Steel Gauntlet (7 page)

“Gentlemen,” Sturgeon finally began, “we are going to war.” Some of the less experienced officers looked at each other quizzically. He could almost hear them thinking, Going to war? Thirty-fourth FIST

was always going on operations, what could be different here? “Not all of you have been to war,” he continued after a few seconds. “On operations and campaigns, certainly. Expeditions, too many to count.

There’s not a man jack in this room who doesn’t have four or five campaign medals and a few campaign stars on his Marine Expeditionary Medal. Those kinds of operations are the bread and butter of the Confederation Marine Corps, it’s how we earn our keep day in and day out. But we don’t often go to war. Those of you who have, you know the difference. The rest of you are about to find out.” Sturgeon touched a button on the keyboard in the lectern’s top. The vidscreen to his side went from gray to interstellar black studded with the patterns of unfamiliar constellations. The patterns shifted, grew, widened toward the sides of the screens. The view focused on one point of light and closed in on it until it was visible as the burning disk of a star seen close, and only it and eight planets circling it were in the view.

“This is Drummond’s system,” Sturgeon said as he paused the changing view. “Most likely, few of you have heard of it. But you’ve all heard of this place.” The view on the screen began to change again, the focus shifting to the fourth planet out from the star. “This is Diamunde.” The silence in the room became almost palpable when Sturgeon gave the planet’s name. When the planet’s orb almost filled the screen, he stopped the screen again and looked at the officers. “You all know the Confederation has fought three major wars on Diamunde. Some of you fought in the most recent of them. You know what this means. I fought in two of them myself, so I can say without hesitation or fear of contradiction that the most recent was worse than the previous one. What I’ve read in histories tells me the second was worse than the first. Do you see the pattern here?

“Another war has broken out for control of the gems and minerals Diamunde is so rich in. It’s a war the Confederation has to put down. The 34th FIST, along with the 13th, 19th, 21st, 36th, and 225th FISTs, reinforced with Marine heavy artillery—” He let his gaze sweep over the officers again, few of whom had ever been on operations or expeditions that included heavy artillery. “—have as their initial assignment the securing of a planethead for follow-on forces from the Confederation Army.” He paused to let that sink in. Six of the Confederation Marine Corps’ thirty-six FISTS operating in concert to secure a single planethead was a mission of a magnitude almost unimaginable to most of the assembled officers.

Those few who had experience with an operation of that size turned grim.

“Gentlemen, we are not going up against tribal warriors riding horses and firing projectile rifles. We are not going up against guerrillas accustomed to fighting a comic-opera police force. We are taking on a million-man army equipped with modern weapons, using tactics very similar to those used by the Confederation forces, and commanded by generals with experience in major wars. What’s going to make this operation doubly difficult for us is, this million man army has—” He hesitated. “—tanks. Main battle tanks.” He pushed another button on his keyboard and the image on the screen changed from the rotating planet to a sixty-thousand-kilogram armored vehicle rumbling at high speed across the landscape, firing a 120 millimeter gun as it went, and hitting targets four kilometers away.

Excited murmurs broke out. One officer exclaimed loudly, “Tanks? I thought they didn’t exist anymore!”

“They do exist, and we’re being sent to kill enough of them to make room for the army to come in behind us,” Sturgeon replied sharply. He glared at the officers and they quickly became quiet. “As you well know, Marines haven’t fought tanks in several centuries. We haven’t even trained in antitank tactics for generations. Most of our plasma weapons are completely ineffective against heavy armor.

Fortunately, the Corps is in the process of acquiring weapons that can defeat heavy armor—the same weapons that sent tanks into retirement in the first place.” He shook his head ruefully. During his forty years in the Corps, he’d always fought with the most modern of weapons; now he’d have to fight his FIST with weapons so archaic he’d never seen one outside a museum. Weapons neither he nor his Marines knew how to use. Weapons with which they would have to become proficient by the time they mounted out in less than a month. Weapons they didn’t have.

“Gentlemen, I’m now going to turn you over to the good auspices of Commander Campinisi, who will give you some details of what we are about to do.” The staff and subordinate commanders sprang to attention as Sturgeon stepped off the stage and marched out of the briefing room.

