"Yessir."
"Fast, Sergeant! We're already way behind schedule."
"Yessir. Follow me," Stark ordered his Squad, taking the lead, his HUD projecting a slim arrow toward where his suit's gyrocompass thought lunar northwest lay. He briefly hoped it hadn't been scrambled by the impact when the APC grounded, then concentrated on trying to move fast and spot threats at the same time. Every push from his feet seemed to launch him in a small trajectory, dreamily floating over the surface, a perfect target sweating desperately for contact with the lunar dust and rock again. Slowly he picked up the rhythm, transferring the force of his steps into forward thrusts, fighting off the Earth-gravity-inbred tendency to put strong effort into upward motion. Experience from a thousand marches over a hundred types of terrain gradually came into play, turning forward motion into an automatic process, leaving his brain to concentrate on the higher issues of scanning for threats and keeping an eye on his twelve Squad members.
Something felt wrong. Stark scanned his HUD, looking for whatever had aroused his instincts. Everyone and everything looked fine, but something about his Corporal's movements bothered him. "Desoto, what's the problem?"
Desoto's voice responded, a little too strained with fatigue, for the distance they'd covered so far. "Nothing, Sarge. My suit's just got a minor problem. No big deal."
"Minor problem?" Stark didn't try to hide his skepticism, calling up the remote readout for Desoto's systems. "Dammit, Pablo, I read your environmental system degraded thirty percent and dropping."
"Yeah. Yeah. It's stabilizing. I can handle it."
"No, it ain't, and no, you can't."
"Sarge, I'm okay."
"You negotiating with me, Desoto? Get back to the APC, on the double. I don't need you dying of heat stroke."
"Sarge, I can handle it," Desoto repeated in a beseeching voice.
"The hell. I gave you an order. Get going." Stark reviewed his Squad, mentally running through the rest of his troops. Corporals maybe didn't carry huge responsibilities compared to some General calling the shots in the rear, but as long as a Corporal was helping watch Stark's back he wanted to make sure he could trust the guy. "Gomez."
"Yeah, Sarge."
"Take over for Corporal Desoto." Gomez could be better positioned within the Squad's current formation for the job, but she was sharp. Very sharp.
"Sarge? I'm not senior. Somebody else ought to take it."
Stark grunted in exasperation. "Is there something in the air up here that makes you apes want to discuss orders instead of carrying them out? Gomez, you're acting Corporal. Period. Do the job."
"Yes, Sergeant."
"One more thing, Gomez."
"Yes, Sergeant?"
"Don't screw up."
He had barely finished speaking when Lieutenant Porter called in. "Sergeant! Where's Corporal Desoto going?"
"Back to the APC, Lieutenant. Suit casualty. Private Gomez is acting Corporal." He said it cool and firm, reporting a decision rather than asking for approval.
"Why wasn't I told?"
"Squad-level decision, Lieutenant. My responsibility."
"I'm in charge, Sergeant! Make sure I'm informed of your planned actions in the future before I have to ask, and get my approval before acting."
Sure. Just because you don't know your own job is no reason you can't try to do mine as well.
"Yes, Lieutenant." Keep it professional, keep it calm, and keep it ambiguous enough to ensure that he could still claim enough freedom of action the next time he had to act.
Stark covered more distance, only slowly realizing the Squad was traversing something that looked like the Mother of All Shell Craters. It reminded him of one of the holes he'd fought across in the Middle East years ago, holes gouged by substrategic nukes, but much bigger. These craters, though, had been blasted out not by puny human explosives but by Heaven's own artillery. The Moon would be full of them, Stark realized, mentally tallying the advantages of defending in such broken terrain, marked by countless natural fortifications. Unfortunately, at the moment his Squad wasn't defending, but attacking. The shadows, so dark as to seem solid, suddenly seemed perfect hiding places for dug-in troops. Stark felt a growing pressure between his shoulder blades as muscles tensed. He fingered his rifle. The charges had been adjusted to fire at lower velocities than back on Earth, but he'd still have to aim lower than instinct directed to avoid overshooting his target in a low-gravity/no atmosphere environment.
"Thank God." Lieutenant Porter's delighted exhalation broke through Stark's growing disquiet. "We've got comms again."
