Battlecry: Sten: Omnibus One (Sten Omnibus) (15 page)

Lanzotta looked happy.

Sten shuddered and wished he’d hit formation in the rear ranks. This would be a bad one.

Halstead started to call the company to attention. Lanzotta waved him into silence. ‘Something very interesting just happened, children,’ he said smoothly.

Pacing back and forth. This would be very bad.

‘I just received the notification from, shall we say, a higher authority. It seems that I may not be performing my duty to best suit the needs of the Empire.’

Sten wanted to find a very deep, very heavily shielded shelter. He hoped he didn’t know what was going on.

‘I may not be giving some of my trainees the proper attention. Particularly in the area of acting rank. It seems this authority wonders if some very capable leadership might be squelched by this suppression.

‘Yes. A very interesting letter.’

Lanzotta’s smile vanished, replaced with a look of sincerity. ‘I would hate to err on the Emperor’s service, would I not? Gregor! Post!’

Sten thought right then would be a very good time to die. Gregor double-timed to the head of the formation, snapped-to and saluted.

‘Recruit Gregor? You are now recruit company commander.’

Someone in the rear rank said ‘Clot!’ very loudly.

Lanzotta evidently decided to be deaf momentarily.

‘Take charge of the company, Recruit Company Commander Gregor. You have one hour to prepare the unit for transshipment and combat training.’

*

It was possible, Sten decided, to think somebody had bad breath just by listening to them wheeze on a radio. He itched between his shoulder blades. It didn’t do any good. Some genius had designed vacuum assault suits to itch a soldier everywhere it was impossible to scratch. Sten told himself he didn’t itch, and went back to listening to Gregor wheeze on the command circuit.

Come on, he thought. Make up your mind.

‘First Pla— I mean one-one.’

Sten keyed his mike.

‘Go.’

‘The ship is a Class-C patrolcraft. That means we go in through the drive tubes. I had my first sergeant take a reading. They’re cool.’

Sten unclipped from the asteroid he and his platoon were ‘hiding’ behind and drifted out a little.

The old hulk hanging in blackness two kilometers away had been more or less tarted up to look like a C-Class, right enough. But …

Sten went on command. ‘Six? This is one-one. Request seal.’

Gregor grunted and shut the rest of the company off the circuit.

‘Going in the tubes is a manual attack, sir.’

‘Of course, Sten. That’s why …’

‘You don’t figure those bad guys maybe read the book? And have a prog?’

‘DNC, troop. What do you want? Some weird frontal shot?’

‘Clot, Gregor! We go up the pipe, somebody’ll be waiting for us, I figure. If you could put out a screen, I’ll take my platoon on the flank.’

‘Continue … one.’

Sten shrugged. No harm in trying.

‘We’ll tin-can it. Peel the skin and bleed internal pressure off. That’ll throw ’em off, and maybe we can double-prong them.’

More wheezing. Sten wondered why Gregor’s father couldn’t afford to get his son an operation.

‘Cancel, one. I gave orders.’

Sten deliberately unsealed the circuit.

‘Certainly, captain. Whatever the captain desires. Clear.’

Carruthers’ voice crackled.

‘One. Breaking circuit security. Kitchen detail.’

Sten heard Gregor bury a laugh in his open mike.

‘This is six. By the numbers … leapfrog attack … maneuver element … go.’

Sten’s platoon jetted into the open. Sten checked the readout and automatically corrected the line.

Diversion fire lasered overhead from the other two platoons. Sten tucked a random zig program into the platoon’s computer. They continued for the hulk.

By the time they closed on the hulk’s stern, half the platoon hung helplessly in space, shut down as casualties by the problem’s computer.

Sten rotated the huge projector from his equipment rack and positioned it. He figured to go in just below the venturi and—

And there was a massive flash in his eyes, Sten’s filter went up through the ranges to black, and Sten stared at the flashing
CASUALTY
light on his suit’s control panel.

By now he’d gotten used to being ‘killed.’ As a matter of fact, this was the first time he’d enjoyed it. He did not think any of the casualties would collect the usual scut details when they got back to the troop area.

Lanzotta had a much bigger fish to barbecue. Or maybe much smaller, now.

Lanzotta was stone-faced and standing very still.

Sten relaxed, and flickered an eye toward Gregor.

