The Mammoth Book of SF Wars (12 page)

Then we went down. I suppose it was a controlled landing, sort of, or none of us would have made it. But it felt, with all the pitching and yawing, like we were on our way to a crash. We could hear the tyres blow on contact, and then the gear folded, and the shuttle pitched forward one last time to plough along the strip with its heatshield nose. We were all in one tangled pile against the forward bulkhead by then, making almost as much noise as the shuttle itself until the captain bellowed over it. With one final lurch, the craft was motionless, and for an instant silent.

“Pop that hatch, Gunny.” The captain’s voice held that tone that no one argues with – no one smart, anyway – and Rolly and I started undogging the main hatch. The men were untangling themselves now, with muttered curses. One of the wetears hadn’t stayed up, and had a broken ankle; he bleated once and then fell silent when he realized no one cared. I yanked on the last locking lever, which had jammed in the crash, just as we heard the first explosions outside. I glanced at the captain. He shrugged. What else could we do? We sure didn’t have a chance in this nicely marked coffin we were in. Rolly put his shoulders into it, and the hatch slid aside to let in a cool, damp breath of local air.

Later I decided that Caedmon didn’t smell as bad as most planets, but right then all I noticed was the exhaust trails of a couple of Gerin fighters who had left their calling cards on the runway. A lucky wind blew the dust away from us, but the craters were impressive. I looked at the radiation counter on the display – nothing more than background, so it hadn’t been nukes. Now all we had to do was get out before the fighters came back.

Normally we unload down ramps, four abreast – but with the shuttle sitting on its nose and the port wing, the starboard landing ramp was useless. The portside hatch wouldn’t open at all. This, of course, is why we carry those old-fashioned cargo nets everyone teases us about. We had those deployed in seconds (we
practise
that, in the cruisers’ docking bays, and that’s why the sailorboys laugh at us). Unloading the shuttle – all men and materiel, including the pilot (who had a broken arm) and the wetear with the bad ankle – went faster than I’d have thought. Our lieutenant, Pascoe, had the forward team, and had already pushed into the scraggly stuff that passed for brush at the base of the nearest hill. At least he seemed to know how to do that. Then Courtney climbed back and placed the charges, wired them up, and came out. When he cleared the red zone, the captain pushed the button. The shuttle went up in a roiling storm of light, and we all blinked. That shuttle wasn’t going anywhere, but even so I felt bad when we blew it … it was our ticket home. Not to mention the announcement the explosion made. We had to have had survivors to blow it that long after the crash.

What everyone sees, in the videos of Marine landings, is the frontline stuff – the helmeted troops with the best weapons, the bright bars of laser fire – or some asshole reporter’s idea of a human interest shot (a Marine looking pensively at a dead dog, or something). But there’s the practical stuff, which sergeants always have to deal with. Food, for instance. Medical supplies, not to mention the medics, who half the time don’t have the sense to keep their fool heads out of someone’s sights. Water, weapons, ammunition, spare parts, comunits, satellite comm bases, spare socks … whatever we use has to come with us. On a good op, we’re resupplied inside twenty-four hours, but that’s about as common as an honest dockside joint. So the shuttle had supplies for a standard week (Navy week: Old Terra standard – it doesn’t matter what the local rotational day or year is), and every damn kilo had to be offloaded and hauled off. By hand. When the regular ground troops get here, they’ll have floaters and trucks, and their enlisted mess will get fresh veggies and home-made pies … and that’s another thing that’s gone all the way back, near as I can tell. Marines slog through the mud, hump their stuff uphill and down, eat compressed bricks commonly called – well, you can imagine. And the next folks in, whoever they are, have the choppers and all-terrain vehicles and then make bad jokes about us. But not in the same joint, or not for long.

What bothered me, and I could see it bothered the captain, was that the fighters didn’t come back and blow us all to shreds while all this unloading went on. We weren’t slow about it; we were humping stuff into cover as fast as we could. But it wasn’t natural for those fighters to make that one pass over the strip and then leave a downed shuttle alone. They had to know they’d missed – that the shuttle was intact and might have live Marines inside. All they’d done was blow a couple of holes in the strip, making it tough for anyone else to land there until it was fixed. They had to be either stupid or overconfident, and no one yet had accused the Gerin of being stupid. Or of going out of their way to save human lives. I had to wonder what else they had ready for us.

