First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) (28 page)

I swallowed, nervously.  Who knew what they might have said about me?  Joker was a friend ... but did he consider me a solid companion in battle?  And what about Sif, or Bloodnok, or Blackmon?  Did they think I was worth keeping around or had they urged my removal from the course?  We’d all be walking on tenterhooks until we knew our fate.  None of us, I suspected, wanted to believe that we’d wasted the last eight months. 

It wouldn't be a waste
, I told myself, unconvincingly. 
I could join the army, if I wished, or even the Civil Guard ...

The Drill Instructors, of course, didn't give us time to brood.  They gave us several hundred push-ups (I calculated once that I’d done over a million, between Boot Camp and the Slaughterhouse), a whole string of exercises and finally led us into a lecture hall for a talk from another marine professor.  This time, it was more focused on our current training phase.

“A society works by certain rules, which can be both written and unwritten,” Professor Cunningham said.  He was a tall man, with glinting eyes and a war record longer than my arm.  He’d literally been there and done that.  “You may discover, when you are inserted into a society, that the unwritten rules are more important than the written rules.  The person who is formally in charge may not actually hold any power.  Determining who
actually
holds power, who can actually make decisions that hold the force of law, is the most important aspect of understanding how a society functions.”

He paused to let that sink in.  “I was on Jeddah during the deployment,” he continued, after a moment.  “In theory, the Emir had crushed the tribes and imposed a monarchy on his population; in practice, the tribal influences were still quite strong.  A battalion of local soldiers might have a captain in command, but the captain would defer to a lieutenant who had better connections to the tribal power structure than himself.  It was often quite hard to determine just who was
actually
in charge of any given unit - and to avoid giving unintended offence by asking the wrong question.

“Just to make matters more complex, the Emir had imposed a draft and conscripted every firstborn son into a giant army.  This army had little in the way of training that might have broken down the tribal links; naturally, if the headmen had called, their tribesmen would come running back to the tribe, weapons in hand.  It took us longer than it should have done to realise that, apart from a relatively small force from his own tribe, the Emir controlled very little in the way of military force.  Whatever might have been said on paper, the reality was quite different.

“This caused us no shortage of problems,” he admitted.  “The Emir’s bureaucrats had very little actual power, particularly when they were deployed to places that hadn't seen the Emir’s army.  Trying to put them in command was a waste of time without enough power to overawe the local inhabitants.  We would go there, discover that none of the people listed as having power
actually
had power, then waste months trying to figure out exactly who
did
.  It generally tended to be shared between the headmen and the clerics.  The only places that had effective governance were when the bureaucrats and the headmen were one and the same.

“There was, in fact, an odd balance of power between the religious and secular authorities.  A headman commanded the loyalties of his tribe, while a cleric looked to their souls.  When they worked together, they managed to achieve wonders; when they disagreed, nothing was done.  They tended to have limits to their power; headmen couldn't commit themselves to anything without the support of a majority of their followers, while clerics had to be careful not to step too far out of line. 
And
they tended to be very careful about committing themselves.”

It was an odd lecture, but one that turned out to have practical applications.  Living and working inside a community, we discovered, gave us a chance to make friends and scope out who actually wielded power.  We worked our way through a set of examples - including several that were obviously fictional, as one was based on a subgroup of humans who possessed magic powers - and prepared ourselves for the coming tests.  The next set, I was sure, would be harder.

But, oddly, I no longer doubted that I would pass through the Slaughterhouse and graduate as a marine.  I had passed the hump; my confidence was unshakable.  Whatever they threw at me, I would take it and carry on.

I was never told just what my platoon mates had said about me - and I never talked about it to anyone, not even Joker.  The whole subject was one we avoided talking about, even when it became clear that
none
of us had been switched to another platoon or recycled to a junior platoon.  We talked a
lot
, about everything, but not that.  None of us really wanted to know what the others had said.

And I never looked it up, even when I had the rank to look at my own records.  I still don't want to know.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Peer evaluations are rare outside the military - like everything from IQ to aptitude tests, they have been deemed unfair.  However, they serve a valid purpose.  If someone who joined the platoon failed to fit in to the group, it would be better to recycle them to another platoon rather than risk a major incident in a combat zone.  That said, it is quite rare for a trooper to fail peer evaluation.  By the time they face the test, they have generally mastered fitting in with the platoon, at least during training and deployment.  There is no room for lone wolves in the Marine Corps.

-Professor Leo Caesius

We wasted no time in putting our lessons into action.  Southard took us from one part of the Slaughterhouse to another, forcing us to march through hot deserts crammed with dangerous animals - I was stung by a tiny scorpion that put me in my bunk for four days, even though the little bastard wasn’t any bigger than my finger - and wade through swamps inhabited by man-eating alligators.  Flies were everywhere, of course; we searched constantly for ways to kill them before finally giving up and letting them swarm all over us.  (I'm sure the flies were genetically-engineered to suck human blood.)  And then, still tired after the last set of exercises, we marched back into Chesty and practiced everything from urban combat to organising meetings with local dignitaries.

