Armored Tears (15 page)

20.

Major
Anwar Hafez calmly surveyed his surroundings. There wasn't too much damage here
in the transit terminal building.
 
From where he stood, Hafez could see bullet pock-marks in the walls, and
some blood stains from where local resistance had been swept aside, but the
building structure was still intact.

The
Arcadians had been utterly surprised by the sudden arrival of UEN Peace Force
troops through the gate. That had been the only really scary moment; the
possibility that Arcadian forces would be waiting for them. Hafez and Bannerman
both had silently feared the possibility of ambush by overwhelming force.

The
first unit had been ordered to send a drone right back through the gate, to
avoid the possibility of having the entire strike force might be lost, unit by
unit, each one in turn having no way of knowing that they were heading into a
trap.

But
that hadn't happened. The first strike force units had come through with
perfect surprise, bursting from their transit train cars and moving rapidly to
take control of the gate facility.

In
a perfect best case, they would have been able to send through multiple cars
per track before the Arcadians realized what was wrong and cut the gate power.
That hadn't happened; the Arcadians had twigged too fast, and only one single
car from the second wave had made it through before the gate shut down. Still,
that was one more than the plan called for, which gave Major Hafez over three
hundred men, half of them frame infantry heavily loaded with anti-armor
missiles.

His
forces had taken the gate structure and the transit terminal building fairly
quickly, though the little fight
had
been bloodier than he'd expected. Arcadian gate operations staff, and even some
civilians, had joined the outnumbered, outgunned security guards in trying to
fight the Peace Force infantry. It had been hopeless, of course, but the
unexpected, fanatical resistance by the Arcadians had actually cost him some
losses among his infantry. It hadn't mattered in the end, of course; the
Arcadians had been fighting with pistols and light rifles against modern frame
infantry.

Major
Hafez frowned at the thought. Normal, civilized civilians would have simply
surrendered, of course. Still, it
did
serve to remind Hafez that the Arcadians he was dealing with were savage
fanatics, rather than civilized human beings.

A
few minutes ago, there had been the sounds of heavy weapons fire from the
south, showing that the Arcadian Defense Force units stationed near the gate
had become involved. The fire had died down again, though; his force had enough
firepower to hold them off. And there were other ways to deal with them as
well; the UEN Peace Force had
plenty
of experience dealing with would-be "national liberation armies." The
methods weren't always of a sort that could be publicized, but they were time
tested and they
worked
. He had
already given the necessary orders.
 

Now
that his forces had secured the gate facility, though, all he had to do was
hold on. The much stronger force under Colonel Mbala would have transited the
orbital gate and landed by now. They would even now be moving fast to take the
Arcadian gate control and power facilities.

Hafez
had to admit that the Arcadians had been clever to move those to a location
distant from the actual gate. Colonel Mbala's force had enough firepower to do
the job twice over, but Hafez did not like depending on anyone.

Nor
did he have to; both he and General Bannerman had been unwilling to put all
their eggs in one basket. His men were even now working on splicing an experimental,
truck-sized, one-of-a-kind, "portable" fast-discharge power cell into
the gate generator. It would only be able to keep the gate for open a few
minutes, but that would be enough time to move through another two or three
waves of reinforcements, including tanks. If, for some reason, Mbala's force
was intercepted by enough of the Arcadian military to slow it down, the gate
control and power facility would be taken by Hafez' own forces.

Once
the gate control and power facilities were taken, by whichever force, the gate
would be opened again for as long as the Arcadian power facility capacitors
lasted. Just a few hours would be enough to ensure the delivery of two full
divisions of UEN Peace Force troops; enough to wipe out any
possible
resistance from the Arcadians.

And
that would be that; General Bannerman would go down in history as the architect
and commander of the first successful "interstellar war" and every
officer involved —most especially one Major Anwar Hafez— would reap
the enormous political rewards from a grateful UEN.

The
sound of boots on the polished stone floor of the transit terminal made Hafez
look up to see the captain of C company walking toward him. C company had been
tasked with taking the cargo-handling facilities near the main highway, about a
kilometer from the edge of the dome. They'd reported success, but then run up
against what seemed to be a platoon-strength unit of enemy tanks at the
highway.
 