Whatever it was, they let us alone for the next couple of standard hours, and we got everything moved away from the strip, into a little sort of cleft between two of the hills. I wasn’t there: I was working my way to the summit, as quietly as possible, with a five-man team. We’d been told the air was breathable, which probably meant the green stuff was photosynthetic, although it was hard to tell stems from leaves on the scrub. I remember wondering why anything a soldier has to squirm through is full of thorns, or stings on contact, or has sharp edges … a biological rule no one yet has published a book on, I’ll bet. Caedmon’s scrub ran to man-high rounded mounds, densely covered with prickly stiff leaves that rustled loudly if we brushed against them. Bigger stuff sprouted from some of the mounds, treelike shapes with a crown of dense foliage and smooth blackish bark. Between the mounds a fine, grey-green fuzz covered the rocky soil, not quite as lush as grass but more linear than lichens. It made my nose itch, and my eyes run, and I’d
had
my shots. I popped a broad-spectrum antiallergen pill and hoped I wouldn’t sneeze.

Some people say hills are the same size all the time, but anyone who’s ever gone up a hill with hostiles at the top of it knows better. It’s twice as high going uphill into trouble. If I hadn’t had the time readout, I’d have sworn we crawled through that miserable prickly stuff for hours. Actually it was less than half a standard when I heard something click, metal on stone, ahead of us. Above and ahead, invisible through the scrub, but definitely something metallic, and therefore – in this situation – hostile. Besides, after DuQuesne, we knew the Gerin would’ve wiped out any humans from the colony. I tongued the comcontrol and clicked a warning signal to my squad. They say a click sounds less human – maybe. We relied on it, anyhow, in that sort of situation. I heard answering clicks in my earplug. Lonnie had heard the noise, too (double-click, then one, in his response) which figured. Lonnie had the longest ears in our company.

This is where your average civilian would either panic and go dashing downhill through the brush to tell the captain there were nasties up there, or get all video-hero and run screaming at the Gerin, right into a beam or a slug. What else is there to do? you ask. Well, for one thing you can lie there quietly and think for a moment. If they’ve seen you, they’ve shot you – the Gerin aren’t given to patience – and if they haven’t shot you they don’t know you’re there. Usually.

It was already strange that the Gerin fighters hadn’t come back. And if Gerin held the top of this hill – which seemed reasonable even before we went up it, and downright likely at the moment – they’d have to know we got out, and how many, and roughly where we were. And since Gerin aren’t stupid, at least at war, they’d guess someone was coming up to check out the hilltop. So they’d have some way to detect us on the way up, and they’d have held off blowing us away because they didn’t think we were a threat. Neither of those thoughts made me feel comfortable.

Detection systems, though … detection systems are a bitch. Some things work anywhere: motion detectors, for instance, or optical beams that you can interrupt and it sets off a signal somewhere. But that stuff’s easy enough to counter. If you know what you’re doing, if you’ve got any sort of counterhunt tech yourself, you’ll spot it and disarm it. The really good detection systems are hard to spot, very specific, and also – being that good – very likely to misbehave in combat situations.

The first thing was to let the captain know we’d spotted something. I did that with another set of tongue-flicks and clicks, switching to his channel and clicking my message. He didn’t reply; he didn’t need to. Then I had us all switch on our own counterhunt units. I hate the things, once a fight actually starts: they weigh an extra kilo, and unless you need them it’s a useless extra kilo. But watching the flicking needles on the dials, the blips of light on the readouts, I was glad enough then. Two metres uphill, for instance, a fine wire carried an electrical current. Could have been any of several kinds of detectors, but my unit located its controls and identified them. And countered them: we could crawl right over that wire, and its readout boxes wouldn’t show a thing. That wasn’t all, naturally: the Gerin aren’t stupid. But none of it was new to our units, and all of it could fail – and would fail, with a little help from us.