Once he was out of sight, Commander Campinisi, the FIST operations officer, began his briefing.

“This is Marston St. Cyr. He’s the vice president for Marketing and Research of Tubalcain Enterprises—or at least he was until he appointed himself a major general in something called the Diamundean Armed Forces and came up with enough main battle tanks to form several armored divisions...”

“You heard me,” Commander Van Winkle snarled. “Main battle tanks.” Thirty-fourth FIST’s infantry battalion commander wanted to glare at his assembled staff officers and company commanders, but was too shocked at the news himself to pull it off. “Right now the only weapons organic to the FIST that can kill an MBT are the squadron’s Raptors and the guns of our artillery battery. This battalion certainly doesn’t have anything else that can do more than annoy one of those monsters—unless one sits around long enough for our massed plasma weapons to burn through it. And I can’t imagine anyone, even a tanker, dumb enough to do that. When we reach Diamunde, we will be reinforced by additional Marine artillery. Each of the six FISTs in the operation—yes, I said six FISTs—will be supported by a general support battalion of 175mm and 200mm towed howitzers. Unfortunately, we aren’t going to be able to do any training with them before the assault.” Protestations interrupted him, but Van Winkle held up his hand. “We’ll still be able to train with the FIST air and artillery. As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I want you to be doing between now and the time our antiarmor weapons arrive.” He held up his hand again to stop the questions that were coming at him. “No, I don’t know when the antiarmor weapons will arrive. All I know is they’re in transit and they have experts with them to teach us how to use the weapons.

“Here are your assignments. Company commanders, effective as soon as you return to your barracks, begin training your men in calling in air and artillery. We won’t be able to kill every tank we see, but I don’t want even one to survive because somebody didn’t know how to call in air or artillery to kill it.

“One,” Van Winkle said, referring to the battalion’s S-1, or personnel officer, “fine-comb your records. I want every man in this battalion to have the rank he’s supposed to have and all the decorations and commendations he rates before we mount out. Two”—the S-2, intelligence officer—“dig up everything you can find on armor and antiarmor tactics for dissemination. You can get specifics on the Diamunde armor from the F-2,” the FIST intelligence officer. “Three”—the operations officer—“coordinate with the squadron and the battery for field training. We’ll begin in the classroom, then head into the field. I want every man in the battalion to have both theory and hands-on for calling in air and artillery. Four,” logistics, “not much for you to do until our tank killers arrive. Make sure everything is packed or ready to pack for our mount out.”

Van Winkle paused to look at his officers. They all looked serious. That was good. They also all looked like they were ready to begin, which was even better. “Let’s do these things.” He abruptly stepped out and left the briefing room by the side door that led directly to his office. He heard his company commanders and staff scrambling to do their jobs before his office door was completely closed behind him.

“So what if they’ve got armor?” PFC Clarke objected. An assistant gunner in Company L’s third platoon, Clarke thought he understood his weapon’s capabilities. “If our guns can slag rock, they can melt armor.”

As the more than ninety enlisted men of the company moved about, chairs rattled, conversations buzzed, and the noise level in the company classroom overpowered what Clarke’s gun team leader, Corporal Lonsdorf, had replied, so Lonsdorf reached out and smacked the back of Clarke’s head.

“I said, clean the wax out of your ears,” Lonsdorf snarled.

Clarke flinched, then glared at Lonsdorf while rubbing the sting from the back of his head.

“I said,” Lonsdorf repeated, leaning closer so Clarke could hear him without him having to shout,

“rocks stand still and let us slag them. Armor moves. We can’t concentrate enough fire on a moving target to melt armor.” He looked to the front of the classroom, where Gunny Thatcher, the company gunnery sergeant, had just arrived with three other Marines, two NCOs, and a warrant officer whom he didn’t recognize. “Dumb guy,” he muttered at Clarke.

The two NCOs, a sergeant and a corporal, looked almost like recruiting posters in their garrison utility uniforms. The warrant officer wasn’t wearing spectacles, but his somewhat bewildered expression made him look like he should be. Otherwise, he looked uncomfortable, like someone had dressed him up for a costume party.

Claypoole and Dean glanced at each other. “Spears,” Dean mouthed. Claypoole nodded. The warrant officer did indeed resemble the Confederation ambassador to Wanderjahr, whom they’d met during their last deployment.

Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher looked over the assembled Marines for a moment before glancing toward the back of the room where Captain Conorado, the company commander, stood with the company’s other officers and first sergeant in the passageway just outside. At a nod from Conorado, Thatcher called out, “Attention on deck!” and everybody immediately stood at attention.

“At ease,” Conorado said as he strode briskly from the back to the front of the classroom. The first sergeant, Top Myer, followed closely on his heels, glowering to the sides. Myer’s glowers didn’t mean anything in particular; it was his normal expression. The other officers arrayed themselves at the rear of the room, near where the platoon sergeants had already stationed themselves.

Captain Conorado didn’t glower when he reached the front of the classroom and turned to face his men, but there was instant stillness when the Marines saw his expression. The company commander looked more serious than he usually did when he briefed his men on a mount out.

“I know the scuttlebutt’s gotten around,” Conorado started. “You know we’re going up against main battle tanks. Right now the biggest problem we have is that none of you understands what a main battle tank is, what it can do, or how to kill one. Sure, you’ve all seen MBTs on historical vids—and I’ll bet none of you believe what you’ve seen in those vids. You’re right in not believing a lot of what you’ve seen; there’s a lot of exaggeration in vids. But there are things about MBTs that those vids just don’t tell you. That’s what you’re going to begin to learn today. Behind me, with Gunny Thatcher, are three Marines who will spend the next two weeks teaching you everything they can about what MBTs can do, what they can’t do, and how to kill them. You had best pay attention to them when they tell you something. If you don’t, you’re going to get yourself killed. And you’ll probably kill a lot of good Marines at the same time.”

Conorado turned to look at Thatcher. “Gunny, take over.”

Thatcher snapped to attention. “Aye aye, sir.” He waited until Conorado turned back toward the men, then bellowed, “Attention on deck!” He remained at attention until Conorado left the classroom. The first sergeant left with the company commander. The other officers stayed behind; they had things to learn as well.

“As you were,” Gunny Thatcher said as soon as the captain and first sergeant were gone. He gave the Marines a moment to resume their seats before continuing. “We’ve got a lot to learn and a short time to learn it in. Sergeant Bojanowski”—he indicated one of the three Marines standing with him—“is a forward air observer from the composite squadron. He’s going to teach us how to call in air support.

Corporal Henry”—he identified another of the strangers—“is a spotter from the artillery battery. He’s going to teach us how to call in the big guns. Some of you already know how to call in air or artillery, but nobody in this company has called in either in quite a while—calls for hopper medevac or guiding hoppers in to drop off supplies don’t count. So even if you already know how, think of this as a refresher course—or use your knowledge to help train the Marines who don’t know how to do it.

“We’ll start with artillery. Corporal Henry, the floor is yours.” Thatcher and the other two Marines stepped aside and took seats in the front row. Everybody noticed that Thatcher hadn’t introduced the warrant officer, and nearly all of them wondered why not.

“This,” Corporal Henry began, flicking on the trid he stood next to, “is the mainstay of Marine artillery, the towed 175mm M-147 howitzer.” In the trid’s field, an artillery piece rotated. A Marine stood next to the big gun for scale. Its main wheels came up to his shoulders. The muzzle of the gun, elevated about fifteen degrees, was nearly twice his height above the ground. Other than its size, it would have been immediately recognizable as an artillery piece to a late sixteenth century French cannoneer. “The M-147

is called a ‘direct support’ weapon, but that’s because it directly supports one unit, not because it fires directly at its target. It has a range of fifty kilometers with a target-error radius at maximum range of fifteen meters. The primary ammunition used by the M-147 is explosive projectiles.” He paused for a moment while a gun crew appeared in the trid. It took the crew twenty seconds to load, aim, and fire the big gun. The image shifted to a masonry house, which erupted when the artillery round hit it. “The M-147

can be reconfigured for short-range, direct plasma fire by the simple expedient of replacing the breech and relining the bore.” The howitzer was again visible in the trid. A two-armed rigger approached it. One arm removed the bulky back end of the piece, then the other installed something that, except for its size, resembled the breech of a blaster. Another rigger approached the muzzle and slid a tube into the barrel.