Authors: David Sherman,Dan Cragg
McNeal started to get up, but Schultz put a restraining hand on him. “Leave her alone,” he said. “She’ll get over it on her own.”
Reluctantly, McNeal stayed where he was. After a while the woman levered herself painfully to her feet and approached the Marines. Laying her thin hand on McNeal’s shoulder, she spoke to him earnestly. Although he didn’t understand the words, he realized she was saying thanks. The way the children gleefully clung to her, McNeal knew she was their mother. He and Schultz gave her several more of the energy bars and the bandanna.
“Whoo!” McNeal whooped after the woman led her son away. ‘’That made me feel good.”
With Captain Conorado gone, Ensign Baccacio and Staff Sergeant Bass established their command post inside an abandoned warehouse while the rest of the platoon prepared fighting positions that doubled as their living quarters. The next day they had to make defensive positions several hundred meters away from the village in the surrounding hills, because the flocks of children who constantly swarmed about the Marines were too much of a distraction. But as the days passed, the men took great pleasure playing with the children when off duty, and everyone took pride in watching them change from pitiful, starving waifs into bouncing boys and girls.
But nobody was more pleased at the changes among the villagers of Tulak Yar than old Mas Fardeed, and he saw to it that his hut became an off-duty gathering place for the men of Company L, most of whom quickly developed a genuine fondness for the old soldier.
“I came back here after the war,” he told a small gathering one evening. They were sitting around a warm fire in the kitchen. One of Mas Fardeed’s daughters bustled about, making sure each Marine’s earthen mug was kept filled with the old man’s barley beer. “I was young and stupid. I thought I could do something about life here,” he said bitterly. “We are worse than slaves, the way the Siad treat us. They keep us like we keep our sheep. I thought I could change that.” He spit into the fire. The six Marines sitting about the hearth were respectfully silent.
“Give me one of those,” he muttered, gesturing at McNeal’s blaster, “and I could change a lot of things around here.” The Marines nodded. “But the bureaucrats in New Obbia, they said, ‘No reason to arm the peasants! We can protect them!’ Ha! Those bastards, all they’ve ever done is cower in the cities and lick the privates of the mining executives! The guns went to the clans. Governments hate and fear citizens with guns, lads, that’s a bitter lesson I’ve learned during my eighty-two winters. When men give up to their government the right to defend themselves, they give up their right to live as men. The Siad at least realize that.”
The old man sighed and was silent or a moment. “Oh, I know,” he continued, “the people of this village aren’t warriors, and I am not the man I once was. Were we to stand up to the Siad, they would just cut us down. But we would die fighting and we would take some of them with us. How a man dies is as important as how he lives. Before you came here, we were going to die like our sheep.”
Nobody wanted to comment on that sentiment. “What did you do, then?’ Dean asked.
The old man shrugged. “I survived. We survived. We accommodated. The Siad are not fools; our crops and livestock are of great value to them. So they tolerated us and left us to live what little lives we have in this miserable place.” He shook his head. “Until recently. Now, one day the crops will fail entirely and our sheep will all die, and then they will swarm down on this village and destroy it out of spite. Or that’s what I thought, until you came here.”
“We do what we can,” Claypoole said lamely. Every man in L Company knew that the old man was right, and every man hoped and prayed they would not be pulled out of the village until the Siad and their allies had been dealt with. There was not a doubt in any man’s mind that once the Marines were let loose on the clans, they would deal with them permanently, and every man looked forward to that day.