‘You went in by the book, recruit company commander?’

‘Yes, sergeant.’

‘Did you bother to check EM range?’

‘No, sergeant.’

‘If you had, you could have seen that your enemy modified those solar screens into projectors. Aimed straight back at their normally undefended stern. Why didn’t you check, recruit company commander?’

‘No excuse, sergeant.’

‘Did you consider an alternate assault?’

‘No, sergeant.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because – because that’s how the fiche said to assault a C-ship, sergeant.’

‘And if you didn’t do it by the manual, you might have gotten yourself in trouble. Correct, Recruit Company Commander Gregor?’

‘Uh …’

‘ANSWER THE GODDAMNED QUESTION.’

Sten and the others jumped about a meter. It was the first time Lanzotta had ever shouted.

‘I don’t know, sergeant.’

‘I do. Because you were thinking that as long as you stuck by the
book, you were safe. You didn’t dare risk your rank tabs. And so you killed half a company of guardsmen. Am I correct?’

Gregor didn’t say anything.

‘Roll your gear, mister,’ Lanzotta said. And ripped the Guard Trainee patch off Gregor’s coveralls. Then he was gone.

Carruthers double-timed to the head of the formation.

‘Fall out for chow. Suit inspection at twenty-one hundred hours.’

Nobody looked at Gregor as they filed back into the barracks. He stood outside a very long time by himself.

But by the time Sten and the others got back from chow, Gregor and his gear had disappeared as if they’d never existed.

‘First sergeant! Report!’

‘Sir! Trainee Companies A, B, and C all present and accounted for. Fifty-three per cent and accounted six in hospital, two detached for testing.’

The trainee topkick saluted. Sten returned the salute, about-faced to Lanzotta, and saluted again.

‘All present and accounted for, sergeant!’

‘It is now eighteen hundred hours, recruit captain. You are to take charge of your company and move them via road to Training Area Sixteen. You will disperse your men in standard perimeter defense. You are to have them in position by dusk, which is at nineteen-seventeen hours. Any questions?’

‘No, Sergeant Lanzotta!’

‘Take charge of your company.’

Sten saluted and spun again.

‘COMPANY …’

‘Platoon … ’toon … ’toon …’ chanted Sten’s platoon leaders.

‘Right
HACE!
Arms at the carry! Forward …
harch
… double-time …
harch
.’

The long column snaked off into the gathering twilight. Sten double-timed easily beside them. By now he could walk, march, or run – eyes open, seventy per cent alert – and be completely asleep. Lanzotta had been exaggerating when he said the trainees would only get about four hours’ sleep a night.

Maybe that’d been so at the beginning. But as the training went downhill toward graduation, the pace got harder. There were fewer washouts now, but it was far easier to go under.

Lanzotta had explained to Sten after he’d given him the tabs of a recruit company commander. ‘First few months, we tried to break you physically. We got rid of the losers, the accident prone, and the
dummies. Now we’re fine-lining. The mistakes you make in combat training are ones that would get you or other guardsmen cycled for fertilizer.

‘Besides, there are still too many people in this cycle.’ Too many people. Assuming – which Sten didn’t necessarily – the one-in-a-hundred-thousand selection process, three companies of a hundred men each had been cut down to sixty-one.

Great odds.

Not everybody had been washed out. A combat car collision had accounted for four deaths, falls during the mountain training killed two more trainees, and a holed suit had put still another recruit in the awesomely large regimental cemetery.

Lanzotta thought it was impressive that a trainee was made a full member of the regiment before burial. Sten thought it was a very small clotting deal. Dead, he was pretty sure, was a very long time, and worm food isn’t much interested in ceremony.

Ah, well.

By now they’d progressed from squad through platoon to full company-size maneuvers.

Sten wondered what joyful surprises Lanzotta had planned for the evening. Then he put the dampers back in his mind. He needed the rest. He let his mouth start a jody, put his feet on autopilot, and went to sleep.

Eyes closed, Sten sonared his ears around the hilltop. Four minutes, twenty-seven seconds. All night animal sounds back to normal. All troops in stand-to positions. Not bad.

Lanzotta crawled up beside Sten and flickered on a mapboard light. ‘Fair. You got them out and down nicely enough. Second Platoon still bunches up too much. And I think you should’ve put your CP closer to the military crest. But … not bad.’