With the Peace Force
infantry well entrenched and
 
heavily equipped with anti-armor missiles, Hafez wasn't worried about
four tanks being able to take back the cargo-handling buildings, but neither
could they be allowed to remain a few kilometers outside his perimeter, ready
to snipe or otherwise disrupt operations. Hafez had given the necessary orders
to have them dealt with, and now the captain in charge was seeking him out. The
man's expression posture suggested that he was something less than good news.

"Sir,"
the captain reported.

"What
is it, Captain?"

"Sir,
the perimeter is secure, but we've taken heavy fire from the Arcadian position
at the main highway. Enemy tanks, sir. Three of them."

"Did
you implement my orders?" Hafez asked harshly. If this fool of a captain
had been too squeamish to do what it took...

"Yes,
sir. That's when..." the captain came to attention. "Sir, we
implemented your orders to the letter. Arcadian civilian prisoners were brought
forward and..."

"Not
civilians, Captain," Major Hafez interrupted. "They were illegal
combatant insurgents."

"Sir?"

"Those
people were enemy combatants in civilian dress, I want that point to be very
clear."

"Yes,
sir."

"Now,
go on. You brought the enemy prisoners forward and made your demands clear? Did
you undertake a demonstration?"

"Yes,
sir," the captain said, looking down. "We took several civilians... I
mean enemy insurgents to positions where they could be seen. We informed the
enemy commander of what would happen if he didn't surrender his forces. And
we... conducted a demonstration. We shot several of the civ... of the
insurgents, in clear view, where the enemy commander could see."

"And
the enemy commander's response?"

"Sir,
he... his tanks opened fire on our position.
 
Sustained fire from their main guns,
sir. 1st Platoon is... is mostly destroyed, sir. Along with most of the
prisoners that were brought forward. I had to order 4th and 5th platoons to
concentrate their anti-armor missile fire. We were able to drive back the enemy
tanks out of missile range, but the cargo-handling facility has been largely
destroyed. And I've lost 1st platoon. All but three men are dead or
wounded."

Hafez'
eyes went wide. "They fired on the hostages? On their own people?" he
asked.

"Yes,
sir," the captain replied.

"They
are inhuman," Hafez hissed. "Savages. Captain, reinforce from your
other platoons and hold your position. Keep those tanks away. Coordinate with
the anti-aerospace laser team if you need to. If the tanks try to engage from
out of missile range, we can use the laser to harass them. We have only to hold
on for a short time before the gate is re-opened."

"Sir.
What about the other civ... the other prisoners, I mean?"

"Send
them to the interrogation section. Since these savages will not respect the
lives of their own people, we will at least get whatever information we can
from them," Hafez said, frowning.

"And
find out how long till we have our own power unit hooked up," he added.
"I want that gate open again for reinforcements as soon as possible."

21.

"OK,
people, here's the deal," Dave said.

All
seven men and women of the Auxiliary Corps squad assigned to Hamilton Station
were watching him silently.

"Sat-Comm
is out. I don't know if the system has been spoofed or something happened to
the satellites, but we can't talk to anyone that way. Shortwave isn't working
worth a damn either. We can get a signal across within line of sight, but not
any further. I don't know if that's some sort of jamming, or what. But it's bad
news, whatever it is.

"But
we've got other things to deal with. Radio's intermittent, but we got a signal
a few minutes ago from the Schmidt farming station, out by the East Road. We
didn't get all of it, but it sounds like they saw what looked like a band of
raiders.

"Now,
we already know the gun-boys have got themselves some new rifles. And we can't
send this one on to the big guns in Infantry Corps or Armored Corps. There's
only eight of us, but I didn't join the Defense Force to hang out and wait
while some gun-boy raiders were shooting up a farm just twenty klicks from
here.

"So
here's what we're going to do. Cal, Billy, Chattarji, you all are with me.
Milton, you're in charge here till we get back. Get your rifles and let's get
the mover moving. We're going to drive in, scatter those raider fucks, and if
we have to, pull the Schmidts back to Hamilton Station.