"Oh, goody," Stark muttered. He called up the Platoon picture, shaking his head as he saw Sergeant Reynolds' Squad scattered some distance away. They'd obviously been dropped off target as well. Nonetheless, Stark grinned in automatic relief. Sergeant Victoria Reynolds, an old friend and one of the best soldiers Stark had ever served with, had made it down safely. "Hey, Vic," he called on the circuit Sergeants had long ago secretly jumpwired-in to allow private conversations. "Nice to see you. I feel safer already."
"Hi, Ethan. Likewise."
"Looks like you got dropped in the wrong place, too."
"Yeah." Vic didn't try to hide her disgust. "Everybody's used to the automated location systems on Earth doing all the thinking for them. Heaven forbid they actually have to navigate manually."
"What happened to the comms? How come we couldn't see you earlier? The enemy screw with our systems somehow?"
"Don't know. All the officers were running around in a panic without somebody to tell them what to do."
"Sergeant Reynolds?" Porter cut in, oblivious to the conversation he'd interrupted. "How are you doing?"
"Fine, Lieutenant. We were out of position but we're making it up and should be on our Tactical timeline soon."
"Good. Good. What was the problem earlier? Why couldn't we talk or exchange Tactical feeds?"
Reynolds spoke soothingly, trying to calm Porter's agitation. "Something scrambled comms in this sector, Lieutenant. Some sort of software failure in the relays. They just got it straightened out."
"Comms were scrambled?" Porter sounded horrified. "How did you command your Squad?"
"Just like Julius Caesar, Lieutenant. I used hand signals."
"Oh. Um, good. Where's Sanchez?"
"I don't know. His Squad may not have made it down." Stark winced involuntarily. Sergeant Sanchez wore a poker face like other soldiers wore uniforms, giving few clues to his thoughts, likes, and dislikes, but he knew his job and he had twelve other soldiers with him.
Porter obviously reached the same conclusion Stark had. "Oh, Christ. His APC crashed?"
"I don't think so. We should have seen and felt that. I'd guess it never dropped. During the run-in, Sergeant Sanchez told me his driver was complaining about some system failures."
"Why did he tell you and not me?"
"Lieutenant, I'm sure Sergeant Sanchez had a good reason, but I can only speculate as to—"
"Never mind. Stark?"
"Yes, Lieutenant."
"Are your comms okay? Did you receive the update to Tactical from Brigade?"
"Yessir." Stark scanned the new plot. "No threats?"
"None encountered so far," Porter confirmed. "We've got a long way to the objective. Keep moving. I'm going to head toward First Squad to link up with Sergeant Reynolds."
"Yes, Lieutenant." Stark switched to the private circuit again. "Hey, Vic, you got company coming."
"So I heard. You acting insubordinate again?"
"Just doing my job and trying to keep my people alive."
"Like I said."
"Vic, it ain't my fault the junior officers can't think without senior officers putting every thought in their heads."
"It's not really their fault, either, Ethan. Junior officers aren't allowed to think. Every action they take is dictated by senior officers monitoring their every move."
"Maybe if they held an assignment for more than six months at a stretch they'd learn how to think despite that, just like we do," Stark suggested. "Of course, if they thought independently and really took time to learn their jobs they wouldn't get promoted to be senior officers who think micromanagement is the only way to operate. What kind of system is that?"
"A self-sustaining one. You could still be more diplomatic, Ethan."
"Vic, I'm a soldier. I don't talk nice to hostile people. I kill them."
She laughed, the sound over his comm circuit oddly out of place amid the bleak emptiness of Stark's surroundings. "Okay. I'll calm the Lieutenant down, Ethan."
"Thanks. That's why the Lieutenant likes you best."
"Knock it off."
No threats. The once-ominous shadows held no enemy troops, fingers poised over hidden weapons, but now gaped empty on every side. Monotony replaced tension. Combat assaults weren't supposed to be monotonous, but this one lacked an enemy, lacked major obstacles, and lacked scenery unless you counted endless kilometers of gray rocks and fine gray dust. The stars probably looked nice, but any attempt to look up at them virtually guaranteed hooking an armored foot over one of the omnipresent rocks and sprawling in that dust.
