rounds into the sides of the halftrack. He made sure the heavy slugs of the forty five hit things they could burrow into rather than ricochet off of. He then closed his eyes and fired a final round into his own thigh, carefully aiming to miss the femoral artery.
The impact of the bullet tore a scream from his stoic lips even though he was prepared for it. With the pain of his wound coursing through his body, he picked up the Warlord and threw him with all his considerable strength at the steel door of the halftrack.
Monty's head struck the door jam and burst the door wide open. The impact caved in the old Warlord's skull like an overripe melon. This one would never come back from the dead. The remaining momentum from Yosep's toss spun the Warlord's lifeless body around so that it flopped out of the door back first.
Yosep artfully dabbed the blood that flowed from his injured leg onto various spots on his uniform, then he too tumbled out the door.
"My God," exclaimed Yosep, the undisguised pain apparent in his voice, "he really shot me."
He staggered forward a little and then fell to the ground. Yosep saw the other remaining members of the headquarters section gather around him in shocked disbelief. One of the logistics technicians broke the spell and began to perform first aid on Yosep's wound.
There was a buzzing sound, as if a very large fly had entered the perimeter. From the sound, it was possible to ascertain that whatever was making the noise had flown around the perimeter several times. The sound finally grew louder and seemed to come from right in front of Yosep. One of the small, mobile probes the Refs used dropped it’s camouflage field and became visible.
"This statement is for the record," said a disembodied voice originating from the probe. "The computer monitoring this sector has detected combat and a death not attributable to the Game. Upon reviewing the recording of the events, several of the Refs for this game decided there is just cause to warrant an investigation. This probe has recorded holographically the current position and condition of all items inside this perimeter."
The voice paused. Apparently, the operator was switching scripts.
"A statement is required for the inquiry," the voice continued. "In your own words trooper, what happened inside that vehicle just now."
"Well, I have been in games with the Warlord before," began an apparently dazed Yosep. "He NEVER goes into combat. I figured we were done after he pulled us up here in this perimeter. I went to the headquarters halftrack to get the book I was reading. He has seen me read before."
"Stay to the question at hand please," interrupted the voice from the probe.
"Uh, right," said Yosep as he tried to focus. "Anyway, I usually keep one in my haversack in case this kind of thing happens. I went to get it. The Warlord became furious with me for even thinking about reading on duty. He slapped me a couple of times.
“Then he drew his pistol and pointed it at me. I screamed at him not to shoot me. He fired a couple of rounds near me. Maybe he meant to scare me, I don't know. Anyway, he got too close. I grabbed him and tried to take the gun away. It went off again and hit me in the leg. I went berserk and tried to toss him out the door. He kind of hit the door jamb with his head on his way out. Then you showed up."
"The recorded images agree with what you have stated," said the voice from the probe after a considerable interval of time. "Since your wound was not inflicted during lawful combat, you have the choice of being evacuated now or continuing the game."
"I'll stay," said Yosep. "There would be no one to command this unit if I left. You could do me one favor though?"
"What is that?"
"Could you inform Colonel Sokolov?" said Yosep plaintively. "He won't be too happy as it is. I don't want him to shoot the messenger, if you know what I mean."
"Certainly," chuckled the voice. "Believe me, there is no cause for concern. This sounds like a case of nerves getting the best of troops in combat. I'll make sure he knows you tried to avoid the incident until you felt your life was threatened. Try not to worry."
The probe powered up its camouflage field and disappeared. Yosep heard the buzz of the probe fade into the distance. Only after it was well away, did he permit himself a small smile.
Chapter XX
Corporal Benning watched intently as the Krasni retreated down the hill. Barb Wilson silently crept up to his hiding place after having returned from her first trip back to the halftrack. The first indication he had of her presence was a gentle tap on the foot. He quickly spun and pointed his MP-38 at her head.
"My, we're touchy today, aren't we?" quipped Barb in a whisper.
"Lady, this is a combat zone," began Benning in his best mother hen tone. "You could very easily have been shot."
"Sad, but true," said Barb with cro
codile tears in her eyes. "Boo hoo, he doesn't love me anymore."
"I give," smiled Benning. "But next time, try something a little more traditional, like a password?"
"Very well sir," she said as she saluted irreverently with the wrong hand.
Together, they watched the rest of the retreat. The Krasni milled around for a bit and then two jeeps streaked off in opposite directions. One headed to the north, away from their position. The other headed south.
At first, the jeep wandered around aimlessly. Then it came right at Benning and Barb's blind.
"Get back to the half-track and wait with Stack," cautioned Benning. "I'll watch here. If anything happens, I'll come back to your position."
"Like fun you will," said Barb. Her tone was all business now. "My job is runner. I'll stay until we have something to say to the boys on the hill."
"Barb, I haven't really pulled rank yet....," said Benning.
"Then don't," interrupted Barb.
"No, you listen," said Benning more forcefully. "I am worried about my own skin. One person can hide better than two. Fall back fifty meters or so and wait there. I can get back to you quick enough if something needs to be reported. But I'll have only one skin to worry about up here, my own."
"Ok," she said resignedly. "It makes sense. I'll be exactly fifty meters directly behind you. Don't do anything stupid."
Before Benning could reply, Barb disappeared into the bush. He watched the jeep get closer and closer until it was a scant five meters away. The Krasni passed, and then stopped. The leader spoke on the radio. He could see now that there were three troopers in the jeep.
Benning couldn't hear what they were saying, but it was apparent they had reached the edge of their patrol zone. They began to get back into the jeep when, all of the sudden, Benning was possessed by an overpowering urge to sneeze. After several eons of trying every trick known to modern man to keep from sneezing, he let go. The subsequent nasal explosion caused all the Krasni to begin looking around.