"Questions?
No? Then let's move!"

***

Cal
could see the smoke of fires long before the mover crested the low hill
overlooking the Schmidt farm. Now that the farm was in sight, though, it looked
much worse that he had imagined. All the buildings were burning, sending out
thick clouds of black smoke. The solar arrays and the glass of the green houses
had been utterly smashed; Cal guessed that they had been raked with automatic
weapons fire.

And
there was no sign of movement, though there were a half-dozen distant, dark
shapes on the ground... which took Cal a while to realize must have been
bodies.

"Oh,
fuck," he breathed. "Are we..."

"Looks
like we're too late. Shit!" Dave said. "OK, we got to get down there.
Someone might be wounded. Might need help. OK. OK... this is how we do it. We
don't drive the mover in. If there's some sort of ambush, we got to keep the
mover back. So. Right. Oh, God. OK. Cal, Chattarji, you two stay with the
mover. Chattarji, can you run the machinegun? Cal, I want you on that old M39
of ours. You've got some training on it, don't you?

"I...
yeah," Cal said.

"OK.
You two are our overwatch. Our cover," Dave said. "Keep an eye out.
Me and Billy, we're going to take the medic bag and walk in there. If there's
someone still alive..."

"Got
it, Boss," Chattarji said; Urmi Chattarji was a tiny little thing, Cal
thought, barely over five feet and with a habit of giggling like a kid, but her
eyes were cold and determined and Cal figured bigger people than him would have
gotten out of her way when faced with her expression.

"Uh,
yeah, got it," Cal said.

"OK,
then. Fuck. Ah, and remember the rule about hostages; if they got a hostage,
you
have
to kill the hostage taker.
Have to
, no matter what. OK? Like they
told you in Basic Induction Training, right?

"OK,
Billy, let's go. Keep that zipper ready," Dave said. He sounded nervous to
Cal.

"Yeah,
Boss, OK," Billy said. He was a big man, beefy and solid-looking, and he
handled the heavy zipper with no signs of noticing its weight.

It
was a hundred meters or so to the nearest of the dark shapes. The nearest of
the bodies, Cal knew they were, but something in his mind didn't want to look
closely enough to let himself be sure of that.

Instead
he kept the targeting scope of the M39 scanning all around, being guiltily
careful
not
to look at the shapes on
the ground. There were more of them than he'd thought, though. Five or six in
between the burning buildings, and then some more among the short, sparse
fruit-tree saplings in the nearest field.

God,
please,
please
let there not be
hostages, he thought.

Defense
Force policy on hostages was to shoot hostage takers on sight, without
hesitation, regardless of the cost. The idea was to make it clear, even to the
stupidest refugee gun-boy, the most arrogant gangster warlord, that taking
hostages was
nothing
but a form of
suicide. Any negotiation, any hint of bargaining, would compromise that
message, and thus encourage
more
hostage taking. It was a policy that had evolved from bitter experience. The
problem was, Cal knew, that UEN refugee relief operations had a totally
different policy, which meant that sometimes the gun-boys still tried to take
hostages when facing the Defense Force. Cal understood the reason for the
Defense Force policy, but he wasn't sure, if it came down to it, that he could
make himself carry it out.

A
hint of movement drew his attention, and he zoomed in on one of the shapes in
the field. For a moment, what he was seeing didn't make sense. It looked
vaguely person-sized, but it was covered in some sort of material that made it
hard to be sure of its shape, and there was some sort of equipment laid across
it, looking like some sort of bundle of pipes. It looked out of place, but Cal
could not tell what it was.

"Hey,
Chattarji?" Cal asked —for some reason she hated her first name,
he'd been told— "can you look over into the field, next to the edge
of those fruit-tree thingies?"
    

"Thingies?
Yeah, what is it?"
  

"That's
what I want to know. I thought it might be... you know, a body. But
it's..."

There
was a sudden flash of white smoke and a rocket streaked towards the mover. It
was a man with a rocket-launcher, Cal realized numbly.

"Inbound!"
Chattarji screamed, shrill voiced.

"Shit!"
Cal shouted.