“You are proof that there is a God and that He loves us,” Mas Fardeed told them, his voice strong and steady. “You are proof, too, that there is good in mankind. I pray that your leaders are as brave as you.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Third platoon quickly settled into a set-your-timepiece-by-it routine in Tulak Yar. All the Marines on the perimeter stood careful watch during the last hours before dawn—the time when most people are in deepest sleep, the time hardest to stay awake, a favorite time for a sneak attack. Once the sun rose, those in most need of sleep slept, some of the others maintained a watch on the surrounding countryside, while others prepared for the arrival of the daily resupply hopper. At 10 hours, when the hopper dropped off its precious cargo, part of it was stored for distribution to the citizens of Tulak Yar and the immediately surrounding area, and the rest loaded into the Dragon that was left with the platoon. At 11 hours, it was delivered to one of the other villages within an hour’s drive of the base with a squad along for security. At midday a fire team with a gun team went out into the foothills on a security patrol; it was gone anywhere from two to four hours. An awning was set up on the side of the Dragon when it returned from its run before 16 hours every day, and every day at 16 hours, Ensign Baccacio held an all-hands meeting in the shade of that awning. After the meeting, some members of the platoon returned to perimeter duty and the rest relaxed until nightfall, interrupted only by evening chow, when they went back on perimeter security for the night.
Staff Sergeant Bass wasn’t terribly comfortable with the supply run leaving at 11 hours every day, but at least it never went in the same direction two days in a row. He had a serious problem, however, with the 16 hours all-hands meeting.
At the daily meeting, Ensign Baccacio gave his men a brief report on the progress of the relief effort on Elneal, in 34th FIST’s area, on Company L’s area, and on third platoon’s sector. Concerning third platoon, the leader of the daily foot patrol into the hills gave his report on what his patrol had—or more usually, had not—seen. Doc Hough, the medical corpsman, reported on medical progress in Tulak Yar—there was enough illness, mostly malnutrition, that it was several days before he was able to go out with the Dragon to provide any kind of medical assistance to other villages. That was pretty much the extent of the goings-on, and Bass felt that most of the men could have done without it.
The second time the platoon commander called his 16 hours meeting, Bass said, “Mr. Baccacio, this is the same time we did this yesterday. We’re in danger of fixing a schedule. Everybody’s going to know that at sixteen hours we don’t have anybody on the perimeter. Anybody who wants to attack us will do it when we’re in this all-hands meeting.”
“Staff Sergeant Bass,” Baccacio replied, “having a schedule and sticking to it shows everybody that we are in command of the situation here. As for anybody’s attacking, we are Marines. I don’t believe anybody on this planet is dumb enough to attack a platoon of Confederation Marines. Not after what we did to the Bos Kashi in New Obbia.”
“That was the Bos Kashi. The Siad are supposed to be much more powerful. This is territory claimed by the Siad.”
“I don’t care. If they’re dumb enough to attack us, they deserve everything we’ll do to them. We’re having the meeting now.” The third day, Sergeants Hyakowa, Eagle’s Cry, and Kelly found Bass when the ensign was nowhere around.
“What’s that man trying to do, get us all killed?” Hyakowa asked.
“It’s like a patrol never comes back on the same route it went out on,” Eagle’s Cry said. “You have a routine, you get killed.”
“I talked to him,” Bass answered. “So far he’s not listening. But pretty soon I think he’ll see there’s no need for a daily meeting. Or maybe I’ll get the point across to him.”
“I think we should let him call his meeting and not show up,” Kelly said.
“Belay that kind of talk, Hound,” Bass snapped. “That’s disobedience. It doesn’t matter if you’re right, no one has yet been hurt by these meetings. You don’t show up, you get court-martialed. If nothing has happened because of the routine, it’ll be tough to convince a court-martial board that you were right in deliberately disobeying a direct order.”
The squad leaders grumbled, but none of them was willing to face a court-martial.
“Don’t worry, it won’t last,” Bass reassured them. “The Skipper and the Top will be back tomorrow or the day after. If Mr. Baccacio is still holding us to a routine then, I’ll kick it up to them.” But Bass was worried; if he’d been an opposing commander, he would have taken advantage of the Marines’ routine as quickly as possible.
