Read Come and Take Them-eARC Online
Authors: Tom Kratman
Tags: #Military, #Science Fiction, #General, #Action & Adventure, #Fiction
“They can smell us…”
The class broke into laughter. A couple of students muttered, none too softly, “They can smell
you
.”
“No, really,” the soldier continued. “They can drop sensors that pick up the smell of shit or urine, probably even our body odor. They can also pick up the smell of explosives, diesel fumes and smoke. I don’t know about food cooking, though.”
“Neither do I,” Saenz said. “But it
is
possible. Next.”
“Magnetic. Like Rudolfo said, our weapons are steel, also much of the ammunition. It is possible to pick up the magnetism from those and, based on intensity, figure out what is hidden from view; or at least if it is worth it to bomb the source.”
“Good.” Saenz’s finger moved. “Another.”
“They can drop seismic detectors that will pick up on the vibrations in the earth from passing vehicles, or even feet.”
“Yes,” Saenz agreed, then added, “and
anything
we do actively, show ourselves, use lights, use the radio,
turn on a fucking truck or car engine
…even some kinds of field telephones; that can all be picked up and analyzed by folks that are smart and well trained to do so.
“But we’re not helpless, boys.”
Saenz raised a hand to indicate he had no more questions. “Follow me out to the trucks,” he ordered.
The class stood and shuffled through the twin screen doors at the rear of the classroom shed. Outside, they loaded the three-ton trucks, men being boosted from below and pulled up by those already mounted. Once loaded, they were driven out into the interior of the island, to a spot north of the main impact area. It was a bone wrenching journey that took almost an hour. When the trucks came to a stop, Saenz, who had driven himself, was already on the ground waiting for the students.
The instructor motioned for the troops to take seats on the ground in a semicircle around him. He raised a finger to his lips. “Boys, you can never…and I mean never, divulge what I am about to show you or tell you. It is simply this. Any remote sensing system can be defeated on its own, any of them. The trouble is that they are never used singly. Put camouflage overhead, they will pick up your heat signature. Hide your heat signature by digging deep, the ground penetrating radar will find your holes or tunnels. Put up a radar defeating screen and they’ll bomb the screen out of existence and then bomb you.
“And better than half the effort you use has to be to make the enemy think there is a better target elsewhere. Put out a dummy tank. When the engine doesn’t get hot every day they’ll know it’s a fake. Even if you light a reasonable fire under the dummy it won’t have the magnetic signature of a real tank, so it will be ignored. And there is only so far down you can dig a tank in and still be able to get it up again quickly.”
“Now, single file. Follow me.” The centurion led the troops through the jungle and into a tunnel. The boys stumbled along into the ever increasing gloom. After several minutes they passed through a double cloth barrier and came to an opening. The centurion flicked on a light switch when the barrier finally closed behind the last of the troops. They saw an Ocelot, an infantry fighting vehicle that the legion typically used as a light tank, in the opening. The roof was concrete, the walls dirt, except for one that was thick steel, with hinges on the sides and a part in the middle. Several other tunnels led off in different directions.
“This,” said a solemn Saenz, “is how we defeat remote sensing. And it isn’t easy or cheap. Although it is cheaper than the sensing systems themselves. This tank, with a combat load, weighs about seventeen tons. If you follow those tunnels you will come to six other bunkers just like this one. In each bunker is a large pile of metal, steel and iron, of roughly seventeen tons weight, cost about two thousand, one hundred drachma. The magnetism detectors
can’t
tell the difference between the piles of scrap and the real tank. So much for magnetism. We are also working on the practicalities of using magnetized scrap to cut down on the cost.”
Saenz pointed overhead. “The roof of this bunker is made of concrete. So much you can see for yourselves. What you can’t see is that chicken wire was put in with the concrete when it was poured. Also for all the other
dummy
bunkers. Ground penetrating radar only operates well at certain frequencies. The chicken wire’s gauge is set to disrupt those frequencies. Thus the radar can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t. So much for GPR.”
“What about GPR when we’re in the open or under the jungle’s canopy?” asked one of the students.