For
a second he could
see
the rocket in
the sights of his M39. Something —panic, a nervous twitch, something—
made him tap the acquisition button and press the trigger.

The
M39 kicked viciously against his shoulder; he had no frame servos to help take
the recoil and the huge rifle's recoil
hurt
.

The
anti-armor missile exploded in midair, fragments scything down crops in a rough
circle ten meters across.

Chattarji
was firing her machinegun, tracers spraying out at the figure in the field.
Bullets were kicking up dust in front of and to the sides of the figure, but
Chattarji couldn't seem to hit the man.

"Cal!
Shoot him!" she screamed.

Cal
had the man in the M39's sights. He could see him clearly now, a human shape
obscured by a full-body suit of camouflage, with a three-shot rocket launcher
on his shoulder. He could see the man's eyes amid the gouts of dirt sent up by
Chattarji's bullets. The man was
looking
right at him, and Cal could not bring himself to hit the acquisition button
again.

 
A second rocket shot out in a flash of
propellant smoke. Maybe Chattarji's bursts had spooked the man, though, because
the rocket flew over the mover, hitting the ground behind it with a blast loud
enough to send needles of pain through Cal's ears. A shower of dirt and debris
rang off the mover's thin armor.

"Shit!"
Chattarji screamed again, sawing her bursts back and forth across the ground
where the figure knelt, aiming his launcher at them. "Shiiit!"

 
One of Chattarji's bullets finally found
the target; a puff of dust rose from the man's chest and he fell backwards.

Just
like the last time, Cal thought. Just a puff of dust and a man dies.

The
sound of rifle gunfire, and then the much louder, ripping report of Billy's
zipper snapped Cal out of his daze.

There
were men in the smoke of the burning buildings, shooting at Dave and Billy. One
man, charging at Billy, was cut down by a burst from the zipper; the heavy
rounds suddenly enveloped the man in dust and when the dust cleared, what was
left looked like splattered red clay.

Another
man was shooting at Dave, who was prone, trying to shoot back. Bullets were
kicking up little columns of dust all around Dave.

Cal
got his sights on the man; easy even in the dust; the thermal signature was
clear. It was all just like the instructor-corporal had told him. Find the
target, acquire, press the engagement trigger.

The
M39 hammered his shoulder again, and a man fell backwards, punched down by the
massive smart-rifle bullet.

There
was another man in the swirling dust, running with a weapon up. Cal acquired
and shot him. The massive CRACK of the rifle going off, the savage kick, and
the shape in the dust fell.

Another
one, at the far side of the burning buildings; acquire, engage. Crack! Kick! The
man fell.

And
then silence, ringing almost louder than the gunfire in Cal's ears.

I've
just killed three men, he thought to himself.

"They...
they were wearing camouflage," Dave said. "They had the same sorts of
rifles we saw earlier. Military rifles. Gun-boys with military rifles."

"What
about the Schmidts?" Chattarji asked.

"They...
they're all dead. All dead. Thank god," Dave said, swallowing.

"What
the fuck does
that
mean?" Cal
asked.

"
Fuck
!" screamed Billy, eyes
suddenly wide with fury. "Fucking never ask that!
Never
!
Motherfucker
! You
never ask me that! Never ask Dave that! You hear me?!!! Never fucking ask
me!"

"Billy,
cool it!" Dave shouted, getting a hand on Billy's zipper —though the
man had made no move to raise it— and another one on the big man's
shoulder. "
Cool it
! Cool it! Cal
saved our
fucking
lives with those
shots! He killed those fuckers! They're dead! OK? So cool it!"

Billy
turned and slammed his fists down, pounding down again and again on the side of
the mover. Cal watched him with silent horror.

"They..."
Dave said. "They... the raiders got them, to the Schmidts, first. They...
they raped them. The girls. Even the kids. And killed them. They... they took
their time. They used knives... "

"No,
it's cool," Cal said. "You don't need to tell me, Dave. It's
cool!"

"They...
you... you did good, Cal. OK? You did good. But please, don't look at the
bodies. OK? Please?"

"You
killed them too fast, man," Billy said, almost whispering, looking at Cal.