Sten braced. Lanzotta was being very polite. He knew for sure this exercise would be a cruncher.

Lanzotta: ‘Briefing. Your company has been on an offensive sweep for two local days. You have taken, let’s see, fifty-six – about seventy-five per cent casualties.
Tsk
.
Tsk
.

‘You were ordered to assault a strongly held enemy position – there!’

Lanzotta took a simulator minicontrol from its belt pouch and tapped a button. On the hill across from them, a few lights flickered.

‘Unfortunately, the position was too strongly garrisoned, and you were forced to withdraw to this hilltop. You are far in advance of
artillery support, and, for operational reasons, normal air or satellite support is non-existent.

‘You medvacked your casualties, so you have no wounded to worry about. The problem is quite simple. Very, very soon, the enemy will counterattack in strength. You probably will not be able to hold this position.

‘Your regimental commander has given you local option command. Friendly positions are’ – He pointed behind him and touched the panel. At the top of the ridge-crest, simulators set up a strong, not particularly well blacked-out position – ‘there. Between your company and friendly lines are an estimated two-bridgade strength of bandits, operating with light armor and in small strike-patrol elements. All the options are yours. Are there any questions?’

Sten whistled silently.

‘Recruit captain, take charge of your men. You have two minutes until the problem commences.’

Lanzotta slid away into darkness.

Sten motioned to Morghhan, his recruit first sergeant. They slithered away from the CP area. Sten dropped a UV filter over his eyes and flicked on a shielded maplight.

‘
Sauve qui peut
and all that crud,’ Morghhan whispered. ‘You wanna surrender right now and avoid the morning rush?’

‘Us killer guards never surrender.’

‘You think he’s setting you up?’

‘Damfino. Prog – no. Retrograde movement’s supposed to be a bitch, they told us.’

‘You figure it, Sten. I’m gonna go practice up speaking fluent Enemy.’ Morghhan low-crawled back to the CP and waiting runners.

‘Four and three and two and one,’ Lanzotta said, somewhere in the darkness. ‘Begin.’

He must’ve started the simulator program. High whining … ‘Incoming!’ somebody shouted, and the ground rocked under him. Violet light lasered just overhead. Sten hoped the sweep-track automatic weapons which provided the ‘enemy fire’ weren’t set too low or with random-center fire or with a movement homer.

Sten tapped the channel selector on his chest to
ALL CHANNELS
, and briefly outlined the plan to the listening troops.

‘Six … this is two-one. We have movement on our front.’ That was Tomika, acting-jack platoon leader of Second Platoon.

Sten overrode onto the command net.

‘Estimation, two-one?’

‘Probe attack. Possible feint. Approximate strength two platoons. One hundred meters out, on line.’

‘Two-one … this is six. Hold fire. One-one? Any activity on your front?’

‘Not— hang on. That’s affirm. Got infiltrators working up the hill – will— aw clot!’

Lanzotta’s voice broke in. ‘Unfortunately the First Platoon leader exposed himself and was hit. Fatal.’

Sten ignored Lanzotta. ‘One-two. Assume command. Estimation?’

‘Affirm. Infiltrators. Company size. Prog – first prong attack. Shall we open fire?’

Sten thought quickly. ‘Negative. When they cross fifty-meter line, they’ll probably open fire. Prog – artillery support. First and third squads will withdraw twenty-five meters noisily. Second and fourth squads engage when they reach your positions and first and third counterattack. Prog – another feint. Top! Get weapons platoon to blanket their rear and break up the second wave. Take the CP, I’m shifting to Third Platoon.’

Clicked the mike off. ‘Runner! Let’s go!’

They went off into darkness, Sten navigating by treetop shadows. Fire intensified, and the ground under them quivered.

Sten jumped as what sounded like a thousand sirens went off. ‘Psych,’ he told the runner. ‘Just noise. Let’s move it!’

Sten dropped into the Third Platoon leader’s dugout.

‘What’s out there?’

Sten held his breath and closed his eyes again. Listening. Sweeping his head from side to side. He swore. ‘Clot hell! Armor!’

‘I don’t hear anything!’

‘You will. Sounds like two units. Scrunchies pigback for support.’

Tagged the radio.

‘Weapons … I want illumination. Stand by …’

The air hummed.