“Good question,” Saenz said. “It’s not due to be covered yet but, what the hell. We’ve got some hundreds of tons of metallic strips cut to the right lengths—actually, twice the right lengths, and varying for different possible frequencies—we’ll drop from helicopters onto the jungle roof over
wide
stretches. We hired a foreign oil exploration team to test it with aerially mounted GPR. They couldn’t see through the shit.”
Picking up a length of flexible hose, Saenz fitted it to the tank’s exhaust. He pointed to six plastic pipes near the wall and sticking up from the bunker’s dirt floor. “This hose connects to those pipes. The pipes connect to one of the dummy bunkers, each one to a different bunker. You can switch from one to the other by moving the hose’s connection. So much for sniffing diesel. It also tends to send the heat elsewhere.
“Of course, when you run the engine for very long it tends to get
very
hot. The flyboys will pick up on that in a heartbeat. So you avoid running it for long if you can, and if you can’t you do this.” The instructor walked over and pulled aside a canvas curtain. Behind the curtain was an alcove. In the alcove were sheets of four-inch thick polyurethane. He directed the students to take the sheets of polyurethane. He then showed them how to place them along the concrete ceiling. “That’s about the best heat insulator in the world, Boys. Before you run the engine you cover the tank with this stuff and no heat escapes…or so little, anyway, that you won’t be picked up.”
Saenz pointed to another hose. “That hose leads to a water tank that is filled off the island drainage system. After you run the tank a while you can cool it off with water. So much for infrared. Now come with me.” He led the way through one of the smaller tunnels. More gloom. At length they broke into another bunker just like the first except that there was no tank and the polyurethane panels were already in place on the ceiling. In the tank’s place was a roughly rectangular pile of scrap steel, most of it in small pieces. There was also a fifty-five gallon fuel drum and what looked like an explosive charge.
The instructor flicked another light switch. “Let’s not deny the enemy his fun. We want him to feel he’s doing well. He might bomb the whole complex, all seven bunkers, at a cost of some millions of drachmas in guided bombs. More likely, he’ll go after them one at a time until he strikes pay dirt. How will he know? Why he’ll know by the secondary explosions from cans and charges like that one over there,” Saenz pointed at the fuel drum.
Turning away, the warrant pushed open the wide doors at one end of the bunker. “Of course he can still sniff you. But that’s not hard to fool either. C’mon.”
The students walked out into the jungle smothered light. “What can they smell?” asked the instructor rhetorically. “They smell
you,
you nasty buggers.” He pointed at various metal buckets and gourds on the ground and hanging from the trees. “So you save your piss and shit in buckets or gourds and you hang the buckets from the trees…those in your area and those some distance away. Likewise your filthy socks and sweaty uniforms. There are still two more things we must defeat.” The instructor led the way down from the bunker to its base. There he lifted a small tarp. The boys all laughed.
Beneath the tarp, standing on a metal pole stuck into the earth was a little wooden man with a little wooden hammer. Saenz spun a tiny windmill and the hammer rose and fell, rose and fell.
“That’s one technique. We have others that run from rainfall. Some solar powered, some battery. Some are on the main power grid for the island. So much for seismic detection.
“Can anyone tell me what’s left?”
“Aerial photographs, sir?”
“Right.” Saenz pointed straight up again at the jungle canopy overhead. “But not through that shit. And we can play a shell game, too. Say the enemy hits a bunker. We can…maybe…it
is
risky…move the tank to the bunker that was hit, then move the scrap metal by hand to take the tank’s place. Remember…sensors are probably not looking at you all the time. You will never have every kind of sensor looking at you all the time. And the more sensors you have looking at you, the better the odds that the enemy won’t have the trained people on hand to interpret what they’re looking at.
“One caveat…the signature you
don’t
have tells the enemy a lot about you, too. If they see something one way, and if we’ve defeated all the other ways they could have seen that something with, they may well blast it, just in case. Same if there are unique types of targets. So you must, must,
must
make things look as similar as possible, and have as many of them as possible.
“Ten minute break. Next we look at a heavy mortar position.”