Too monotonous and too damn quiet. Stark activated his pirate tap on the command circuit to see what the Lieutenant and the rest of his superior officers were up to.
". . . dull! We're losing audience points by the second!" That sounded, Stark thought, like the Brigade's Commanding General.
What the hell is he talking about? Audience points?
"There's nobody to fight, General," someone else complained.
"That's because you're moving too slow! Take that unit. Who is that? Who's the commander?"
"That's part of Lieutenant Porter's Platoon," another officer reported. Stark felt a chill run down his back at the words.
"Porter! You're way off your timeline!"
"Yes, General," Porter responded immediately. "We were dropped twenty kil—"
"Why isn't your unit moving faster?"
"Uh, General, doctrine—"
"To hell with doctrine! I need some action here. Get those troops moving!"
"Yes, General. Right away." Stark braced himself as Porter called him over the official command link. "Sergeant Stark, advance at double time."
"Lieutenant," Stark stated with careful precision, "at double time we'll be moving too fast to react so we can evade any incoming covering fire."
"There's nothing to evade, Sergeant! Get them going, now!"
It all runs downhill, and I'm pretty damn near the bottom of the hill.
Stark checked his scan once more, biting his lower lip, finding nothing there but friendly symbology.
No threat visible, and if I can't spot enemy positions at this speed we might as well go faster just in case surprise hasn't gone to hell.
"Third Squad, advance at double time." Groans and curses rippled up the circuit. "Stop complaining and move! Gomez, keep your end of the Squad up with my end. Don't let anybody lag."
"Yes, Sergeant."
Disorientation threatened as the pace increased. Dust and rocks skimmed by below, their height and distance distorted by the lack of atmosphere. Something that clear should be close by, but up here you couldn't count on that. Look down and you got dizzy from the dead-black and dazzling-white contrasts zipping past. Look up and the trillion stars seemed to be sucking you into space, so legs and arms started flailing as the mind convinced itself you were falling up. Looming over everything hung a white-spangled blue marble where humans by all rights belonged and where anyone with common sense knew they were supposed to fight their wars.
"Son of a—" Acting Corporal Gomez started to yell, the curse broken by a heavy grunt.
"You okay, Gomez?" Stark demanded, checking her suit's status.
"Yeah, Sarge. I just tripped and did a nose dive."
"Your suit looks fine."
"It's fine. How come that damn horizon is so close but we don't get anywhere no matter how fast we go?" Gomez demanded sourly.
"That's easy, Anita," Chen chimed in cheerfully. "It's like a nightmare, because you actually bought it and went straight to hell when our APC crashed."
"Sure. I'm in hell. The fact that you're here with me supports that."
"Kill the chatter, you clowns," Stark ordered. There shouldn't be any problem with the troops working off a little tension by bantering, given that someone had decided the threat was so low they could just run toward their objective. But he'd long ago learned not to trust any assessments from higher than company level, most especially those emanating from any place behind the lines. "We're on a combat op, not a walk in the park. Maintain comm discipline."
"Yes, Sergeant." Gomez sounded uncharacteristically abashed. "Sorry."
"Sorry?" Stark questioned sharply.
"I'm acting corporal. You shouldn't have to tell me that stuff."
"Right." Sometimes a little extra responsibility brought out a little extra in a soldier. Sometimes not. Gomez obviously felt the burden. "But don't apologize. Just do the job."
Stark cut into the command circuit again, worried about threats that might be developing elsewhere and half hoping to hear Porter being chewed out by his own superiors again, but instead heard a clutter of commands as officers continually passed detailed orders to units and individuals without regard to intervening levels of command.
Business as usual. What did officers do before they could use command and control gear to sit on our shoulders every second?
He switched over again, calling Sergeant Reynolds. "Vic? You busy?"
"Nothing special for a combat assault," she noted dryly.
"What's up?"
"What's this talk about audience points?"
"What about it?"
"I don't know what it means, and I don't like something happening during a combat op that I don't understand."
Vic hesitated before replying. "This attack is being broadcast back home on vid with less than a half-hour delay."
"What?"
"The audio and video feed from our command and control gear is being relayed straight to the public affairs office," Vic elaborated patiently, "who're shunting it to the networks. Congratulations. You're a vid star."