Captain Conorado and First Sergeant Myer had come out during the first day of Ensign Baccacio’s routine, when nobody yet knew it would become a routine. Then first platoon ran into distribution conflicts between the Basque and Montanan settlers in Verde Hollow, which occupied the attention of the company’s top men for several days. Then some of the suddenly sated Burmese settlers in Mogaung Gap overdid their eating and got sick, and Conorado and Myer had to go there with representatives of the Blue Crescent to convince the people that the food wasn’t poisoned. What with one thing and another, it was a week before the Skipper and the Top made it back to Tulak Yar, by which time Charlie Bass was developing a mutinous state of mind. The stress of maintaining a routine in a potentially hostile area was wearing on everybody else in the platoon as well—except for Ensign Baccacio, who absolutely
knew
he was doing exactly the right thing, no matter what his ill-disciplined men thought.
It happened that Conorado and Myer arrived just in time for the daily all-hands, and Bass didn’t have to say anything at all. The two senior men were accompanied by a fire team for security and by Corporal Doyle, the company’s senior clerk.
Conorado stood under the awning attached to the Dragon and saw too many Marines in front of him. He turned and stood close to Baccacio so he could speak softly enough not to be heard by anyone but the young officer. “Who’s on security? It looks like the whole platoon is here.”
“The whole platoon is here, sir,” Baccacio said in a slightly louder voice. Those close enough to hear tried as unobtrusively as possible to hear more. “Security’s no problem. Nobody’s interested in bothering these people now that we’re here. Anyway, there’s a couple goatherds and some kids acting as crow-chasers out there. They’ll let us know if anybody’s coming.”
Conorado stared at the ensign for a few seconds, then looked past him to Bass. Bass was blandly looking at the men of his platoon, for all the world as though he had no idea of what was being said between the two officers.
“Some goatherds and crow-chasers,” Conorado said. “That’s what you’re relying on for security.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you really believe that children will be able to give adequate warning?”
Baccacio blinked. Of course he did, and he said so.
“Put some Marines out there.”
“But—”
“Do it.”
Flushing, Baccacio turned to Bass. “Platoon Sergeant, put out three two-man security teams.”
Bass looked at him for the first time since Conorado had begun talking to him. “Aye aye, sir,” he said in a voice as bland as his expression. He looked back at the platoon. “Squad leaders, each squad put two men in security positions in your squad sector.”
“Aye aye,” Hyakowa replied for all three. In seconds, three two-man teams were sprinting for the village’s outskirts. Everyone in the platoon felt a great sense of relief—except for Ensign Baccacio, who felt humiliated.
Finally, they got into the usual substance of the daily all-hands. Conorado reported to the men on what had been going on in the rest of the company’s sector. He told of the problems between the Basques and Montanans of Verde Hollow in a way that almost made blood feuds sound funny, and got some laughs. His description of the solemn antics of the Shan headman at Mogaung Gap had them roaring. Then he got serious.
“There have been no incidents of violence involving Marines or anyone we’re protecting since the Bos Kashi were wiped out in New Obbia. But—and this is an important but—neither has anyone come forward to turn in his arms. Satellite surveillance shows the Siad moving. While they seem to be congregating, they aren’t doing it in any way that we can absolutely identify as threatening. So we don’t quite know what to make of their movement. The Sons of Liberty have retired to their strongholds, though not all of the strongholds seem to be occupied. We think they’ve consolidated into fewer, stronger locations. Nobody knows what, if anything, that means. The Gaels have managed to vanish, and that’s bothersome. But again, nobody knows what significance to attach to it.
“Since we moved into the countryside, a number of relief workers have decided to risk taking convoys to other villages, villages that don’t have Marine protection. Most of them have made it with no incident. The few incidents have mostly been caused by clansmen robbing them of a portion of their food and medical supplies. Only once that we know of have raiders attacked a convoy and killed everyone and taken or destroyed everything.