Before the boys separated for their break, one asked, “Mr. Saenz? Ah, how much does this cost?”
The centurion rubbed his chin as he pretended to think. “Let’s see…about twenty-five hundred drachma for seven concrete roofs, maybe fourteen thousand for the scrap metal. For nine hundred meters of narrow tunnel…about twelve hundred…nine hundred meters flexible hose…about four hundred drachma. Polyurethane…maybe another four hundred. Labor is a couple thousand more. It would be worse but we use convict labor for a lot of it. Steel doors cost a bit over a thousand as well. Call it about nineteen to twenty-two thousand, depending on where we build. For a bigger tank, a Jaguar, say, it can be about twice that.”
The warrant smiled wickedly. “Although, since it can cost anywhere from ten thousand to a half million drachma to make and deliver a bomb good enough to have a fifty percent chance of taking out whatever is in
one
of these bunkers, it’s a small price to pay. I’ll give you an example: If someone used…oh say,
fire and forget
missiles to attack this complex, and say they had to use…mmm…nine or so of ’em to make sure, the missiles themselves would cost about six hundred thousand drachma. Wear and tear on the aircraft might be almost as high, depending on what kind of fight we put up from the ground. And they still would probably not know if they got one tank…or seven tanks…or if they really got anything at all. Now go take your break.”
The boy hesitated with a final question. “Oh, go ahead, son.”
“Sir…can’t they forget about guided bombs and just flatten the island?”
Saenz’s wicked smile grew broader still. “Not, really, son, no. Contemplate this: how many sorties did the coalition assembled by the Federated States fly every day in the war in Sumer?”
The boy frowned, trying to remember. Perhaps a little doubtfully he said, “About two thousand, seven hundred, I think I read.”
“About. No one’s saying for sure but that is a close figure. And they flew for about fifty days, right? So call it a hundred and forty or fifty thousand sorties. How many thousands of tons of bombs was that?”
The student did some figuring.
At about six or seven tons per sortie…call it…
“Nine hundred thousand tons, sir?”
“Decent kitchen math,” Saenz said, “but you’re off by a factor of ten. The coalition dropped maybe ninety thousand tons, call it three hundred thousand bombs…or a bit more. Most of even the combat sorties carried nothing like their theoretical load of bombs. And a huge percent were for refueling other aircraft. Then, too, command and control took up a bunch. Ninety thousand tons of unguided bombs
might
inflict ten or perhaps twenty percent casualties on this island, though probably not so many. Guided bombs would improve that. Although, for reasons you don’t need to know about, it wouldn’t improve it by all that much. But even if it did it would surely not be enough to make
us
quit. If that were all that had to be bombed, if even the
Federated States
could send that many sorties today. Which I doubt. And even if they could and did…what do you think that kind of bombing would do to the island? It would chew up the surface so bad that offensive movement would become as hard as it was in Sachsen and Gaul during the early years of the Great Global War. It would be nothing but mud interspersed with muddy water. Oh, and disease-carrying bugs, too, of course.”
Part II
Chapter Eleven
Peace is
not
our profession.
—Sign over the door of Number 2 Maniple (Second Cohort, full mobilization), 2nd Infantry Tercio, 2nd Legion,
Legion del Cid
Intel Office, Tauran Union Security Force-Balboa, Building 59, Fort Muddville, Balboa Transitway Area, Terra Nova
Jan Campbell counted herself doubly blessed. Not only had the planned round of provocations of the Balboans not begun yet, but for some unaccountable reason none of the Gauls had wanted to escort her. Thus, she had her old friend and comrade, Sergeant Major Hendryksen for driver and escort. Of course, driving a captain around was pretty much beneath a sergeant major. Spying, however, was not.
Her invitation had had a number to call. Somehow, she hadn’t been surprised when it rang in the
Estado Mayor
, and in Carrera’s office, no less. Not that the enemy commander had answered himself, of course, but a couple of questions had made it clear enough that one of his aides de camp
had.
She called on a speaker phone so Hendryksen could listen in.
“Tribune Santillana,” the answerer had announced. “
Officina del Duque.