It was a frustrating experience, I had to admit - and frighteningly realistic.  There was no way to hide the fact that we couldn't stay forever, so the locals were reluctant to help us.  One man begged me to give him a black eye, giving him an excuse for betraying the local den of insurgents; another came very close to being killed when he visited our FOB, posing as the owner, then used what he saw to call mortar fire down on our position.  I kept reminding myself that the locals were merely looking out for themselves, and that I would probably do the same in their position, but it was hard not to loathe them.  They were siding with insurgents who would conscript their sons, rape their daughters and take their crops, rather than marines who would die to save them from their enemies.  How could I not dislike them ... and come to disbelieve everything they said?

We were moved on two weeks later, where we undertook harassment operations against an enemy armoured column that intended to strike our flanks; we fired antitank missiles at the leaders, sniped at the infantrymen accompanying them and bugged out before they found their range and returned fire.  It was a better exercise than working with the locals, I decided, although I had my doubts about its value.  Would we actually need to know how to fight tanks when they were rarely used by anyone, save the Empire?  No one else would risk using them when orbiting starships could pick them out and drop hammers on their heads before they got into attack range.

“You might be surprised,” Southard said, when I asked.  “You have no idea of some of the shit that goes on out there.”

He moved us on, again, a week after a series of sniping exercises.  This took us to a large hill, covered in trees and bushes that provided ample cover to an enemy force.  We eyed it with tired eyes, wondering just what was waiting for us.  We’d seen too much to doubt that we would be pushed to the limits, once again.

“The enemy has occupied the hill and is using it as a base of operations,” Southard informed us, shortly.  “Higher command has decreed the capture of the hill, rather than pounding it into the dust from orbit.  They believe that a show of military skill will lead to the enemy surrendering.  Your mission is to capture the hill, capturing or killing ever last enemy fighter.”

Joker scowled.  “Surely pounding the hill into rubble would be a sufficient show of force.”

Southard gave him a nasty look.  “One; we wouldn't know which of the enemy commanders we killed, so there are genuine military reasons to take the hill by infantry assault,” he said.  “Two; you will certainly receive orders like this when you go into active service, so it is actually a realistic scenario.”

“He didn't give you push-ups,” I muttered, as the Drill Instructor turned away.  “This
must
be bad.”

“Looks that way,” Joker agreed.

“You have twenty minutes to plan your offensive,” Southard informed us.  “And then you have two hours to take the hill.  Stalker ...
you’re
in command.”

“I think he heard you,” Joker whispered.

“I think I heard you too,” Southard said, deadpan.

We shared tired smiles, then I sent Sif and Blackmon to survey the terrain while I read through the briefing notes.  For once, there was hardly any data; the only thing we knew for sure was that the enemy had moved a sizable force, at least six hundred men, onto the hill and camped out.  Given a couple of weeks, which they’d had, they could have dug trenches, established a network of bunkers, set up communications wires (which are much harder to knock out than radios, as they don’t emit detectable signals) and taken any number of precautions.  They wouldn't have lasted long if someone had ordered an orbital bombardment, but that seemed to be off the table.

“We have no helicopters or aircraft,” I said.  It didn't look as though the operation was considered very important.  A single platoon against
six hundred
?  We’d be outnumbered so badly I doubted our training would make much difference.  “Merely a handful of long-range guns.”

“Maybe you should request reinforcements,” Joker said.  Bloodnok nodded in agreement.  “It could be part of the test.”

But Southard disagreed.  “You have only a platoon, Stalker,” he said.  “Make the most of it.”

I looked back at the hill and swore.  The reports from the snipers were coming back and they didn't sound good.  Enemy forces - the BLA seemed to be a hydra; no matter how many heads we cut off they kept coming back - were dug into the hillside, daring us to advance against them.  It didn't look as though there were any weak points, save one ... and it was so blatantly obvious it practically
had
to be a trap.  Maybe I
was
meant to demonstrate moral courage and refuse the mission.  Technically, I
did
have that authority ...

... But it would be too much like giving up.

“Very well,” I said, finally.  There were only five minutes left to sort out the plan, but with some fiddling I could make arrangements while we moved into position.  “This is what we’re going to do.  The gunners are going to plaster the hill with shells, aimed at disrupting as much of the enemy position as possible.  Sif and Blackmon will take up sniping positions and pick off any enemy who shows his face.  The rest of us are going to advance forward under cover of shellfire, taking out any surviving enemy positions as we pass.  If we need additional fire support, we'll call it in from the reserve gunners.  Any questions?”