“On the whole, everything is vastly improving throughout Elneal. In little more than a week, relief has reached more than ten percent of the population. The work is speeding up and the current estimate is that fully half the population will be saved within a month of when we began to move into the countryside, and the whole planet in a month and a half, or not much more.” He was interrupted by cheers.
“We’ve done a marvelous job, but don’t get too happy about it. It’s going to take another month or longer to get to everybody. Remember, there’s a planetwide famine. Tens of thousands more, maybe hundreds of thousands, are going to starve to death before relief can reach them.” He stopped talking for a moment to let that sink in. “And remember, we don’t know what the Siad, the Sons, or the Gaels might be up to. Even after the people are fed, we need to disarm enough clansmen that people can live in peace.
“Now,” he said briskly, “on to other matters. As you know, our Corps is not a static organization. The Confederation Marines Corps is a vital, living corps. One way that vitality is continued is through innovation and the adoption of new tools and technologies to help us do our job better, and help us survive when we go in harm’s way. A new piece of equipment has been tested and is now being distributed throughout the Corps. The first sergeant has brought one along and will tell you about it before handing it over. Incidentally, some of you may have noticed Corporal Doyle is with us, and you might be wondering why.” There were a few muted laughs at the mention of Corporal Doyle, who normally stayed as close to headquarters as possible. “The first sergeant will tell you about that too. Top.” Conorado stepped aside and Myer stepped forward.
“What we have here,” Top Myer began as he took a black box approximately twelve inches high, eight inches wide, and two deep from Corporal Doyle, “is the Universal Positionator Up-Downlink, Mark Two, commonly called the UPUD.” He carefully avoided looking at Bass. “The UPUD Mark One, the original version of this piece of equipment, was intended to replace the radio, geo position locator, and vector computer for calling in air strikes and artillery missions that every unit from platoon on up, and sometimes squads as well, had to carry. That was three pieces of equipment the Mark One was supposed to replace. The UPUD Mark Two,” he placed an emphasis on
Mark Two
, “still replaces those three. It does more than that, though. The Mark Two also replaces the motion detector. Which makes the Mark Two one piece of equipment to carry instead of four. Somebody in every platoon is going to be mighty happy. Now, I’m sure some of you are aware,” this time he did glance at Bass, “of problems that were encountered when the UPUD Mark One first saw action. That’s why this unit is a Mark Two. The problems with the first model have been corrected.”
He turned and faced Bass directly to say his next. “When the Mark One was originally fielded, every unit that received one turned in its existing radios, geo position locators, and vector computers. That was a mistake. You are going to keep your existing equipment until such time as the UPUD Mark Two is properly integrated into your operational mind-set. Is that clear?’
Bass gritted his teeth but gave a sharp nod. Only then did Myer look back at the rest of the platoon.
“Now, the reason Corporal Doyle is with us today is he has been thoroughly trained in the care and feeding of the UPUD Mark Two. When the Skipper and I leave, he will stay with you to train everyone in its use.” Someone whooped. Myer ignored it, but Doyle glared out at the platoon, trying to spot who had laughed.
“If anybody has any questions, I’ll be happy to answer them. If not, the Skipper and I have to deliver UPUDs to the other platoons.”
“It’s not like last time, Charlie,” Myer said. “You’re keeping your existing equipment. No risking men’s lives this time on something we don’t know for sure works.”
Conorado stood silent a few feet away. He’d known Bass was going to resist the UPUD and didn’t want to have to give him a direct order. He was relying on Myer’s persuasiveness.
“What you’re telling me is, instead of carrying four different pieces of equipment, now we have to carry five, one of which might not work.”
Myer shook his head. “Charlie, it’s not as if you’re out there chasing bandits on foot and weight matters. You use the UPUD here to communicate with Company and to guide in the resupply hopper. You put it on the Dragon when it makes its run to the outlying villages, and try out its capabilities there. You still have your old equipment here, your Dragon still has its old equipment. The UPUD doesn’t work, you’ve got backup you know does work. Think of it as a field test under controlled conditions.”