”
It was an odd rank, to Campbell’s ear. Worse, she didn’t speak much Spanish. Still…“Tribune, this is Captain Campbell, Army of Anglia seconded to the Tauran Union Security Force…”
The tribune switched to not badly accented English without missing a beat. Indeed, his English would probably have been more easily understandable to someone not from Campbell’s own country than her English was.
“Yes, Captain,” the tribune said, “Legate Fernandez advised me you would probably be calling and
Duque
Carrera approved. How can I help you? I know you’ve been invited to observe training.”
Jan breathed a minor sigh of relief. She
hated
speaking or trying to speak in a language she wasn’t totally fluent in.
“What do I do from here?” she asked. “The instructions gave…well…not a lot of detail.”
“I haven’t seen them,” Santillana said. “We’re not that great administratively, frankly. All I had was nothing more than the bare word that you were invited, that you had a choice of units, and that you were to be shown every courtesy consistent with not letting a no doubt clever girl like yourself see too much.”
That last was said with half a laugh and got a full one in return from Campbell.
“So what would you like to see?”
Infantry,
Hendryksen mouthed. “Infantry,” Campbell repeated.
“Okay,” said Santillana, “Second Maniple, Second Tercio, Second Legion is about to do a full mobilization as Second Cohort, Second Tercio. They’re pretty representative. Honestly, personal opinion, they’re a little better than most, but still nobody too special or elite. Will that do?”
At Hendryksen’s exaggerated nod, Campbell said, “Splendidly.”
“Very good,” said the tribune. “If you will be so kind as to meet me at the main gate of Fort Guerrero at, let’s say, nine tomorrow morning?”
“Done,” said Campbell. “And thank you, Tribune.”
After she’d broken the connection, she asked Hendryksen, “Why infantry?”
“Because if all else fails,” the sergeant major answered, “the quality of the infantry they can field will tell us a lot about how much they’re going to make us bleed.”
Fuerte
Guerrero, Balboa, Terra Nova
With the sun rising blood red in the east, Legate Suarez, Commander of the 2nd Legion, walked briskly into the Legion conference room accompanied by the CO of the Second Tercio, Legate Chin. Nobody was quite sure where Chin’s name had come from; anybody would have taken him for a pure Castilian.
The first centurion of Number Two Maniple, Ricardo Cruz, back from his temporary duty with the cadets, called the room to attention. Suarez walked up to the rostrum standing in front of the chairs and ordered the assembled officers, centurions, and NCOs to take their seats.
“Gentlemen. This has become something of a tradition over the years. It is a tradition I can live with. Although, perhaps much like you, I will not mourn the day when this will not be necessary…when we will be able to assume our full ranks for a bit over three weeks, once a year.”
Suarez turned to his adjutant. “Are you prepared to post the orders?”
“Sir!”
“Gentlemen…if you will stand…Adjutant, read the orders.”
“Attention to orders.” All the men present stiffened slightly. “Number Two Maniple, Second Infantry Tercio, Second Legion,
Legion del Cid
, is raised to Second Cohort, Second Infantry Tercio, Second Legion,
Legion del Cid,
by order of
Duque
Patricio Carrera, Commander,
Legion del Cid.
Further, it is ordered by the same authority that the officers, warrant officers, centurions, noncommissioned officers, and enlisted men of Second Cohort are to are to assume their Mobilization Level Three ranks and titles; such ranks and titles to be in effect until completion of the cohort’s annual training.
“The purpose of said elevation is to conduct annual training for Second Cohort (MobLev 3).
“Signed: P. Carrera,
Duque
.”
Suarez called, “At ease…assume your ranks.”
The men of Second Cohort relaxed and, with much joking and laughing, began to help each other to change insignia. The centurions and reserve centurions needed no help. They simply unscrewed the baser metal end pieces from their sticks and replaced them with a metal of higher standing. Ricardo Cruz changed his silver end pieces for gold. Next to him young Julio Porras tried putting on the pips for tribune I in place of his small signifer’s pips. Porras seemed nervous, fumbling with the insignia, until Cruz offered to help.