Which left the Gerin. I lay there a moment longer wondering how many Gerin triads we were facing. Vain as they are, it might be just one warrior and his helpers, or whatever you want to call them. Gerin think they’re the best fighters in the universe, and they can be snookered into a fight that way. Admiral Mac did it once, and probably will again. It would be just like their warrior pride to assign a single Gerin triad to each summit. Then again, the Gerin don’t think like humans, and they could have a regiment up there. One triad we might take out; two would be iffy; and any more than that we wouldn’t have a chance against.

Whatever it was, though, we needed high ground, and we needed it damn fast. I clicked again, leaned into the nearest bush, and saw Lonnie’s hand beyond the next one. He flicked me a hand signal, caught mine, and inched forward. We were, in one sense, lucky. It was a single triad, and all they had was the Gerin equivalent of our infantry weapons: single-beam lasers and something a lot like a rifle. We got the boss, the warrior, with several rounds of rifle fire. I don’t care what they say, there’s a place for slug-throwers, and downside combat is that place. You can hit what you can’t see, which lasers can’t, and the power’s already in the ammo. No worry about a discharged powerpack, or those mirrored shields some of the Gerin have used. Some Navy types keep wanting to switch all Marine forces away from slug weapons, because they’re afraid we’ll go bonkers and put a hole in a cruiser hull, but the day they take my good old Belter special away from me, I’m gone. I’ve done my twenty already; there’s no way they can hold me.

Davies took a burn from one of the warrior’s helpers, but they weren’t too aggressive with the big number one writhing on the ground, and we dropped them without any more trouble. Some noise, but no real trouble. Lonnie got a coldpak on Davies, which might limit the damage. It wasn’t that bad a burn, anyway. If he died down here, it wouldn’t be from that, though without some time in a good hospital, he might lose the use of those fingers. Davies being Davies, he’d probably skin-graft himself as soon as the painkiller cut in … he made a religion out of being tough. I called back to our command post to report, as I took a look around to see what we’d bought.

From up here, maybe seventy metres above the strip, the scattered remains of the shuttle glittered in the sun. I could see the two craters, one about halfway along, and another maybe a third of the way from the far end. Across the little valley, less than a klick, the hills rose slightly higher than the one we lay on. The cliffs on one were just as impressive as I’d thought. The others rose more gently from the valley floor. All were covered with the same green scrub, thick enough to hide an army. Either army.

I told the captain all this, and nodded when Skip held up the control box the Gerin had used with their detectors. We could use the stuff once we figured out the controls, and if they were dumb enough to give us an hour, we’d have no problems. No problems other than being a single drop team sitting beside a useless strip, with the Gerin perfectly aware of our location and identity.

Brightness bloomed in the zenith, and I glanced up. Something big had taken a hit – another shuttle? We were supposed to have 200 shuttle flights on this mission, coming out of five cruisers – a full-scale assault landing, straight onto a defended planet. If that sounds impossibly stupid, you haven’t read much military history – there are some commanders that have this thing about butting heads with an enemy strength, and all too many of them have political connections. Thunder fell out of the sky, and I added up the seconds I’d been counting. Ten thousand metres when they’d been blown – no one was going to float down from that one.

“What kind of an
idiot
…?” Lonnie began; I waved him to silence. Things were bad enough without starting that – we could place the blame later. With a knifeblade, if necessary.

“Vargas …” The captain’s voice in my earplug drowned out the whisper of the breeze through stiff leaves. I pushed the subvoc microphone against my throat and barely murmured an answer. “Drop command says we lost thirty cents on the dollar. Beta-site took in four shuttles before it was shut out.” Double normal losses on a hostile landing, then, and it sounded like we didn’t have a secure strip. I tried to remember exactly where Beta-site was. “We’re supposed to clear this strip, get it ready for the next wave—”

I must have made some sound, without meaning to, because there was a long pause before he went on. If the original idea had been stupid, this one was stupid plus. Even a lowly enlisted man knows it’s stupid to reinforce failure, why can’t the brass learn it? We weren’t engineers; we didn’t have the machinery to fill those craters, or the manpower to clear the surrounding hills of Gerin and keep the fighters off.

“They’re gonna do a flyby drop of machinery,” he went on. I knew better than to say what I thought. No way I could stop them if they wanted to mash their machinery on these hills. “We’re going to put up the flyspy – you got a good view from there?”