None of them looked enthusiastic, I had to admit.  I didn't feel very enthusiastic either.  If we’d had reinforcements, we might have been able to take the hill without hammering it with the guns; if we’d had helicopters, we might have been able to drop down to the hillside under cover of darkness and capture or kill the enemy leadership.  But all we had was a battery of guns, our rifles and a number of grenades.  It didn't seem like enough, somehow.

“The guns may run out of shells,” Bloodnok pointed out.  “They have only a few thousand rounds.”

“Then we may have to pull back and admit defeat,” I said, grimly.  It would get me in deeper shit than simply refusing the mission, but at least we would have tried.  “We move in five minutes.”

I couldn't help feeling nervous as we slipped as close as we dared to the hill.  There was no sign that the enemy had deployed a line of pickets, or even a handful of sensors, but it worried me.  If they were good, they might even be watching us through telescopes; low-tech, impossible to detect and next to impossible to stop.  Sif and Blackmon
might
see the watchers and take them out ... or they might not.  The more I looked at the operation, the less I liked it - and it was my plan.

Fuck it
, I thought. 

“Fire,” I ordered.

The gunners opened fire.  We hit the deck as the shells screamed down and exploded, peppering in the hillside with giant explosions.  It seemed unlikely that
anything
could survive, but we knew from bitter experience that even a relatively small degree of protection could save the targets from anything less than a direct hit.  The ground shook madly as the first hail of shells hammered the hill, a handful of incendiary shells setting light to the undergrowth and creating a problem I should have thought of: smoke.  Flames roared through the undergrowth, stripping the enemy positions of cover.

“Go,” I ordered, as the gunners walked their shells up the hill.  It would hopefully keep the enemy too busy to notice us as we slipped forward.  “Don’t stop for anything.”

We ran forward; Squad One taking the lead, with the other two squads taking the rear.  I watched carefully as we reached the bottom of the hill, then advanced rapidly up the remains of a stream that had run down from high overhead.  It wasn't a perfect trench, but it would give us some cover if - when - the enemy launched a counterattack.  Sif and Blackmon kept up a running commentary in our ears as they sniped enemy soldiers, making it harder for them to see us coming.  I saw the opening of a bunker, ideally positioned within the hillside, and tossed a grenade inside.  The resulting explosion set off a chain of secondary explosions that blew the bunker to pieces and threw debris everywhere. 

“Must have been some shells stored in there,” Joker commented.

I shrugged.  There was no time to talk, not now.  We kept running forward, shooting enemy soldiers wherever we saw them, until we threw ourselves down as a machine gun opened fire on our position.  Bullets splashed down around us, tearing up the mud; I cursed as Sif reported she couldn't see the gunner to take him out.  He was keeping his head down, which was lucky; he could have wiped us out if he’d adjusted his position by a handful of millimetres.  Still, we couldn't rely on him staying where he was indefinitely.  I called the gunners and told them to load a seeker round while Joker illuminated the machine gun nest with a laser pointer.  The resulting explosion wiped the machine gun out of existence, but triggered two more.  I called down more fire as I hastily reassessed the situation.  If there had been more of us ...

... But there weren't.

“Squad One, take the left,” I ordered.  I might have blundered badly, but the situation was not beyond repair.  “Squad Two, take the right.  Let them think they have us pinned down.”

Bloodnok snorted.  “They don’t?”

I ignored his sally as I issued orders to the gunners, then crawled to the left, keeping my head in the mud.  A handful of enemy positions were smashed as a new wave of shells crashed down, giving us a moment to inch forward and seize the heights.  Moments later, I saw a line of enemy soldiers emerging from yet another hidden bunker; they’d hidden underground when the shelling had begun, then returned to retake the positions before it was too late.  And they were too closely intermingled with us to risk calling down more fire ...

“Grenades,” I snapped.  There was no point in trying gas - by now, the BLA would have secured immunisation jabs for themselves - but HE would make their lives miserable.  I threw one into the mass of soldiers while Joker and Moriarty hurled two more further into the bunker.  In confined spaces, the effect would be even more devastating.  “Get a lid on that bunker, now!”

Joker ran forward ... and fell, under a hail of fire from high overhead.  I didn't have more than a second to mourn his loss before the unseen gunners swept their weapons over me.  Squad One was wiped out moments later, leaving Squad Two the sole target of enemy fire.  And there weren’t enough of them to push forward before it was too late.

My radio buzzed.  “END EX,” Southard said.  He sounded calm, too calm.  I’d have preferred him shouting at me.  “I say again, END EX.  Return to deployment zone.”

“Aye, sir,” I acknowledged, as I rose to my feet.  I’d been pinged, all right; I’d ‘died’ before, but this was particularly humiliating.  I had a feeling I was in
very
deep shit.  “We’re on our way.”

Southard was waiting for us as we returned to the deployment zone.  “Perhaps you could tell me,” he said, “just what went wrong?”

“I screwed up,” I said.