“Thanks, Centur…Sergeant Major.”
“No sweat, sir.”
* * *
Two and a half hours later, after the obligatory series of toasts to the success of the fully mobilized Second Cohort at their upcoming training, along with some related pleasantries, the command and staff of the cohort met in the conference room outside the commander’s office. These included the cohort exec, the sergeant major, the operations officer, also called the—Roman numeral—“I,” the Ia, Ib, and Ic—operations, quartermaster, and intelligence, respectively—the II, also called the “adjutant,” the assistant for each, plus five company commanders, their executive officers, plus the combat support company’s platoon leaders, Scouts, Heavy Mortars, Sappers, and Light Armor, and the medical platoon leader and supply and transport platoon leader.
Before the commander, a legate I, entered the room, there was a knock on the door. Sergeant Major Cruz opened it, to see someone he recognized as Carrera’s aide de camp, Tribune Santillana. Behind the tribune was an extravagantly well-built blonde, with skin so white she’d have stood out among even the blondest and whitest of the locals.
Almost Cruz whistled.
Carrera didn’t tell me back at that beach joint that he was going to send us a movie star. I am impressed. I am also going to act surprised.
“What
is
this, Tribune?” the sergeant major asked.
Santillana produced Campbell’s invitation, then explained it in as few words as possible.
“We’re going to be living rough, hard, and fast,” said Cruz, feigning ignorance. “I don’t know if a woman…”
“I’ll keep up,” said Jan Campbell, in Spanish.
“She will, too,” piped in a goateed and uniformed foreigner, from behind Campbell, and in better Spanish. “She’s Captain Jan Campbell, Army of Anglia. I’m Sergeant Major Hendryksen, Army of Cimbria.”
Cruz looked again at Santillana. “What are they allowed to…?”
“Everything but the secret things. The boss told me that he wants them to see the unvarnished reality of the legion, what we’re good at, what we’re not so good at or even bad at.”
“All right,” said Cruz. “I’ll explain it to the legate. In the interim, welcome to you both. You’re just about in time for our first staff meeting as a mobilized cohort, this year. Come on in and find seats, while I go inform the legate.”
“I’m to stick around for a couple of days,” said Santillana, “until they have their feet on the ground and are comfortable.”
“That’s very decent of you, Tribune,” said Hendryksen.
“Just part of the job.”
* * *
On ordinary days, in ordinary months, the “Old Man” of the maniple was a tribune II, Velasquez by name. Velasquez would plus up to a tribune III when the reservists were mobilized, to include for weekend training assemblies. But when the entire body of the cohort, regulars, reservists, and militia were called up, as now, he pinned on the silver eagle of a junior legate. He wasn’t really comfortable with the system but, like most, put up with it.
He and his new sergeant major had known each other since a few days before the now-legate had worked out a short term cease fire in the middle of a vicious fight for Ninewa, Sumer. Cruz had acquired his estimate of the legate back then:
Decency and balls, and you can’t ask for a lot more than those.
“Why us?” Velasquez asked. “What the hell did we do to deserve this?”
“I…ummm…I volunteered us, sir,” Cruz admitted.
“Why the fuck would you do that?” Velasquez asked, bewildered.
“I was asked to make a recommendation, sir. By the
Duque
. You would have preferred I told him, ‘Oh, anybody but us,
Duque
. Second of the Second sucks aurochs cock; it’s well known.’”
“Phrased that way,” Velasquez admitted, “maybe not. But, Jesus, this is going to be a pain in the ass.”
Cruz shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir. Both the Taurans seem pretty reasonable. And sir? When you see the tits on the Anglian woman, you will think it’s all worth it.”
“Really?” Velasquez asked doubtfully.
“Sir, the very platonic essence of feminine boobage. Magnificent.”
“All right. At least I’ll put a good face on it. Go out to the conference room. I’ll be there about thirty seconds after you.”
* * *
“II,” Velasquez said, addressing the adjutant, “status of the cohort?”
The adjutant stood up and consulted his clipboard. “Sir, the cohort has an assigned strength of seven hundred and seventy-six, not including attachments. This is twenty-nine less than full strength, but certainly combat capable. The men, again not including attachments, include forty-seven regulars, one hundred and forty reservists, and five hundred and eighty-nine militia. Of these, seven hundred and fifty-five have reported for duty. That puts us at approximately ninety-three and a bit percent of wartime strength, still counting attached teams and sections. Of the missing twenty-one, one—Corporal Peña—has called to announce that his wife is having a baby. After checking with the doctor I took it upon myself to authorize him a forty-eight hour unpaid leave. The Tercio sergeant major, Sergeant Major Arredondo, will foot march Peña out to join us on Sunday.”
Everyone but the two Taurans winced in sympathy. Getting foot marched out to the field by “Scarface” Arredondo was
not
something anyone would look forward to.
“Three men are in jail,” the adjutant continued. “I have notified the authorities and they will be released to us this afternoon, their sentences to be served after annual training. A further eleven are at various technical and leadership courses, including two at the advanced field fortification course out on the island and three at Cazador School.
“A further two are in advanced civil schooling. The cohort staff judge advocate has a civil trial coming up he says he can’t delay any more. He’ll join us the end of next week. Two are sick and in hospital; I sent my assistant around to check and they
are
sick.”
“That’s twenty,” Velasquez said.
“Private Carillo,” the adjutant muttered. Cruz and two other centurions, along with two officers, rolled their eyes.
“I’m afraid he’s given no word, sir,” said the adjutant. “The police force has been informed of his failure to report. His…Private Carillo’s…apprehension is expected within the hour…”
Velasquez told the adjutant, “Send flowers…my tab…to Mrs. Peña.” He then asked of Cruz, “What do you recommend be done with Carillo, Top?”
“Sir. Frankly, Carillo is a piece of shit. Or, rather, his wife is and he dotes on the bitch. We’ve tried to accommodate him—or her—before, without success. I suggest that, this time, the full rigor of the law be applied. I also suggest that the police be informed to watch the wife in his absence. We owe him that much, anyway.” Cruz looked at Carillo’s centurion as if defying a contrary answer.
Velasquez observed the visual exchange and assumed that the platoon leader, Centurion Ramos, agreed with Cruz. “Very well, Top. Seventeen days at hard labor in the civil prison system…unpaid…followed by another thirty in the tercio disciplinary platoon…half pay, but only upon condition of adequate performance. If that doesn’t work then we’ll court-martial him, kick him out, and he’ll never become a citizen.”
Velasquez’s gaze shifted to his Ib. “Quartermaster, speak to me of more material matters.”
“Sir. Broadly speaking, we’re at a little better than ninety percent. All the mortars are up…well, one was in for borescoping but I borrowed a tube from Third Cohort, so they’re up. Of the six Ocelots tercio attached to us, only five are working. The other needs a new engine and the maintenance platoon doesn’t have one on hand. Trucks…we’ve got nineteen of twenty-three up. The other four should be up within a day or two. All the lighter vehicles are in fair form and the mules are recently shod, though the farmers that had to give them to us are not happy campers.”
“They never are,” Velasquez said. “Even so, let’s make damned sure they get their mules back in at least as good a shape as they gave them to us. The vet’s inspected them?”
“Yes, sir,” the quartermaster said, “just before we signed.
“Night vision and radios are good, but we’re having a minor battery shortage, so we’re going to have to conserve a bit.”
“Ration schedule?” asked Velasquez.
“Well…sir…we’re going to have to talk about that one…”
* * *
The cohort, including vehicles and the mobilized mule train, stretched back for five kilometers, the foot troops marching—weighed down like pack animals—in the blistering Balboan sun. Though, of course, Velasquez had an assigned vehicle, he marched up front, laden like his men. At the rear marched Sergeant Major Cruz’s, likewise bowed under a near killing load. Signifer Porras marched by Cruz’ side, more heavily laden because much less experienced. Laden or not, though, between the two they managed to keep control of the inevitable stragglers; inevitable because two thirds of the men were militia, trained for only twenty-five or so days a year. And it had been a year.